Since Aurelia was his only healthy relation, she was this morning's assistant and therefore his current threat.
"There must be something that can be done, James, something we haven't considered."
"There's nothing, Auntie. Would you hand me that box of sugar sticks?"
"Certainly." She reached to the shelves behind the counter. "But there must be something," she said, handing him the box. "We need to talk."
"I've got an Institute to run. I don't have time for a discussion."
"We'll have to talk later, then. I've promised to help Lady Juliana sew this afternoon, and then I was planning to stay home and nurse Bedelia this evening. But I suppose I can sneak out and meet you at Almack's."
"I won't be attending Almack's." If there was a place in London where the stinking savor was most prevalent, it had to be Almack's. And besides, the last thing he needed was a marriage mart. In three short days he'd be married.
Damnation, his pending marriage was the worst thought of all. He wasn't even really having a discussion, and yet Aurelia was making him think stinking thoughts.
Gritting his teeth, he turned from the counter. "Fifty-two! Follow me, please." A mother rose with her three little girls. Four more talking females. He led them to a treatment room as quickly as possible.
He walked another set of patients to the door and brought more patients to the room they'd just vacated. He restocked sugar sticks in all three treatment rooms. He unwrapped lancets and other supplies. He scribbled in his account books and revised next week's schedule. He returned to the reception room to fetch more patients.
"You're not needed here," Aurelia said. "You're not leaving me anything to do."
"Just keep handing out numbers. And smiling at patients. They appreciate the reassurance."
"You should go home, James. You've got dark circles under your eyes. Before you need a physician yourself, you should go home and rest."
Home? Where Cornelia was languishing in bed waiting to discuss things? "I think not." The door opened, and two people went out past another person waiting to come in. "Here comes another patient. You can give her a number." In fact, maybe he'd do that himself. Handing out numbers didn't require one to think. Turning away, he reached over the counter for one of the worn paper squares.
"You're number sixty-seven," he said as he turned back. "I'll call you when…Juliana…"
His voice trailed off, sinking along with his heart.
"James." Walking closer, she offered him a tentative smile, a sad smile, a smile that made his heart keep sinking until it dropped clear down to his toes. "We need to talk."
Oh, no. "Have you thought of a solution?"
"Not yet. We need to think together. We need to discuss—"
"There's nothing to discuss. Nothing will come of it, Juliana. What's the point?" It would make him think. It would make him think stinking thoughts.
"Can we go somewhere private?"
"I don't want to talk."
"Please, James." Her eyes were green, deep green, green and pleading. "Please, let's just go to a treatment room."
"James," Aurelia said softly, "your patients are staring. Take her to a treatment room."
Women. If only he could avoid women. "The treatment rooms are all in use."
"Take her to your office, then," Aurelia pressed.
"Don't you think that would be improper?" he asked his aunt, and to Juliana he added, "Don't you think Lady Frances would disapprove?"
"Bosh," they said in unison.
"We've been together in private before," Juliana reminded him, no doubt referring to not only a treatment room here at the Institute but also a secluded, lantern-lit pocket garden, a secret hideaway under a staircase, a warm cubby inside a greenhouse. "I didn't hear you protest then."
He hadn't been trying to avoid thinking then.
"It's not as though you're likely to ravish her," Aurelia pointed out. "You're marrying another woman."
There it was. That word marrying. A stinking thought. And he wasn't even having a discussion.
He gave up. "Very well," he said, "but there's nothing to discuss."
He hurried Juliana into the back, determined to avoid a discussion. There was only one way he knew of to do that. One way to avoid stinking thoughts.
He tugged her into his office, shut the door, and crushed her mouth with his.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a kiss born of frustration, of disillusion, of fury and pent-up lust. It was a kiss meant to distract, a kiss meant to devour. It was a kiss full of hurt and regret and indelible, immeasurable emotion.
A kiss that consumed them both.
Juliana's arms went around him. Her lips parted under his assault, her mouth warm and sweet and tasting of passion and promise. She smelled not of a stinking savor but of sunshine and flowers and everything he desired. He didn't think; he just felt. He just felt Juliana, and she felt impossibly wonderful.
Bodies straining, they fell together to the desktop that filled most of the tiny office. Papers flew. Buttons unbuttoned. Fingers skimmed, hearts pounded, skin prickled with delicious heat. He wanted her more than he wanted life, needed her more than he needed to breathe.
"Juliana," he choked on a shuddered sigh.
She sat up. "We cannot do this."
"We cannot not do this." He sat up, too, and brushed silky strands from her troubled eyes. "We cannot keep our hands off each other."
"You're right, but it's wrong." She slid from the desk, suddenly pale, her fingers shaking as she reached behind herself to fasten buttons. "We must talk—we must figure out—"
"We cannot change anything." Still sitting on the desk, he turned her around so he could button her dress for her. Between his spread knees, her hips felt warm through her thin dress, her back like silk beneath his fingers. "We cannot talk, not without touching, and we cannot touch, because that's wrong, and—" He swore under his breath and buttoned faster. "This is why I didn't want to see you until after Saturday."
"You were right."
