So, he must, in some deep way, believe in her desire. Of course he did. Were all the kisses and touches for him and him alone? And if that were true, how selfish he was. No, he believed she felt something, it was just hard to believe that it could be in any way as strong as what he felt.
Because if women felt as men did, every female who went to her wedding bed a virgin had practiced the same self-restraint that Alasdair had.
He shook his head. He could not sort this out alone, right now, with so much turmoil inside of him. He must find Arabella and talk to her. He managed to get his shirt on by putting his head through the neck hole and his left arm through the sleeve. His right arm stayed in the sling and swathe, hugged to his body under the shirt.
He put his head out the door and waited. After ten minutes, a chambermaid walked by, carrying a stack of sheets.
“Uh, would ye ask Andrews, the butler, to come and speak to me?”
The butler Andrews was able to answer Alasdair’s question and told him that he believed Mrs. Andrews had closeted herself with Lady Rebecca Dalrymple. Alasdair asked then if the butler could inquire if Mrs. Andrews would come and speak to him.
The butler’s face was grave when he returned to Alasdair who hovered in the doorway of the bedchamber.
“She will not.”
“Pardon?”
“She said, ‘Andrews, please tell the doctor I am not disposed to speak to him at this time.’”
“Oh.”
“She seemed quite determined.”
“Did she seem upset?”
“No. I could hear her laughing with her friend before I knocked on the door.”
Alasdair looked around the room.
“I cannae really be seen downstairs in just my shirt, can I? And the waistcoat and tailcoat are out of the question for now. I suppose ye had better show me my own room, finally.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
After the butler Andrews had helped Alasdair into his boots and shown him to his much more modest room in the other wing, the butler lingered for a moment.
“You should not give up so easily, Doctor.” Then he left.
It was not a matter of giving up easily. It was a matter of his inability to dress correctly. It was a matter of her refusing to come to him. It was a matter of his letting everything slip through his fingers. Once again.
Twenty-Six
Arabella went down to dinner, arm in arm with Rebecca. She was surprised Alasdair was not at the table. Should she have gone to him when he had sent for her? She still had not been ready to face him and to discuss what had passed between them. And she felt thatheshould come afterher, rather than her going to him. Despite her resolve, time and time again, she had been the aggressive one, even kissing him so feverishly when his shoulder joint was out of place. In truth, she had kissed him that way because she thought it was likely the last time she ever would kiss him and she wanted, she wanted ... she could not admit what she wanted just now. Even to herself. It hurt too much.
Perhaps he was still too drunk to come to dinner. Or was he in pain? Did he need her help? She was suddenly rent by anxiety and thought of excusing herself to go to him.
She had not noticed that Giles was not at the table either until the Lord Painswick spoke.
“Why have we no host, Andrews?” the marquess demanded of the butler.
Arabella conjured up a picture of the two men out in the snow, dueling. Giles with pistols and her Alasdair in a sling and swathe with just a lancet in his left hand, and some bright-red blood staining the white drifts.
“I believe Lord Morpeth is not feeling well,” the butler said. Lady Lyndmouth got up immediately and left the room.
Arabella was washed by relief. But what of Alasdair’s absence?
The butler Andrews leaned over while holding the serving platter of carved goose for her.
“The doctor did not feel he could be seen outside his own bedchamber with just his shirt over his sling.”
