“Harry?” Arabella leaned forward in her seat but kept her face away from him.
“Aye. So, of course, I know that means it may not be exactly ... how others see it.”
“What did Harry say?”
To have to repeat this to her? It tore at his heart. But he told her what Harry had told him Christmas Day years ago. That Arabella had been seduced by a married man and it had come to be known by many. He worked hard to keep his voice neutral. Whatever emotion he had attached to it could be nothing in comparison to what the event had meant to her since it had led to her separation from her family.
“No. Harry was accurate,” Arabella said, still averting her face.
“But I am sure yer mother feels nothing but love for ye. Ye should not be worried about seeing her.”
“Well, she will want to rehash things, and I don’t want that. I want to leave that time behind. I know that she feels shame over ... what happened. Which she should not.”
“And neither should ye.” Alasdair could not believe his boldness.
The silence stretched.
“Thank you,” Arabella said quietly. And then he felt a brief pressure on his gloved hand.
Cowardice be damned.
He grabbed at what he presumed was her hand, clamping it.
“I must tell ye,” he said, not turning his head, still staring at the opposite seat. “I must tell ye that the greatest regret of my life has been that I dinnae ask yer mother if I could write to ye. In that time before ye left yer family. To say I am sorry does not begin to express my remorse.”
“You are very kind.” Her voice was choked, as if by tears.
He moved now to the seat opposite her, still holding her hand, leaning forward, looking at her blue eyes that were indeed brimming with tears.
“Nae, I am not kind,” he said. “I am not kind at all. I am a fool.”
“I won’t have you talk that way about my personal physician,” she said, smiling through her tears, clearly trying to make a joke.
Oh. Oh, no. His heart sank.
She did not want this intimacy from him.She did not want to hear that he had wanted to write to her.
He had thought that perhaps her hand on his coat when he had come through her door in Dunburn meant something. Her eyes meeting his as his gaze had devoured her on the doorstep. Then, the press of her cheek and her whisper when he left, the gift of the tartan scarf the next day—but no, he had been wrong. She had just been happy to see someone associated with her family. She was just expressive and affectionate in a way that he had never been.
And what she had said just now. Her calling him her personal physician. She was pushing him away, reminding him that he was a servant, a man who served others. That he would never have any intercourse with her outside of that between a doctor and patient. She was, like her sisters, destined for a life as a lady, the wife of a lord, no matter what had happened two years ago. He was beneath her and would always be so.
He let go of her hand he had been clutching so tightly. He sat back. And crossed his arms over his chest, and ducked his head, avoiding her eyes.
“I am sorry. I ask yer forgiveness, Miss Lovelock. I forgot myself.”
“I wish we could,” she said abruptly, too loudly.
That made him raise his head and look at her. He had not heard this tone from her before. Her voice was almost harsh. She had gone from being tearful to being angry in a flash.
“I wish wecouldforget ourselves, Dr. Andrews. That is what I wish for. I cannot be the girl again in the bishop’s study, meeting the man of my dreams for the first time. That girl is gone. And I am glad of that. Because that girl could only be hurt and damaged. I want to be free of her. I want to be a woman whose expectations of the world are appropriate. What do you want to be, Dr. Andrews?”
It took every ounce of Alasdair’s brain to pay attention to anything that Arabella said after “man of my dreams.” He had thought ... He had hoped ... He had wished for so long that the feeling he had for her was in some small way reciprocated.
And, now, to hear her say that.
He had been a very great fool, indeed.
But she was asking him something.
