The Surgeon's Miracle / Dr Di Angelo's Baby Bombshell (6 page)

Thoughts filled with images of him and Libby.

And that was worrying. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; she was there for show, not for him to sneak away with alone and have more fun than he’d had in years, frolicking in the folly surrounded by nymphs in gauzy gowns flitting through the fading scenery. The memory of her this morning with the sun streaming through her fine cotton nightdress hit him in the solar plexus, and his breath jammed in his throat.

‘It’ll be warmer outside,’ he said, suddenly desperate to get away from the paintings, so they went back out into the sunshine and sat down on the steps, looking out over a bend in the river in the distance, and they ate the picnic slowly, savouring the view, somehow not needing to talk. So refreshing, he thought, to sit with her and not have to fill the silence.

A squirrel came up to them, head tilted slightly on one side, and she threw it a tiny crumb of quiche.

‘Feeding the wildlife?’ he murmured, and the
squirrel grabbed it and fled, darting up a tree and disappearing.

‘It’s probably got young,’ she said.

‘Probably. Are you all done?’

‘Mmm. That was lovely, thank you. Much nicer than being polite to poor little Charlotte. So what now?’

‘I can show you the bits we didn’t get to this morning, if you like?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Let’s go, then,’ he said, packing up the things and getting to his feet. They walked and drove and walked again, and despite everything he’d said about the place, she could see that he loved it.

It was in his blood, in his bones. How could he not love it? And yet he was right, it was an awesome responsibility, and as he talked about it, about how they were merely caretakers for the future generations, about the struggle to make ends meet, the difficulties of opening the house and gardens to the public, the rules and regulations, the health and safety implications, she could see how it could be a love-hate relationship.

‘It must be a nightmare opening to the public,’ she mused as they stood and looked at the house across the wide expanse of the park. ‘I can’t imagine anything more stressful than having people wandering through my home touching everything. Do you use all the rooms and have to clear them up the night before?’

He laughed softly and shook his head. ‘No. The ones we open are the big rooms that we don’t use that much, and now Will’s in the east wing and I don’t live here any more it’s much easier. Visitors don’t have access to all the house, by any means, and the walkways are all roped off to corral them a bit, but there’s always the odd
one who tries to escape from the guides. There’s a bedroom Queen Victoria stayed in and the old nursery, and the drawing room and dining room we used last night, and of course the ballroom, which you’ll see later. That’s gorgeous. And the old Victorian kitchen. That’s next to the family kitchen and it’s lovely, but it’s never used. It’s just a museum piece now, like one of the bathrooms and some of the other bits like part of the stable block and the old coach house, but it’s all pretty strung out so they feel they’ve seen more than they have, really.’

Another kitchen? That made three—four if she counted Will and Sally’s. ‘Don’t you ever get lost?’ she asked, slightly dazed, but he just smiled and shook his head.

‘No. I grew up here, don’t forget, and Will and I had the run of the place.’

‘I bet you were a nightmare.’

‘Who, me? No way,’ he said, eyes alight with mischief, and she could just imagine him as an eight-year-old, all skinned knees and sparkling eyes and wicked little grin, ricocheting from one scrape to another.

And just the thought was enough to make her heart ache. If she was lucky, then one day she might have a son, a little boy like Andrew must have been—but that all depended on which way the dice had fallen, and until she knew…

She shivered as the wind picked up and the temperature dropped, and he realised he’d rambled on and kept her out in the wind for ages. ‘I’m sorry, you’re cold—have you seen enough?’ he asked, and she nodded, so they headed back towards the car. She snuggled down inside the jacket and turned the collar up, and he looked at the glow in her cheeks and the
sparkle in her eyes, and felt a surge of regret that this wasn’t a real relationship, that they were in his room together under false pretences and that once they returned to Audley tomorrow it would all come to an end and they’d go back to normal, him the overworked, harassed consultant, her the overworked but always cheerful ward sister.

Hell, it was going to be hard to do that. He’d forgotten what they were supposed to be doing, had let himself get carried away by the moment and spent the day having fun with her—good, clean, healthy fun, free of ties and responsibilities and obligations, and it had been wonderful.

He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, to fold her against his chest and hold her tight, just stand there with her in his arms while time stood still and the world moved on without them. But he couldn’t. He had responsibilities that day, and he’d shirked them long enough. The ball was taken care of, but he had a duty to the other guests, and his mother was probably going to hang him out to dry if he didn’t get back there soon.

