Chapter Twelve

T he day after the earl's surgery, Nick took the carriage to Brunswick House Upon Thames. It was a beautiful estate. Perched majestically on the banks of the river, the Earl of Langley's ancestral home donned an imposing fa?ade whispering tales of aristocratic elegance. The entrance, flanked by towering Corinthian columns, opened into a grand marble hallway. Although it rarely made any sense for an oculist to make house calls, it had gone without saying that Nick would tend to the earl's bandages during his recovery.

But when the earl's butler stood in the doorway, apparently expecting him, Nick felt a pinch of nervousness. "Doctor Folsham, good day," the tall man in livery said without changing his mien.

"Good day, Mr. Sutton. How do you do?"

"I'm afraid it's not about me but my master." The butler led the way into the great hall. Stained glass windows with pointy arched frames adorned the high-walled entrance.

"There you are!" Lady Langley came down the stairs, her sky-blue shawl billowing behind her. "Oh, how good that you are here now."

"Whatever is the matter, my lady?" Nick gripped the doctor's bag he'd brought. Tension built in his body for something was amiss indeed. And he couldn't afford anything but a perfectly smooth recovery for his most influential patient.

The young Lady Langley led the way up the stairs to the earl's private chamber. Already at the top of the stairs, Nick heard the low groaning and moans. The door was open, and he stepped into the enormous bedchamber. To his astonishment, the earl was in bed. Last time, after the same surgery, he was sitting in his armchair by the fire reading the newspaper. This, however, was not good.

A woman in a white bonnet and apron removed a compress from the earl's forehead and wrung it into a small porcelain bowl.

"Thank you, Daisy," Lady Langley said, dismissing the maid.

Nick swallowed. He couldn't say good morning or good day because it wasn't one. "My lord, I am here." Nick walked around the bed to the side on which the earl lay, his eyes pinched, and his angular features drowned in wrinkles of reddened skin. Lady Langley sat on the edge of the other bed after the maid had shut the door upon her exit.

Nick snapped the clasp of his bag open and took out some clean muslin and some sage oil. Then he rubbed the oil on his hands and wiped them off before touching the earl's reddened forehead.

The earl moaned.

When Nick put a hand on his temple, the man winced. This was not good. His forehead felt hot and the skin under his eyebrow looked stretched and shiny.

"I'm afraid that there is a small infection," Nick said as calmly as he could in spite of the tension he felt pressing against his insides.

"Small?" The earl yelled, pushing the covers off. "I've had a small infection before, Doctor, this is not small."

So much about his streak of a few hundred surgeries and absolutely zero infections.

Nick swallowed. An infection could be benign and pass in a few days. Or it could worsen, and the earl might lose his eye, new lens or not. And if his discomfort became new fodder for gossip among the Ton, he and his friends would soon not have a practice anymore. That was not an option; he had to make this heal.

"What did you do wrong this time?" the earl asked in a vulnerable voice that showed how young he was underneath the worn shell of his body. His voice was boyish, despite his crows' feet and extensive dental work that showed even when he spoke.

Nick cast Lady Langley a look. She was rubbing her palms on her thighs. Her hair was elegantly braided, and her nails were manicured meticulously. She was a beautiful young lady; she'd been called a diamond of the first water and the pick of the season—at least that was Wendy had told Nick when she read Debrett's .

"Let's replace this bandage," Nick said and got to work. The earl sat up and Nick could feel his exhale sharply when a spot of the round cotton caught on a flake of scab.

"Darling, Violet. Could you call for some brandy, please?" the earl said in a forced voice.

"Oh, but I couldn't," Nick protested.

"But I could."

"With pleasure," her ladyship said and left the room.

"It's ten o'clock in the morning, are you certain you should drink?"

"I'm not drinking anymore, Dr. Folsham. Haven't since our betrothal was announced. Mr. Sutton puts tea in the decanter every morning."

Nick rinsed the wound and the earl continued to speak. "Mr. Collins gave me a special tea to support… ahem… my virility. There's much pressure on me to produce an heir as soon as possible. But it's been nearly half a year with no signs of… you know."

Nick patted the area dry where he'd placed the stitches. The skin was irritated, but the infection lurked deeper.

"She pays attention, you know? She's not just pretty. When we… you know, she wants candles lit and she knows how to take her pleasure—"

"My lord." Nick tried to stop the flow of information. As an eye surgeon, he didn't need to know all the details of his patient's bedchamber exploits.

