“This is most inappropriate, Miss—Miss…Miss,” the duke said with a shake of his head. “I must insist you fetch one of the men at once.”
She managed to lift her gaze from the handsome chest and the ugly scar, and met his gaze. “The men?” she said with a laugh as she set her tray with her supplies and a plate of food on the table by the door. “Aside from the guard outside, who I have no intention of calling, there are no men here, Your Grace.”
A look of pain washed over his face. “Don’t call me that.”
She tilted her head. “Not Your Grace?”
His lips pressed together hard and he shook his head slowly. “I prefer not.”
She considered that a moment and then took a step toward him. “Very well. What would you like me to call you, then?”
“Lucas is fine,” he ground out, and she could see he was trying to control the same snappish tone he’d used earlier on the men helping him.
Lucas. She thought of the name, rolled it around in her head. Calling a duke by his Christian name was almost as inappropriate as hanging about alone with him in her cottage. Especially considering the wide variance in their positions.
“Are you certain I could not call you Willowby?” she pressed.
That pained look crossed his face again. “That is the same as calling me Your Grace.”
She did not respond, but stepped forward again and reached out with the intention of beginning her examination of the wound on his shoulder. She knew he had another on his leg, but for now she would focus on the easiest one to deal with.
But before she could touch him, he backed away. She tilted her head as irritation flowed through her. “Your Grace—”
“Lucas,” he snapped, and there was the harsh tone.
She pursed her lips as she fought her own sharp tongue. “Fine,Lucas. You knew you were coming to a healer, I assume you understand that I must touch you.”
His eyes went wide. “Youare the healer?”
She blinked at the utter confusion and disbelief in his tone. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Did Stalwood not tell you?”
“Bloody Stalwood,” Lucas muttered. “No, he only told me I was being moved for my safety and so that I could be attended to by a healer. He never said it was a woman.”
She spun around, holding her arms out. “And yet here I am. And this is what I was asked to do by Stalwood. What I must do to honor my father and his memory.”
Once again Lucas looked anything but certain. He leaned closer, exploring her face before he said, “Who is your father?”
She swallowed. It seemed Stalwood had left her to a great deal of explanation. “He didn’t tell you that either? I—my father was…George Oakford, Your Grace. My name is Diana.”
All the blood promptly exited the face of the handsome man before her, and he reached out to steady himself on the nearest pillar on the four-poster bed. He stared at her, his eyes wilder now.
“George Oakford,” he repeated after what felt like an eternity. “George Oakford, the surgeon for the crown?” His voice shook. She heard all the emotion in it, the emotion that matched her own. Grief and loss, anger and guilt.
Slowly, she nodded. “Yes. That’s the very one.”
His hands gripped into fists, and for a moment she thought his knees might go out from under him. Then he stepped around her and headed for the door.
She pivoted and reached out, catching his good arm. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I-I must leave,” he said, his tone distant, almost like he was telling himself rather than her. “I can’t stay here.”
“Why?” she said, holding tight even when he moved his arm to try to extract himself from her grip.
He stopped fighting and instead looked down at her. His dark brown eyes met hers with an intensity that pinned her in her place. Made her stop breathing.
“Your father is dead because of me, Miss Oakford. He’s dead because ofme.”
Emotions Lucas had fought hard to gain control over all his life were now washing over him like a violent storm. He had made his confession, thinking this woman would recoil or cry or call him names. Instead, she was juststaringat him. The silence that stretched between them was worse than any condemnation he had expected.