Either that or she’d be planning the wedding.

He unlocked the car, opened the door for her and as she slid in and reached for the seat belt their eyes met and she smiled.

‘Thank you, Andrew. I’ve had the best day,’ she said, and he just couldn’t help himself. He leant in and kissed her—the lightest, slightest brush of his lips against hers, but his heart kicked hard against his ribs and blood surged through him.

He stepped back and shut the door a little more firmly than was necessary, went round and slid behind
the wheel and drove home in silence, regret for what could never be wedged like a ball in his throat.

If the dinner party had been a glittering occasion, the ball that night promised to be a firework display. The place had been a hive of activity from dawn onwards, and the pace had only picked up as the day went on. Now, though, was the lull before the storm. The cars and vans were gone or parked out of sight, the stage was set, and she felt a tingle of excitement. She’d never been to a white-tie ball before, and she was assailed by doubts about Amy’s dress.

Oh, well, nothing she could do about it now. It was all she had with her and it would have to do.

Andrew changed first. He disappeared into his dressing room and emerged in trousers and a shirt hanging open down the front. The wing collar was attached, but the stiffly starched front was meant to close with studs. The studs he had in his hand.

‘Can you put these in for me? This shirt is an instrument of torture and I just can’t do it. There’s a pocket here you can put your hand in to make it easier to reach,’ he demonstrated, and so she found herself nose to nose with his warm, solid, muscular chest, breathing in the scent of cologne and soap and, underlying it all, the drugging, masculine scent of his body.

Following his instructions, she put the first stud through from the back and her fingers brushed against the soft scatter of dark hair, sending heat coursing through her.

Darn it, how could he do this to her? She was almost whimpering by the time she’d fastened the last one, her fingers against the shirt front picking up the steady, even beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the
solidity, while the subtle spicy tones of his aftershave curled around her nostrils and teased her.

Andrew was struggling, too, the feel of her fingers tormenting him unbearably. ‘All done,’ she said at last, and he thanked her, stepping back the moment her hands fell away, and wheeled round and disappeared to assemble the rest of his elaborate and formal dress.

He wondered if she had any idea of the effect she had on him. Watching her, her soft, full bottom lip caught between her even white teeth, feeling her slender fingers brush against his chest, inhaling the scent of apples that drifted from her hair—it had been enough to kill him. And he was going to have to dance with her tonight. It would be expected, by her, by his mother, and most particularly by all the women who’d like to be in her place.

Maybe she’d hate dancing and they could sit it out, he thought, clutching at straws, but he had a feeling Libby didn’t hate anything. She wasn’t a wild party girl by any means, but she’d enjoyed herself last night, mixed easily with his friends and family, and he just knew she’d want to dance. Not that he didn’t want to. Rather the opposite, but he just didn’t trust himself to hold her in his arms without disgracing himself.

By the time he emerged in the long black tailcoat and white waistcoat over the satin-stripe trousers, his white bow-tie finally tied to his satisfaction, he’d managed to get himself back under control to a certain extent. ‘Right, are you OK to get ready on your own or will you need help with anything?’ he asked, hoping she’d say she could cope, and to his relief she nodded.

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Right. I’m going to help Will. He doesn’t stand a
prayer of getting into this lot on his own, and Sally will be up to her eyes. She’s organising the ball. Come down and find us—if you go down the back stairs by the kitchen, then turn left, you’ll see the door to their wing in front of you. Just bang on the door and come in when you’re done.’

Libby nodded, and he went out and shut the door, pausing for a moment to suck in a deep breath before striding along the corridor and down to the communicating door.

He rapped sharply and went in, to find his brother upstairs in the bedroom struggling to attach the starched shirt collar.

‘Here, let me,’ he said, taking over. ‘They’re an utter pain in the butt. I just got Libby to dress me. Damn Mum and her grand ideas.’

Will laughed and relinquished the task, lounging against the wall and watching thoughtfully. ‘So—had a good day with Libby?’

‘Lovely,’ he said tightly, trying not to think about it. ‘Right, put this on and let’s try and do the front studs,’ he said, holding out the shirt, and Will shrugged into it and stood while he struggled with the fastenings. ‘Cockeyed, antiquated arrangement,’ he grumbled, then stood back. ‘Bow-tie?’

