How to Care for a Lady Read online

  How to Care for a Lady

  A Wetherby Brides Novel

  Jerrica Knight Catania

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogues

  Michael & Elizabeth

  Chloe & Andrew

  Katherine & William

  Elizabeth & Chloe

  Evan & Grace

  Hannah & Graham

  Becky & Stephen

  Phoebe & Benjamin

  Also by Jerrica Knight Catania

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the

  author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to any event, locale or person,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Smashwords Edition

  * * *

  How to Care for a Lady

  Copyright 2016 by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  * * *

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.

  Cover by Covers by Lily

  Prologue

  London, June 1822

  There comes a time in every woman’s life when she looks at her reflection in the mirror and she doesn’t quite recognize herself. For Hannah Ludlum, Lady Beeston, that day was the day her husband shot her.

  She clutched the cold heavy silvered mirror in her hand and stared into her tawny eyes. They were so different than they used to be. They’d once sparkled with youth and hope, but all she saw now was ten years of misery. Ten years of waiting, wanting, and hoping. She saw defeat. It stung far more than the bullet wound in her leg.

  A tear eked out, and the fluttering of a sob accosted her lungs. She placed the mirror on her bedside table and lolled her head back against the pillows. What had she been thinking? Not just today. Of course it was foolish to run pell-mell across the field as her brother and husband were about to fire their pistols at one another. She'd been foolish long before then. One might have forgiven her after a year, but ten. Ten. How dare she hope for so long? What a waste of her precious time to spend it thinking one day, somehow, she might make her husband love her.

  A bitter laugh bubbled up at the thought. Love. The only thing Beeston loved was an endless bottle of brandy and a lightskirt who would do…

  Oh, blazes! She didn’t even know what it was he would want the doxy to do, for heaven’s sake. How about that? His own wife knew nothing about his preferences in the bedroom. After ten blasted years.

  Her head began to swim, partly from her musings, but mostly from the heavy dose of laudanum the doctor had just administered. The pain in her leg had subsided quite a bit, but she grew sleepier by the moment. Which was why she was certain she was dreaming when Beeston himself walked through the door of her bedchamber. She was certain he’d disappear for a while after this morning’s events. But the fact he had the bollocks to show up here sent just a tiny ray of hope to her heart.

  No. She wouldn’t dare. Not after last night, or this morning. She’d given him ten long years to prove that he wasn’t the cruelest of men, but he’d proved to her, in no uncertain terms, he was beyond redemption. As soon as she could keep her eyes open and form a coherent sentence she would tell him so.

  Her eyes were so very heavy. His form swam toward her as if the entire room had filled with water.

  “Hannah,” he whispered. She held her silence. “Hannah, are you sleeping, my darling?”

  My darling?

  “Dreaming,” she mumbled. There was no other explanation for his endearment.

  “The doctor said you would sleep,” he continued. “But I had to see you. I had to make certain you were all right.”

  His voice sounded far away, and so gentle. She thought of the night they’d met. She’d spotted him across the Holifields’ ballroom, but promptly lost him in the crowd, since he wasn’t terribly tall, and neither was she. Her romantic younger self held onto the vision of that handsome gentleman all evening, waiting to see his face again. Wondering why she’d never seen him before, and all manner of other thoughts that flit through a young woman’s head.

  Warm sunlight kissed Hannah’s cheeks. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were so heavy, as if rocks lay upon them. Her mouth was dry. So dry. She shifted and a searing pain shot through her body.

  “Hannah.” It was Beeston. She could feel him at her side. He must have moved over her, eclipsing the sunlight, stealing the warmth, as he’d done since the day they’d said I do. “Can I get you something? Water? More laudanum?”

  “No,” she rasped. “No more.”

  “Water, then?”

  She nodded—or at least, she thought she had. She couldn’t be certain. Not until a moment later when Beeston lifted her head and pressed the edge of a glass against her lips. She drank, grateful for the cool wetness that filled her mouth and relieved her dry throat.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. Beeston placed the glass on the bedside table and then took her hand in his. “What are you doing here?” Hannah couldn’t help but ask. It wasn’t like him to be so attentive. Or to be around at all, really.

  “Helping you recover.” His voice wavered. “Are you in very much pain?”

  Hannah managed a puff of laughter. “It feels as if Satan himself is stabbing his trident into my leg.” She finally pried her eyes open to see Beeston sitting beside her, his face contorted in a mixture of horror and despair.

  When had he turned so very hideous? Ten years ago, he’d been the very picture of a dashing gentleman. Light brown hair sat in gentle waves above a strong brow. Clean shaven skin. Eyes that danced with light and amusement. He’d stood with confidence, and his clothing had hugged his muscular form just so, causing every woman in the ballroom to swoon over him, in spite of his reduced stature.

