Bathsheba wedged herself into the corner of her
luxurious carriage, resting her throbbing head against the
squabs as the vehicle bumped over the appalling country
roads. She let her eyelids droop, allowing herself to slip
into velvety darkness. Sleep began to thread its foggy
tendrils through her brain. Worries slowly dissipated as
she drifted into welcome oblivion.
A loud thump, and then her head slammed into the side of
the carriage as a wheel plunged into a hole the size of
Westminster Abbey.
"Oh, I say, old girl," said Matthew, peering at her with
concern. "Hope you didn’t hurt yourself. The roads are
ghastly, what with all the rain we’ve had lately."
She stifled an unladylike curse and raised her hands to
smooth her coiffure.
Another twenty-four hours of country living had done
nothing to improve her humor. After an intensely boring
dinner with Matthew—who had brought the new copy of
Canterbury Tales to the table with him—Bathsheba had
retired to bed early. She had tossed and turned most of
the night, kept awake by the quarter hours of the casement
clock outside her door and by her gloomy thoughts. Sleep
had finally come near dawn. A few hours later she had been
awakened by a cacophony of birdsong, which somehow seemed a
great deal louder and much more annoying than all the
tumult and bustle of the London streets.
Her day had passed with all the speed of a hobbled
tortoise. After thoroughly depressing herself with an
inspection of the overgrown gardens and shabby manor house,
she wrote several letters, read a book, and went over the
ledgers again with Mr. Oliver. By the time she and Matthew
set out for the Dellworthys at the absurdly early hour of
four p.m., Bathsheba was ready to shriek with boredom and
frustration. When she was young she had loved the
country. Now she had no idea how it had ever appealed to
her.
"Where in God’s name is Dellworthy’s estate? Scotland?"
she groused. "We’ve been driving for ages."
Matthew smiled, ignoring her miserable temper. "Not
much farther, my dear. And it’s not really an estate.
More like a smallish park. But the house is only a few
years old, and Dellworthy spared no expense in the building
of it. The man made a killing in the wool trade. Rich as
Croesus, they say."
Bathsheba hated him already.
A few minutes later they bowled up a graveled drive
through a small park, trimmed and landscaped to within an
inch of its life. As the carriage pulled into the sweep in
front of the house, Bathsheba jerked upright to stare out
the window.
"I thought you said they built the house a few years
ago."
Matthew nodded.
"It looks like a castle," she said. An absurd,
miniature castle. Loaded down with battlements, chimney
stacks, and what appeared to be a small Gothic chapel
sticking out into the front courtyard.
She looked at Matthew. "You must be joking."
He shrugged.
Sir Philip and his lady greeted them in an entrance hall
crammed with Roman statuary, then escorted them into a red
drawing room festooned with elaborately draped curtains—
also red—held up by gilt carved eagles. Large pier
glasses, bright crimson sofas in the French fashion, and an
Egyptian chimneypiece added up to a stylistic assault. In
the late afternoon sun, the entire room seemed to pulsate
and throb as if it were alive. Bathsheba surreptitiously
rubbed her temples, feeling the building ache of a migraine.
Lady Dellworthy introduced her to the other guests,
including the vicar and his wife, some other respectable
and boring local worthies, and Miss Amanda Elliott, a
middle-aged spinster whom Bathsheba vaguely remembered from
a previous visit. Miss Elliott, however, clearly
remembered her, and not with fondness, if her coldly
correct greeting was any indication.
Lady Dellworthy tapped Bathsheba’s arm with her
fan. "And here is our local physician, the worthy Dr.
Littleton. And his friend and former student, visiting
from London. Perhaps you have met him already. Dr.
Blackmore, may I present Lady Randolph, cousin to the
current earl, Lord Randolph."
Bathsheba turned away from the chill of Miss Elliot.
She looked up, looked higher, and felt the breath clog in
her throat as she found herself staring into the compelling
gaze of a very tall and very broad-shouldered man. The
throbbing, wound-colored drawing room faded away, as did
the pain in her temples.
Like an untried schoolgirl she stood motionless,
fascinated by the color of his eyes—a shivery, wintery
gray. They were hooded and penetrating, with a weariness
that called out to her, sneaking past her defenses, setting
off a bittersweet ache in her chest.
He didn’t speak or move. She let her gaze drift over
too-lean features that were beautiful in a starkly
masculine way. There were deep lines around a sensual,
generous mouth, and a hard jaw shadowed with the hint of a
night beard that matched the black of his unfashionably
short hair.
Bathsheba blinked hard and tried to look away, but she
couldn’t. She had the bizarre notion she could stare into
Dr. Blackmore’s face for days on end, and never once feel
bored.
Amusement began to replace the weariness in those
amazing eyes. The doctor bowed, then straightened to his
considerable height. She felt like an awkward child
standing before him.
"Lady Randolph," he said, his deep, smooth voice sending
a velvet hum up her spine. "It is a great pleasure to
finally meet you. I have seen you at routs and concerts in
London, of course, but have never had the honor of an
introduction." His smile grew knowing, as if he sensed her
discomposure and found it entertaining.
She jerked herself to attention, irritated by her
uncharacteristic loss of control.
"Why, Dr. Blackmore," she replied in her best seductive
purr. "How remiss of you not to secure an introduction.
I’m sure I should be insulted. Perhaps if I bother to
think about it long enough, I will be."
He looked startled. Lady Dellworthy squeaked and
fluttered helplessly beside him.
Bathsheba turned away to address Dr. Littleton.
Fortunately, she did remember him, and took refuge in
asking questions about the general health of the local
villagers. The physician happily obliged her, launching
into a detailed recital. But Dr. Blackmore still loomed
over her, a disturbing presence that set her nerves
jangling like a steepleful of demented bells. She ignored
him, studiously listening to his colleague. After a few
minutes—although it felt so much longer—he walked away.
She gradually let out her breath, doing her best to
pretend she was listening to Dr. Littleton drone on about
Mary something-or-other’s consumptive complaint. Why had
she reacted so strongly to Dr. Blackmore? Certainly, he
was a handsome man, but she had known dozens of handsome
men, and taken a few of them into her bed. No. There was
something else. Something that plucked a chord deep within
her memory—something her conscious mind wanted to push away.
She dared a peek across the room, where Dr. Blackmore
now stood talking with Miss Elliott and Matthew. As if she
had tapped him on the shoulder, he glanced over, meeting
her gaze with a direct, hard look.
Hard, but not cold. In fact, she felt burned by the
heat in his eyes, and it frightened her. In a flash she
suddenly remembered why. That was exactly how Reggie had
looked at her when first they met. As if he already
possessed her, body and soul. That look had sucked her in,
consumed her, and had eventually made her life a long
purgatory of despair. Standing at her husband’s graveside
four years later, she had vowed she would never succumb to
passion again.
Bathsheba stared into Dr. Blackmore’s intense gaze a
moment longer, then turned away.