‘I can do that. Have a drink—there’s a nice malt in the kitchen.’

‘No. I might have to shoot off.’

‘You can’t!’

‘There’s a boy in PICU—’

‘When isn’t there? Ring and find out how he’s doing. Then you can relax.’

‘Never that straightforward, though, is it?’ he
murmured, keying in the number and checking on his little patient.

‘Well?’

‘He’s stable. No change—which is good. I’m hopeful.’

‘Excellent. So get yourself a drink and tell me all about Libby while I do this blasted tie up.’

S
HE
stared at herself in the mirror.

It was a fabulous dress, she had to agree with Amy, but the cleavage worried her and she was concerned about the formality of the occasion. Was flesh allowed? Because there was plenty of it.

She groaned and gave the top another little tug. If only Andrew was here and she could show it to him before she walked through the house and made an utter fool of herself, but of course he wasn’t, and he wasn’t going to be, so she shrugged, draped the oyster pink pashmina around her shoulders and flipped the end back over her left shoulder so it covered her chest, and then studied her reflection again.

Better. More—well, less, really. She wriggled into the shoes, turned sideways for one last check for VPL, then took a deep breath and opened the door, to find Andrew on the other side, his hand poised to knock.

‘Ah—you’re ready,’ he said, his eyes scanning her. ‘I was just coming to check you were OK.’

‘Yes—well, I think so. Will I do? Formal enough?’

He opened his mouth, shut it as if he’d thought better of whatever he was going to say and nodded. ‘Perfect,’
he said, but she wasn’t convinced. What had he been going to say?

‘Is there a subtext—like, no flesh showing or anything?’ she asked, still unsure because of course he couldn’t see the neckline with the pashmina in the way, but he just gave a slightly strained laugh and shook his head.

‘No, flesh is fine. I’ve just seen Charlie in the hall, with a dress slit up virtually to the waist, so unless there really isn’t a front to that dress under the shawl thing, I don’t think you’ve got a problem. You’ll have to go a long way to show more than her.’

She felt her shoulders drop with relief, and the pashmina slid down and his eyes tracked its path, stopping at her cleavage, and they both froze.

She swallowed hard. ‘Still think it’s all right?’ she asked, her nerves on edge for some reason, and after an endless moment he reached for the pashmina and tucked it back over her left shoulder again with gentle fingers.

‘On second thoughts, perhaps a little decorum. I don’t want my father having a heart attack,’ he said gruffly, and then offered her his arm. ‘Shall we?’

Damn. She’d known it was too much. Oh, well, it was too late now, but at least she could keep the dress covered. They reached the hall, and Sally came quickly over to them. ‘Libby—I’ve got a corsage for you,’ she said, handing her a delicate creamy-white orchid spray, and then she smiled brightly and hurried off.

‘I could pin the pashmina with it,’ she suggested, and he nodded, looking relieved.

‘Good idea. Here, let me.’ And he pinned it in place, giving her a fleeting, enigmatic smile, then tucked her hand back in his arm and led her into the fray.

‘Oh, my goodness, there are so many people,’ she murmured, and he squeezed her hand.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t abandon you,’ he promised, and he didn’t. He kept her close all evening, and she was astonished to discover that she was seated next to him at the top table.

If she was supposed to be some kind of deflector for the single girls, she couldn’t have been given a more high-profile position, she realised, feeling Charlotte’s eyes on her, and she felt the most appalling fraud. The cutlery conundrum came back to haunt her, and if she’d thought that last night’s dinner was formal, this was even more so.

But she coped, somehow, managing the endless selection of knives and forks and spoons by following Andrew’s lead, making polite conversation to his uncle on her other side and hoping that she wouldn’t knock over her wine glass or drop something down the pashmina so she had to take it off and reveal all.

But she got through the meal without a disaster, and then his father tapped a glass and stood up.

‘Friends, family, may I have your attention? As you all know, we’re here to celebrate Jane’s birthday, and I just wanted to say a very few words in praise of a woman who’s been a remarkable wife and companion to me for nearly thirty-five years—forty, if you count the time I spent chasing after her before she let me catch her,’ he said to a ripple of laughter. ‘And I’d be lying if I said she didn’t look a day older than on her twenty-first birthday, but she’s certainly no less beautiful, at least to me, and I would just like to thank her, in front of you all, for the many years of happiness she’s brought me, for the laughter and tears, the companionship,
the challenge, and most particularly for the precious gift of our two sons. I know they would like a chance to thank her publicly for all she’s done, so if you could bear with us—Andrew? Would you like to start?’

