Walking away from the marquisate at this moment broke both vows. It did nothing to help and, if the allegations were true, damaged the ‘patient’—the marquisate in this case.
More to the point, Lord Frank was actingnow. Delays on Alex’s part meant more people suffered.
And yet despite these recent revelations, Alex still could not fathom abandoning his medical practice.
It all felt impossible.
He had spent the night staring at the ceiling, feeling hopelessly trapped between dueling needs and demands.
The sleepless hours had crystallized one thought, however—
Lottie was lost to him.
If he fought to be named the marquess, she would likely never forgive him for disinheriting Freddie and denying her father his dying wish.
And even if he rejected the marquisate and allowed Lord Frank’s abuses to go unchecked, why would a lofty lady like Lady Charlotte marry a lowly Scottish physician?
The very idea had been madness. It had simply been the cozy comfort of their weeks together at Frome Abbey that had forged a sense of familiarity.
Ye are a liar. Ye still burn from the lass’s kisses.
He pushed the thought aside.
If some part of his soul howled at the idea of potentially losing Lottie forever, well, that would simply be another loss to bear.
He was used to losing those he held most dear.
He hobbled down the main staircase on his solitary crutch. He could see the carriage drawn up to the front door, his trunk strapped to the back. Alex had at least insisted that the most comfortable coach be supplied for his trip to Andrew’s townhouse in London.
“Alex,” a voice hissed behind him.
He turned to see Lottie coming down the stairs, eyes darting behind her, clearly not wishing to be caught speaking with him.
She was dressed simply, her hair pulled into a loose knot, her favorite blue Paisley shawl pulled around her shoulders.
She stopped before him, so achingly beautiful it rendered his chest tight.
“Lady Charlotte.” He bowed as low as a crutch and broken leg would allow.
She winced at his formality.
Her gaze searched his. Her eyes were bloodshot, speaking to a poor night’s sleep. Had his lass spent the nightgreiting?
Ah, Lottie.
She looked toward the library door and motioned for him to follow her into the room. He limped after her, helpless to do anything else. She was a siren to his weary seafarer.
She left the door ajar and turned to him.
“You are for London?” She pressed trembling lips together.
“Aye.”
A long pause. He could see thoughts flit across her lovely face.
Will I ever see you again?
What will you do about the marquisate?
