Doctor...to Duchess?. Annie O'Neil
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 hand,” she replied with a slight lift to her brow, “but …”
He winced as Julia used her right hand to lift her freshly washed left hand to show him two obviously swollen fingers.
That answered that, then.
“Apologies. This generally isn’t how I put my best foot forward.” He pulled a hand through his wet hair and cringed, grateful she couldn’t read his thoughts. How cheesy was that? Fix it, you fool.
“Is there anything I can tempt you with to ease the pain? A scone, perhaps?” Blimey. Being suave had never been his forte. He ran a panicked eye over the other baked goods. “Some chocolate cake?”
“No, thank you.” Her lips twitched into the hint of a grin. “I’ve already had some of Margaret’s ginger cake when I was setting up the event, Dr. Wyatt. Or do you prefer Lord Oliver?”
“Oliver will do.” He felt his own lips thin as hers curved into a broad smile. So they were playing the rank game? Time-worn territory. One turn of phrase and all the old familiar feelings thundered back into place. She’d judged him before she knew him and it irked him, more than he wanted to admit.
“So, you’re the brains behind this little shindig? It’s cute. The Big Day Out at Bryar Hall, was it?”
“I’m so pleased you think it’s charming.”
Julia’s smile tightened as her blue eyes flitted from him to a large glass flagon on the prize table stuffed with bills and coins. A sign taped to the flagon read: Coins for the Clinic!
Terrific. A charity run—and he’d just belittled it. Come on, Oliver. You’re bigger than this. Don’t spar with someone who’s obviously been able to do what you deemed impossible.
“It’s better, in fact. Refreshing to see everyone having so much fun here.”
He could see the tight smile on her lips soften. That was better. He might hate it here but there was no need to take the wind out of her sails. Getting this event together must’ve been like pulling teeth.
“Your father, of course, has been amazing in his support of the event,” she continued.
Oliver couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Oh, yes, it’s been just wonderful, Oliver!” His father chimed in, clearly delighted with the day’s event. “You know, more than anyone, the most we’ve ever done with the moat is feed the herons with some of your, ahem, less active goldfish. Dr. MacKenzie here seems to have an endless stream of ideas to breathe life back into the old place.”
Julia flashed him a dimpled smile. “Perhaps you’d like to give a donation to the estate’s valued clinic? Without it, of course, I’d have to drive all the way to Manchester to get an X-ray.”
Ah. He knew which camp she stood in now: a fact finder.
That Oliver and Bryar Estate were not a match made in heaven was common knowledge. His looming take-over kept all the locals’ minds spinning. In a small place like this, news of the estate’s future—or lack thereof—was like gold dust. Or kryptonite. He felt himself being openly scrutinized by Julia’s