“Of course it is.” She flashed a smile far too charming for such a dangerous topic. “You simply knock on the door at seven o’clock and Mrs. Kirwin will usher you to the dining room. An easy procedure, Doctor, especially for one so learned as yourself. Unless you have a previous engagement?”
The question escorted him to the brink of a cliff. He could jump off and embrace a free-falling lie, which would prove easy enough to end the conversation without hurting anyone’s feelings. But the cost to his conscience would open a vein, a conscience that had a pitiful amount of remaining lifeblood.
He reached for the felt pads. Better to busy himself with work than with mulling over a possible deception. “I have no engagements,” he admitted.
“Then you must come.” She practically bounced on her good foot. “My brother and I have grown fond of your company.”
“She speaks truth, Lambert,” Mr. Balfour cut in.
Such sentiments warmed his soul. Though he’d spent years aboard different ships, he’d forged no lasting friendships. He enjoyed the Balfours’ companionship, but the urge for caution in a patient-doctor relationship ran strong in his veins. He methodically began placing the felt pads onto Mr. Balfour’s skull. “I am honoured, but—”
“But you intend to disappoint us, sir?” Miss Balfour stepped near, lifting her face to his. “Surely you know that you are the only person whom we can invite, other than Mr. Peckwood, that is. Yet he is not nearly as quick-witted as you.”
Something sparked in those fathomless eyes of hers. What? A smidgeon of desperation? Maybe. Or was it fascination? She did seem to enjoy an exchange of clever banter, but no good would come of encouraging such an interest. She was the patient’s sister. This was a professional relationship. Nothing more.
“I thank you for your kind invitation, Miss Balfour, and even kinder words, but I do not think it would be a good idea for me to associate socially with a family of your standing.”
“Claptrap!” Colin Balfour frowned up at him. “My sister wishes you to dine with us, Mr. Lambert, not enter into a blood oath. I expect you at our table at seven sharp. Now, are we to move this treatment along or fritter away the rest of the day with a pointless to-dine-or-not-to-dine debate?”
He sighed. Balfour was right. Besides, if Peckwood heard of his refusal to one of his highest-paying clients, he’d suffer worse than a tongue-lashing and just might be given the boot.
Rock. Hard place.
Inhaling until it hurt, he turned away from the duo’s expectant stares. “Very well,” he choked. “Seven it is.”
His fingers quivered as he reached for the first dial. He hadn’t dined with anyone since that ill-fated night he’d gotten kicked out of service, when a heated discussion arose between courses and he’d struck an officer of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
And all because of a woman.
Somewhere between the chestnut soup and marchpane cake, Amelia was smitten. Not in a flighty way. Not the sort that drove reason from the mind and fluttered the heart. She was too old for such absurdity and Mr. Lambert too conventional to inspire such a frivolous response. But all the same, she’d nearly dropped her knife when she realized the depth to which he’d invaded her thoughts.
She speared one more bite of her pudding and slipped the man a furtive glance across the table. There was something about him that unmistakably wooed her attention to the careless way his dress coat stretched across his shoulders and how that dark swath of hair broke rank and brushed across his brow. Though he’d been quiet throughout dinner, there was an intensity about him. An underlying ruggedness completely unsoftened by cultivation and unapologetic about it. Never before had a man so impressed her. And she wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.
Especially when his head swiveled her way and his hazel eyes caught her in the act of gawping.
She set down her fork and pushed away her plate. The strange twist in her stomach would not tolerate a morsel more, even though well over half of Cook’s famed confection yet remained on her plate.
“Well, I must say, gentlemen”—she affected a breezy smile—“this has been the most serene birthday celebration I have ever attended.”
Mr. Lambert’s dark brow arched. “You speak as if that’s a bad thing.”
“I confess I had hoped for something a bit more…” What? Colin was hardly a child. Surely she couldn’t have expected ponies and jugglers to liven things up. “I suppose I anticipated our dinner to be something more memorable.”
He leaned forward in his seat, his low voice for her alone. “Beware what you wish for, Miss Balfour, for it may come true.”
Colin waved his hand at their guest. “We are but Englishmen, Sister. I doubt Lambert here or myself could live up to the colourful characters you have experienced in all your travels.”
“Hmm…” She tapped her bottom lip with her finger, her glance drifting from Colin to Mr. Lambert. “I suspect you have traveled much more extensively than I have, Doctor. Your associate, Mr. Peckwood, made it plain you served as a naval surgeon. Surely you have a tale or two with which to regale us.”
A humourless smile played across his full lips. “Nothing I should like to repeat in polite society.”
“But those are the best sorts of stories, are they not?”
Both his brows shot skyward.
“Forgive my sister,” Colin grumbled. “Her scandalous tongue often gets her into trouble.”
“True, but not this time. I meant what I said in the best possible sense. You see”—she took a sip of ginger water before continuing—“when I journey to foreign lands, if I limit my conversations to only what is acceptable to the upper class, I would never sell a story to my publisher. Readers want—nay, expect—to escape into a world unlike their own, if only for an hour or two.”