  “Will you ever forgive me?” he asked. It was obvious he was choking back tears.

  Hannah might have felt sorry for him if she didn’t find him so very pathetic. It wasn’t her most charitable thought, but she was done being charitable and forgiving toward him.

  “For what?” she asked, feeling stronger now, thanks to the rush of anger that surged through her. “For shooting me? Or for bedding every woman in Town? Or for forcing me into a miserable existence for the last ten years? I ought to be clear on what I’m to forgive you for.”

  If only an artist were there to capture the look upon Beeston’s face, his jaw slack, his eyes filled with shock that his meek little wife had finally spoken up for herself.

  “I-I—”

  “The answer is no,” she said, cutting him off before he attempted to come up with a pitiful excuse for his entire existence. “To everything. I do not forgive you. Not anymore.”

  “But you’re my wife.” A bit o
f the Beeston she knew started to creep back in—tight jaw, flaring nostrils. But she’d not be afraid of him anymore.

  “Exactly. And I’ve been more than wifely all these ten years. You, however, have gone about your life as if I don’t even exist.”

  Beeston only stared at her, clearly at a loss for words. She’d run out of words, herself. What was left to say? He’d treated her poorly their entire marriage, and then he’d shot her. Whether by accident or not, he’d shot her nonetheless.

  “I want a divorce,” she finally said, knowing full well that decision was not in her hands, nor would it ever be. If she were to obtain a divorce, it would have to be at Beeston’s request. He didn’t look terribly amenable to the idea.

  “A divorce?” he practically roared. “How dare you? You carry my child.”

  Oh, right. There was that. Not that she actually carried his child, but that she’d told him she did. Bugger. She’d have to come clean, which would further enrage him, but at least they were in her brother’s house. If Beeston attempted any bodily harm to her, someone would come rushing to her aid.

  She swallowed over the hard lump in her throat. “I lied.” Best to state it as simply as possible.

  Beeston’s eyes knit together in a frown. “I beg your pardon?” His voice was quiet, dangerous. It made Hannah’s hands tremble.

  But she wouldn’t let him get the best of her. If she was ever going to stand up to him, this was the time to do it, while she was already injured and in a great deal of pain. How much more damage could he inflict? He could murder her, but part of Hannah wondered if that wouldn’t be preferable to a lifetime spent as his wife.

  Hannah lolled her head back against the fluffy pillows, growing ever more weary. “I said, I lied. I was never enceinte. I only said that because…because…”

  “Because why?” he roared, clearly impatient to know why she would do such a thing.

  “Because I thought it would make you love me.” The words were out before she could stop them. They sounded so foolish when she spoke them aloud. What a silly fool she was. Beeston loved no one but himself, and an unborn child wouldn’t change that.

  Tears tried to push their way from behind her eyelids, but she wouldn’t allow it. Not now. Not in front of him. She would suffer in silence, as she always had.

  When she’d gained her composure, she dared to meet his eyes. He sat stone still, staring at her, his jaw set, his brow furrowed. Was he angry? Sad? She couldn’t tell. This man she’d been married to for ten long years was impossible for her to read. She knew nothing about him, save the rumors she’d heard of his dalliances and drunken nights at the seediest of London’s establishments. She knew the money she’d brought to the marriage was long gone, and there was little left in their coffers.

  After an excruciatingly long moment, Beeston rose from his chair and walked silently to the door. Without another word, he quit the room.

  Chapter 1

  London, July 1822

  Dr. Graham Alcott sat with a brandy in one hand, a medical essay in the other, his feet propped upon a cushioned footstool. He wore his grey satin dressing gown and the pair of slippers his sister had given him for his birthday. His belly was well satisfied, after a meal of soup and bread, and he savored the silence of his rented rooms in Marylebone.

  This was no different from any other night of his existence since he’d moved to London six years ago. Occasionally, the monotony was broken up with dinners at his sister’s home or a drink with his brother-in-law at the club, when they were in Town. But Graham wasn’t much for social gatherings. He preferred to keep to himself, in the company of his books. Always medical books, for he had quite an obsession with healing the sick.

  No. Not just healing them. Finding new and better ways to heal them. Ways beyond the ken of his superiors. Not that he didn’t respect the surgeons and physicians who had come before him. Surely, they were doing their best. Yet watching them bleed patients nearly to death with the use of medieval contraptions or, God forbid, leeches, had sent Graham looking for alternatives.

  Of course, he’d watched his father do the same, and he’d resorted to such measures on occasion when he doctored in his hometown of Ravenglass. But he’d always hated it. Always wondered if there was another way. Even now, his eyes scanned over an essay by a leading doctor from Edinburgh who offered many alternatives to bloodletting.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Alcott.”

  Graham turned to find his valet standing in the doorway of the small parlor. “What is it, Dorian?”

  “You have a visitor.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Dr. Pritchard would like to have a moment.”

