25
Alex let himself into the front door of Andrew’s townhouse. The hour was late. Far too late to be rousing servants or even the wee hall boy who lay asleep in the entryway.
The events of the night before haunted him—Lottie’s eyes rolling back in her head and her body collapsing, a marionette with strings cut. The image looped over and over in his mind, like a perpetual-motion machine, winding him up tighter and tighter until he had todo somethingto release the pent-up energy.
He had taken to the gaslit streets of Mayfair, walking for hour after hour until his leg ached from the strain. But the physical pain was a welcome respite from the leaden weight of his heart.
How had he landed himself in this mire?
Part of him longed to hop on a horse tomorrow and head back to Edinburgh. To lose himself in caring for others and tamp down the jittery ache that rose whenever he thought of Lady Charlotte Whitaker’s blue eyes.
The terror when she fainted . . .
He had faced, unutterably, the knowledge that he could lose her in an instant—
He shuddered.
As a medical man, knowing how to treat disease was generally a comfort. He understood what to do when faced with a crisis.
But when those he loved became ill, it was the precise opposite, as he knew only too well how a seemingly simple malady could quickly become lethal.
Och, bloody hell.
Those heloved . . .
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
He faced the truth directly.
Yes.
He loved Lady Charlotte Whitaker.
The emotion had flooded him weeks ago, more than likely beginning with that consuming kiss along the muddy lane. He had just been too terrified to admit it.
And now . . . what was he to do?
His life was spinning out-of-control.
The reports he received from Mr. Argent were dire. Lord Frank needed to be reined in immediately. The troubles plaguing the marquisate loomed large, eclipsing his resolve to not assume them.
He loved a lady who fought to remain loyal to her family.
McNeal and his patients awaited his care back in Edinburgh.
He limped for the staircase, but a glimmer of candlelight from the library to his left caught his eye. Pushing open the door, he spied a familiar dark head seated before the hearth, sipping whisky.
“Kieran!” Alex exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loudly for the hush of night.
His friend startled, sloshing his whisky and cursing loudly.
“Alex! Trust ye to scare me out of my wits.” Kieran stood, teeth flashing in the dim light.
Alex limped across the room. Kieran met him halfway, giving him a tight hug, thumping his back.
What a relief! His friend had returned.
Moreover, a good blether was just what Alex needed to take his mind off his worries.
