Doctor...to Duchess?. Annie O'Neil

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СКАЧАТЬ turned to see a mud-encrusted man stretching out a hand.

      “Hello there—ah …?”

      “Max Fend. From down the village. I used to help my dad.” He paused, waiting for a glimmer of recognition. “He sorts out all the Bryar Hall firewood. Done so for yonks.” Max filled in the blank then withdrew his hand as he saw Oliver was freshly showered. “Best not muck you up, your lordship”

      “Don’t be ridiculous, Max.” Oliver smiled, hoping it would cover the all too familiar fish-out-of-water feeling he was experiencing. “And, please, it’s Oliver.” He hated being called Lord Oliver. Served him right to get a big dose of it. He’d not recognized Max, someone he’d seen nearly every day throughout his childhood. It didn’t sit well, being so out of the loop.

      The one thing he’d always been able to count on at Bryar Hall was nothing changing. His title, the unwritten aristocratic code, the unnecessary kowtowing of locals who, like it or not, had livelihoods that depended upon what he did when he inherited the estate. He’d spent his entire adult life avoiding the confines of the role he’d be handed one day. And here he was, stepping right into the mold history had cast for him—an aloof aristocrat.

       Kaboom! There goes ten years of plain old Dr. Ollie.

      “Dr. MacKenzie sure knows how to throw one heck of a bash.”

      “Ah, the new GP?”

      He received a nod and grin. Little wonder. Anyone could see the woman was a knockout, even covered in mud.

      “So this was her brainchild, was it?”

      “Oh, yes, sir. Like a whirlwind, she’s been. Changing this, changing that. Sometimes you hardly recognize the place for all of her ‘spring cleaning.’” Max held his fingers up in the air quotation-style but, instead of the frown of displeasure that usually accompanied change in St. Bryar, his lips held a broad smile.

      “She seems to have bewitched the lot of you.” Oliver wasn’t sure if he was giving a compliment or castigating the locals for falling under the new GP’s spell.

      “Oh, that she has, Lord Oliver. That she has. High time someone with a bit of drive and commitment came round and gave the old carpets a fresh beating!”

      “Indeed.”

       Call a spade a spade, why don’t you?

      “Not meaning you, Lord Oliver,” Max quickly covered. “I know the Red Cross couldn’t get by without you and all the help you must be giving all those poor people in war zones and whatnot.”

      “Not to worry. No offence taken.”

      Oliver smiled and gave Max a light clap on the shoulder to settle the matter but the remark niggled.

      No. It had cut right through to the heart of the matter. The locals didn’t see him as a stayer. And they were right. The last place he saw himself putting down roots—if he were to do such a thing at all—was here at Bryar Hall, the estate that time forgot.

      A place bursting with life was the last thing he’d expected to see when his taxi pulled up in front of the house less than an hour ago. The kid in him had barely stopped to think before pulling on a pair of shorts and a scrubby T-shirt so he could join in—be the Oliver he was anywhere but here.

      As a child, he’d always dreamed of an escapade in the moat, and here it was handed to him on a … not a silver platter, exactly … complete with a beautiful woman willing to risk her manicure for a charity combat exercise. Brilliant! Holding her against him had felt as natural as breathing.

      Then he’d gone and stomped on it. With combat boots. Talk about a literary analogy! Crushing the very thing you’d been hoping for your entire life.

      Just peachy.

      If—or when—someone from the parish newsletter got ahold of the fact he’d just stepped on and possibly broken the new GP’s fingers … The scandal!

      He laughed and just as quickly felt his lips settle into a grimace. Had she really being fit enough to carry on? He should have insisted upon helping her off the climbing wall.

      His mud-slicked introduction to the new doctor had perfectly foreshadowed what this whole palaver was turning into: messy and emotional, full of unexpected entanglements. All the top rankers on his “things to avoid” list.

      This trip was about fulfilling a promise to his father who had said long ago he would hang up his managerial hat when he turned seventy in exchange for seeing a bit more of the world. It was fair enough, but Oliver had been absolutely dreading it.

      “Keep the estate, sell the estate, turn her into a National Trust property if you wish, son. Of course, I’d love it if you decided to keep the old family ship afloat, but the choice is yours.”

      His father’s birthday was just a few months away, and Oliver could no longer put off the inevitable. Just buying the ticket home had made him feel as if millstones had been tied to his feet.

      And what had he received instead? A good old-fashioned shock to the system.

      What he had always pictured as a beleaguered old relic was now bursting with life. Life the place had been crying out for since—

      “Oliver! Over here, please.”

      Oliver smiled in acknowledgement as his father beckoned him over to a bunting-decked table. Cane, silver goatee, a casual-smart outfit perfectly suited to an outdoor gentleman’s catalogue. His father was pure class, elegant, charming, socially adroit. Everything becoming a landed gentleman. Everything he lacked.

      As Oliver wove through the crowd, it struck him how much his father had aged in the ten months since his mother had died. A stab of remorse that he hadn’t spent more time with his father over the past year tightened his stomach. He’d been on the end of the phone for their weekly update but it wasn’t the same, was it? Being there—being here—made all the difference.

      How would he ever fill his father’s shoes when the time came? Just the thought of being the Duke of Breckonshire actively stoked Oliver’s adrenaline stores. Adrenaline he preferred to put to use in his work in conflict zones.

      He loved being a doctor. Just a nameless doctor with a red cross on his back. Where he wasn’t “m’lord.” In the South Sudan or Syria—any outpost he found himself in—he was one of countless others in a sea of millions. He was jeans-wearing, red-dust-covered, on-call-round-the-clock Dr. Ollie.

      “Oliver! There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” His father waved him over to a small group hovering over a table filled with ribbons and a trophy shaped like Bryar Hall. Before she’d even turned, he knew exactly who it was. He hadn’t held her for long, but something told him he’d remember the sensation of his hands sliding along that particular pair of hips for some time.

      “Dr. Julia MacKenzie—I’d like you to meet my son, Oliver. He’s also a doctor, you know.”

      “We’ve already had the pleasure of meeting.” He extended a hand, eyes locked with hers, unsure if there were sparks of pleasure or irritation flying between them. Did she recognize him without the mud?

      “I would shake your СКАЧАТЬ