  Of course. Dr. Pritchard. His mentor, his sponsor. The man who had seen to his advancement from Country Doctor to a genuine doctor, worthy of his title. “Do let him in.”

  Dorian disappeared and returned a moment later, Dr. Pritchard on his heels. Graham rose from his comfortable chair to greet the older man, more than a bit curious to know what this late-night meeting was all about.

  “Dr. Alcott, I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. I see you were preparing for bed.”

  “Not at all,” Graham said, guiding the other doctor to a nearby chair. “Brandy?”

  Dr. Pritchard shook his head and held up a hand. “No, no. I’ve only come to ask you a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  “I’ve been summoned to care for the Countess of Kilworth through the remainder of her pregnancy. She’s had a rough go of it, and the earl doesn’t want to take any chances.”

  “Understandably.”

  “This means, though, that I must refer all my patients to someone I trust.”

  Graham couldn’t stop the smile that came to his lips. “I’m honored.”

  “Only…I can’t trust them all to you.”

  The smile fell quickly from Graham’s lips. “I beg your pardon?” Why was the old man here then?

  “Dr. Alcott, I need you to care for one patient in particular, actually.”

  Well, that was a surprise. “Just one?”

  “She’s a widow who has suffered a great deal, though all you need to know is that she’s been shot in the leg. I’ve cared for her to the best of my abilities, but I think she would quite benefit from your…” He glanced at the essay that lay on the side table and took a steadying breath. “Unorthodox ways.”

  A small grin broke out on Graham’s lips. “Just because they are new does not mean they are unorthodox.”

  “So you say.” He leaned back in his chair. “They will pay you handsomely to see to her every need.”

  “I am not interested in money.”

  Dr. Pritchard shook his head. “You young revolutionaries.”

  “My beliefs are quite Quakerish, actually.”

  “Yes, but one who is out to change the world.”

  Graham shrugged. It wasn’t untrue. “Who will see to your other patients?”

  “I’ve a few colleagues who are willing, but those who are most important, well…the two of us shall see to them.”

  “Is all human life not important?”

  Dr. Pritchard shook his head. “Not to the ton.”

  Graham couldn’t argue that point. He himself might be considered the dung on their shoe if they weren’t in need of medical attention. “When do I meet my new patient?”

  “Tomorrow. First thing.”

  It wasn’t exactly what Graham wished to be doing with his life, though he had to admit, if he had only one patient to care for, and a great sum of money filling his pockets, he might very well be able to devote the rest of his time to more research. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered why he was hesitating.

  “I’ll admit, I’m not entirely certain of this path, but…I quite owe you my life, and if you need me, Dr. Pritchard, then who am I to refuse you?”

  A knock came at Hannah’s door just as she took the last bite of her breakfast. “Enter,” she called with a full mouth of egg, and
then promptly swallowed before her friendly old doctor poked his head in. Hannah smiled sweetly at him.

  “Dr. Pritchard!” she greeted him. “Do come in.”

  “Good morning, my lady,” he said, and then turned to look at something in the hall. “I’ve actually brought someone with me, if you’d be willing to permit him entry as well.”

  “Of course.” Hannah set her tray aside and sat up a little straighter as Dr. Pritchard stepped into the room and held the door open for whoever it was he’d brought along.

  In the next moment, a tall, slender man stepped over the threshold, nearly sucking all the air from the room at the same time. Or perhaps just sucking the air from Hannah’s lungs, since Dr. Pritchard seemed quite unaffected. Blazes. This stranger was quite handsome, and Hannah wished more than anything that she hadn’t been confined to a bed for the last six weeks with only sponge baths to clean herself. Her hair must look a fright, and her pallor ghostly.

  She fidgeted nervously, tucking her hair behind her ear, and then untucking it again, wondering which way might cast her in the best light.

  “Lady Beeston, may I present Dr. Alcott.”

  The handsome doctor dipped his head, causing a lock of his dark hair to fall over his forehead. When he lifted his head again, he wore a wide smile on his lips. One that made Hannah’s heart skip more than one beat.

  “A pleasure, Dr. Alcott,” she said, trying to keep her wits about her. “What a lucky girl I must be to have not one but two doctors attend to me.”

  Dr. Pritchard cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I’m afraid you shall still only have one doctor attending you, my lady. Dr. Alcott will see to your recovery from now on.”

  In spite of her initial attraction to the young physician, this news came as quite a shock and a great disappointment. Hannah couldn’t seem to form a terribly polite question in her mind, so she blurted out, “But where are you going?” in what was most certainly a panicked, childish tone.

  Dr. Pritchard gave a little laugh. “I’m afraid the Earl of Kilworth has paid for my exclusive services. His wife is having a rather difficult time with her pregnancy, so I will attend her at their country estate until the baby is born.”