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

“It’s only been a few hours!” He pulled out of the tight embrace and held her at arm’s length. “Now. Tell me why I’m not allowed one of your delicious buns.”

Pulling the platter of steaming baked goods out of his reach, she explained, “They’re for the Cakes and Bakes stall at the church.”

“Sorry?” There’d never been so much as a toast soldier at church services in his day.

“It’s new,” she continued with a broad smile. “One of our Dr. MacKenzie’s ideas. We’re raising money for one of those portable heart-attack machines.”

“A portable AED?” he prompted. It was a good idea. In such a remote hamlet, they should have had one the second they’d come on the market. He should have thought of it. Then done something about it.

“That’s it. If we make a certain amount, we can get a matching grant from the government or something like that. Dr. MacKenzie has all the bumph.”

Oliver rocked back on his heels, finding purchase on the ancient cast-iron oven. Wait a minute: our Dr. MacKenzie? That was quick work. Making herself part of the woodwork here at St. Bryar was quite a feat, considering the villagers didn’t consider you a local unless your family had tucked a good three hundred years under their collective belts. Impressive. And ruddy annoying. He’d come back to nail down how things ticked at Bryar Hall, but with Julia changing things left, right and center, it didn’t seem anything would be still enough to get a proper perspective.

He felt his soft spot for her become less pliable.

“You don’t know the half of it,” the cook continued without noticing the creases beginning to form on Oliver’s forehead. “She’s just come along and blown a breath of fresh air into everything. Really made the place come alive again since your mother passed. Of course, it’s all very different from when the duchess was with us. Your mother was very traditional, wasn’t she? Liked things just so.” She gave Oliver a wide-eyed look and a squeeze on the arm.

He knew what she meant. His mother had been renowned for living in the world of How Things Used To Be Done. If old-fashioned decorum was your thing, Bryar Hall was the place to be. One piece of cutlery out of place on a table laid for fifty, and his mother could’ve eagle-eyed it from the doorway. Oliver had always thought that was how everyone had liked things, as well. Surely he hadn’t misread his entire childhood?

“Dr. MacKenzie’s not so much a stickler for the details, but she sure likes a good commotion! Seems there’s nothing she can’t lay her hand to and make it better. You should meet her. Birds of a feather, you two!”

Birds of very different feathers, is more like it. He had always been hands-off when it came to the estate, and she was anything but.

He drummed his fingers along the stove top, rattling through options. When he’d come home, his remit had seemed so clear: start the long-put-off handover of the estate with his father and decide once and for all how he would take on the mantle of Duke of Breckonshire.

Home or away?

Sell up or stay put?

Suffocate under the aristocratic code or live freely as a conflict zone surgeon?

Bish, bash, bosh.

He knew he didn’t want to be here and so did everyone else. All he had to do was find a way to make cutting ties permanently as painless as possible. And what had things been from the moment he’d arrived? The polar opposite.

How had Julia managed to get everyone here to don rose-tinted glasses? Even he’d been sucked in! Wild horses couldn’t have kept him from joining in that fun run.

“Scooch. I have another batch of buns in the oven.”

Oliver found himself being unceremoniously moved to the side as Clara bustled about the oven doors.

“Are you sure there isn’t just one tiny bun free for me?”

“What? And rob the village of a heart attack machine? Oliver!” Clara’s eyes went wide in mock horror before slipping one of the steaming currant buns onto the counter. “There you go, but I’ll leave you to tell Dr. MacKenzie why we won’t have hit our target if we’re twenty-five pence short.”

Add fuel to Julia’s fire that he didn’t give a monkey’s about the locals? Hardly.

“I’ll pay for it right now.” Oliver dug into his pocket and pulled out a bit of lint with a sheepish grin. “Put it on my account?”

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