"Hear me out, please. So, you know what's at stake."

That chain around his throat grew tighter. He knew what was at stake: the earl's vision and their practice. Alfie, Felix, Andre, and Wendy's future at 87 Harley Street. A bad reputation would cost them their livelihoods and the chance to continue to build the practice they had worked on for so long. Was the earl threatening their existence if his eye didn't heal properly?

"She's not disinclined, Dr. Folsham. But she's not in love. Thus, it makes my work all that much harder."

"It shouldn't feel like work," Nick said without thinking. He shouldn't have said it, he was making matters worse.

"But it is. See, I'm twelve years older than her. In her eyes, I'm a bit of a spare parts storage with the lens replacements in my eyes, the fillings in almost each of my teeth. Do you know that my valet used to be my friend? We'd jest and chat every morning. These days, he works so hard to groom me for the day, I'm afraid the poor man can barely stand after the morning routine."

"You feel as though you are aging?"

"Mm. With as much grace as I can muster, I suppose. How old are you, Dr. Folsham?"

"Twenty-six. Almost twenty-seven."

That made him laugh, followed by a wince because the earl moved his face too much. "You're a spring chicken."

"I'm not a chicken, I'm a surgeon. With plenty of experience—"

"What about experience with women? Do you know what it means to work for the love of a woman?"

That gave Nick pause. He didn't know how to answer, so he did what he knew best and applied the almond oil to the earl's temple, forehead, and eyelid. It was good to apply after surgery to keep the skin moist. Still the beautiful blonde came to mind. Wendy would make her glasses, but she hadn't returned yet and Nick already longed to see her again. Was that work, trying to stifle the feeling that had taken flight in Nick's chest, but he knew he'd have to suppress? Honestly, Nick didn't know what it would take to work for a woman's affection, he'd only ever worked for his career. Could he dare dream of earning Pippa's?

The door opened and his ladyship entered, followed by Mr. Sutton carrying a silver tray with a crystal decanter and two glasses. He set it down on the side table that he'd pulled to the foot of the earl's bed and stopped to survey the small pile of used muslin in the metal bowl that Nick had brought in his medical bag. Then, he left without a word but a grim face like a concerned parent.

"May I pour you some brandy, Dr. Folsham?" Lady Langley offered with the practiced grace of a hostess.

"Just a little," Nick said without making eye contact. He was a bad liar and knew how to avoid his tells. "Lady Langley, may I ask whether you might be able to assist your lordship in applying this ointment every hour?"

The earl's eyes darted to Nick. Nick swallowed hard but remained undeterred.

"It's of utmost importance that the skin around the stitches is kept lubricated. This is merely a moisturizing ointment but I'm afraid that it requires a tender touch to care for this wound. I shall be back tomorrow to check on our patient."

"Dr. Folsham," the earl growled, "this is surely not a task for the Countess of Langley." But his polite verbal opposition didn't impress Nick. He needed the earl to recover and be happily in love, or else all of the treatments would have been in vain. He'd be disgruntled and take his frustration out on him and the others in the practice. Plus, Nick was no novice and was aware that a full patient recovery encompassed the physical and emotional aspects. An earl smitten with his wife and expecting an heir was exactly what would accomplish the goal here.

"It's a job not for the countess, my lord, but it is one for your wife. Tender care is all your eye needs for a speedy recovery." The earl hmphed but Nick feigned ignorance.

As he collected his vials and wrapped the used muslin in a small sack, the earl's good eye bore into him like cannon balls burning to make the lethal hit.

Lady Langley, who'd been watching the exchange agog, suddenly said with a sense of enterprise, "Let me, Doctor." She took the muslin and stuffed it into the bag. "I'll have these laundered and pressed. We have others to use under the bandages." Then she sat down on the side of the bed, just next to the earl, and placed a gentle hand on his cheek to examine the bandage.

The earl jerked his face sideways, blinking with one eye and keeping the recently operated-on one shut. It was a self-protective pose Nick knew all too well. By tomorrow, he would have to relax the muscles and open his eye. It needed the moisture of his tears. Hopefully, the tender touch of his young wife would help him relax.

"Thank you for the brandy, milord." Nick snapped his medical bag shut and picked up one of the small glasses. He downed the amber liquid—tea with lemon—and then hissed as if the alcohol had burned his throat. "I suppose it's never too early in the day for a drop from heaven."

The earl snorted but didn't look at Nick anymore. He was busy submitting to the tender caress of his wife.