The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,29

to manage his thoughts or his gaze. Always they drifted to Abigail. When she rose to toast the happy couple and the candlelight set her hair to flaming. When her laughter over something Mrs. Tully had said drifted down the table to tickle his ear. When the dancing started, and she bravely sat alone to watch the couples on the floor, her gaze longing.

How fine it would be to take her hands, twirl her down the line.

What was he thinking? Her arm would not bear the strain. He should commend her for remembering that, when she clearly wished to dance.

Leaving Ethan with Mrs. Archer, he ventured to Abigail’s side in time to hear her refuse an invitation from Lord Featherstone, who bowed himself off.

“Your abstinence now will reap dividends in the future,” Linus promised her, taking the baron’s place at her side.

She stuck out her tongue at him.

Linus started laughing, and she gave in and joined him.

“It is more difficult to refuse than I expected,” she admitted. “I love to dance.”

Another thing she had in common with his late wife. But dancing hadn’t been exciting enough for Cat. Every chance she’d taken had been riskier than the last. Could he trust that Abigail had a different disposition?

“You must persevere,” he told her.

She cast him a glance. “I am well aware of that, Doctor. But thank you for making sure my memory was more sound than my arm.”

He inclined his head and went to collect Ethan before Mrs. Archer could ply his son with another sweet roll.

It was worse the next day at the spa. No matter what he did, which way he turned, Abigail was there.

She and Mrs. Howland came in shortly after he unlocked the door, Abigail in her slashed-sleeve gown and Mrs. Howland in lavender. He hadn’t expected many visitors that day. Most had attended the wedding, and the festivities had continued until after the sun had set at ten. He’d heard some industrious souls singing their way through the village at about that time. Surely their guests would sleep late.

Abigail and Mrs. Howland apparently had higher expectations, for they set about counting glasses and setting out pamphlets.

He had just ventured toward the fountain to start the impeller when Abigail approached him with the appointment book Miss Chance—no, Mrs. Denby—had started, balancing the open book on one gloved hand.

“You have no one scheduled for this morning and two in the afternoon,” she explained, “Mrs. Rand at one and Mr. Crabapple at half past three.” She glanced up to meet his gaze with a smile that made the room brighter. “If others request an appointment, do you have a preference for timing?”

“Fill up the afternoon first,” he said, trying to ignore the scent of her. Why did he smell peaches? Was he simply reminded of them by her coloring?

“Very good,” she said. “Do you need help starting the fountain?”

It was lowering to think Mrs. Denby might have let her in on all his deficiencies. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

She nodded. “You’ll do well. Eva and I are merely here to help.” She turned for the welcome desk.

And the light seemed to dim. He shook his head. Nothing had changed because Abigail moved away from him—about the room, about his life, about his future. He must remember that.

But as the day wore on, he was very glad for her company. Mrs. Harding had elected to remain abed to recover from her exertions, and Mr. Crabapple moped so much it required the combined attentions of Lord Featherstone and the Admiral to wring a smile from him. Mrs. Rand felt the lack of attention from the baron and had no less than three attacks before her appointment that afternoon. Doctor Owens had not made an appearance, so Linus could not even appeal to him to speak to the lady. And Mrs. Rand did not want to listen to him.

“My physician in Berkshire tells me I am delicate,” she said after the third attack. “I would not expect a lesser fellow to understand.”

He had never been one to brag of his accomplishments, but Abigail had no such trouble.

“I would feel the same way,” she told the lady as she helped her to sit up from where she’d collapsed, strategically near Lord Featherstone and the chessboard. “That’s why I’m so grateful for a physician of Doctor Bennett’s skills. Few spas can claim their medical staff are both Edinburgh-trained and have attended some of the finest families in London.”

Mrs. Rand peered at him more