He’d known it was coming, but he’d managed to ignore it, so preoccupied by the earlier glimpse of Libby’s cleavage that his brain had been all but wiped clean. He got to his feet and smiled at everyone, then looked up the table to his mother, ignoring the hastily scribbled notes in his pocket and deciding to wing it. This was his mother, after all. If he couldn’t tell her what he thought of her without notes, it was a pretty poor thing.

‘You had no idea what you started thirty-four years ago, did you, Mum?’ he teased. ‘Well, let me tell you. You made me curious. You made me want to know the answers, to persevere until I got them, to change the way it was if I didn’t like what I learned, and to live with what I couldn’t change. You taught me never to give up, never to give in, never to walk away from anything except a fight. You taught me the difference between right and wrong, the difference between pride and arrogance. You taught me to walk, to ride, to swim, to laugh at myself and not others, to read all sorts of fascinating and amazing things—and to love. You taught me not only to work, but also to play, the value of family, the importance of caring.

‘You’re a remarkable woman, and you’ve made me what I am; I owe it all to you, so thank you for that, from the bottom of my heart.’

He sat down again, a lump in his throat, and felt Libby’s hand squeeze his under the table before she turned towards Will. He was on his feet, and as they all waited for him to speak, the applause died away until the silence in the room was deafening.

Libby swallowed and bit her lip, her hand still in Andrew’s, her eyes fixed on his brother. For the first time, Will wasn’t smiling, and she felt her heart miss a beat.

‘Well, what can I say?’ he began eventually. ‘I do public speaking all the time as part of my fundraising work, but this isn’t public, this is my mother, the woman who gave birth to me, who taught me all the things she taught Andrew—and, technically, she’s entitled to her pension now, but there’s no way I’m going to let her retire from the fray without a fight,’ he said, smiling briefly at the ripple of laughter through the room. But then his smile faded and he carried on.

‘She had no idea when she had us, as Andrew said, what she was letting herself in for. I’m sure we were vile to bring up. Two healthy young boys, hell bent on living as fast and as hard as possible, but then it all got a little more serious, and without Ma’s quick thinking I know I wouldn’t be here today, so I cannot—
cannot
—underestimate what she means to me, and to the charities for which she works so tirelessly.

‘It’s because of her,’ he concluded, ‘that I’m able to stand here in front of you today on my own two feet, to thank her, and to ask you to join with me in raising a glass to her and wishing her a very happy birthday. Happy birthday, Ma. And thank you.’

Everyone got to their feet, the applause thunderous as Will turned to his mother and hugged her hard, then sat down, his eyes over-bright.

She glanced up at Andrew and realised he wasn’t doing much better as he turned to her and held the chair for her to sit down again.

‘You OK?’ she murmured, and he smiled wryly and nodded.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just—he never talks about it like that. Not so openly, not to her. And it’s—’

‘Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please?’

Sally was on her feet now, standing beside Will with an envelope in her hand, and she looked round at everyone, then continued as silence fell, ‘Her sons don’t know this, but Lady Ashenden asked not to receive any presents for her birthday. As she put it, “What on earth could a woman of my age possibly need that I haven’t already got?” And so, at her suggestion, anyone who felt that they would like to commemorate her birthday in this way was invited to make a donation to the charities they support for meningitis research and meningococcal disease, and I have to say you’ve been amazingly generous, because the total at the moment, not counting several last-minute donations, stands at twenty-seven thousand, six hundred and forty-five pounds.’

Will’s jaw sagged, and beside Libby, Andrew sucked in his breath.

He looked across at Will, realised he was beyond saying anything and got to his feet again, holding his hands up for silence. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he began when the cheers and clapping had died away. ‘Thank you, obviously. Thank you all so very, very much. The difference your generosity and the generosity of others like you all over the country makes to the children reached by these charities is immeasurable, and for them, for all the children who through donations like this one achieve a greater measure of independence and self-belief, we would all like to give you our heartfelt thanks. And, Mum, I guess we owe you lunch.’

That brought laughter to a room filled with too much
emotion, and moments later a huge birthday cake was wheeled in, blazing with candles, and they all—him, his brother, his father—had to go with her to blow the candles out.

Lady Ashenden, near to tears but quietly dignified, thanked all her guests—for coming, for their enormous generosity—and then put her arms around both of her sons and hugged them hard.

For Libby, sitting alone now on the top table, the whole event was deeply moving, and she felt incredibly privileged to have been invited. Will’s story had had a happy ending, but it wasn’t always like that. She’d seen it happen, seen the devastation caused by the disease. Not many. It wasn’t that common, but you never forgot the children you’d worked with in that situation, and even one was too many.

Surreptitiously she wiped away her tears, sniffed hard and drained her wine glass.

‘Bit of a tear-jerker, isn’t it?’

She looked at Sally, who’d perched on Andrew’s chair beside her, and dredged up a smile. ‘Yes. How did you manage to speak to everyone after that? I would have been in bits. I
was
in bits.’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve heard him speak before, and it’s always very powerful. That’s how he’s so effective at fundraising. He does it every time—but this time, it was about his mother, and, well, to be honest I nearly didn’t make it! Still, it’s over now. They’ll bring the cake round, and she’s going to circulate while we all have coffee and eat the cake, then it’s dancing! And Will says you’ve promised him a dance, so don’t forget.’

Libby laughed. ‘Yes—he says he’s a better dancer than Andrew, and I have to check it out.’

‘Does he, indeed? We’ll see about that,’ Andrew murmured from behind her, and she felt his hands settle warmly on her shoulders and pull her back against him. She tilted her head back to smile at him, and he dropped a kiss lightly on her forehead. She’d been about to reply, but the words dried up instantly and she forgot her own name as he scooped her up and sat down, settling her back on his lap with his arms looped round her waist.

Instinctively she put her arm around his shoulders to steady herself, her hand splayed over his shoulder, feeling the play of muscle beneath her fingertips through the fine wool of his tailcoat. She could feel the warmth from his muscular legs seeping through her dress, the solid bulk of his chest against her side, and the fact that they were doing it all for Cousin Charlotte’s benefit seemed neither here nor there.

Her heart skittering in her chest, she ate her cake perched on his lap, sipped her coffee, laughed with them all when Will came over and cracked an endless succession of dreadful jokes, and then finally it was time to dance. The doors through to the ballroom were rolled aside, the music started and Andrew patted her on the bottom.

‘Up you get, it’s time to go and check out Will’s theory,’ he said, his eyes challenging his brother’s, and her heart, which had only just settled, lurched against her ribs. She realised she’d been waiting for this since Will had issued the challenge the night before, and at last she was going to know what it was like to be held in Andrew’s arms.

There was no question in her mind who would win. Will was fabulous—funny, sexy, outrageous—but he did nothing for her. Andrew, on the other hand…

The four of them headed to the dance floor in time to see Lord and Lady Ashenden have the first dance, and when Libby saw the string quartet, she felt a bubble of delighted laughter rise in her throat.

‘Oh, proper dancing!’ she said softly, enchanted.

He grinned. ‘Well, we can make it improper if you like, but it’s a little public.’

She punched his arm lightly and laughed, trying to ignore the little shiver of anticipation. ‘You know what I mean. I just haven’t ever done it except at dance classes. I didn’t think people still did except on television. ’

‘Only sometimes. And one of the advantages of a stuffy, classical education is that I’m unlikely to step on your toes too often,’ he said with a wry smile, and held out his hand to her, sketching a mocking bow as his eyes sparkled with challenge. ‘So, shall we show my brother what we’re made of?’

He’d been aching to hold her in his arms all night, longing for the moment to come, and he discovered to his delight that she was a beautiful, natural dancer. She followed his lead without a hitch, her hand light on his shoulder, her body just a fraction too far away for his liking—but that was probably just as well, given the total lack of privacy.

And when the time came he was reluctant in the extreme to hand her over to Will.

‘She’s lovely,’ Sally said, smiling up at him as he led her to the side of the dance floor and settled her into a chair so that she could rest. ‘A real sweetheart. I’m so glad you’ve found her.’

‘Don’t jump the gun,’ he warned. ‘She’s just a friend.’