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

“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 clear blue eyes. Kryptonite it was, then.

“I could do you better than that,” he parried. “How about a free examination? On the house.”

“That’s very generous, but I think I’m fairly capable of diagnosing the injury myself.” She pursed her lips as if daring him to contest her.

Or kiss her.

No, it definitely wasn’t to kiss her, although it was not such an unappealing idea. He squared his feet again, aware his father was actively tuned into their conversation.

So she wanted to spar? Fine by him.

“You won’t be able to X-ray yourself. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you let me make up for my lead feet.”

“The clinic won’t be able to afford to take the X-ray if you don’t put anything in the bottle.” She returned his smile with a healthy dose of Cheshire cat.

Touché. She was good. Very good.

And distractingly attractive. Not your typical primped and preened heiress his mother had enjoyed trotting out in from of him—better. Natural. Not a speck of makeup needed on her milk-and-honey complexion. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve pegged her as a Scandinavian, but her accent was pure, unaffected English. An English rose with a particularly fiery spirit, from the looks of things. If circumstances had been different he’d …

No point in going there. Circumstances weren’t different.

“Put it on my account. I’ll see you at the clinic at, shall we say, three o’clock?” His words brought the conversation to an end but Oliver couldn’t resist one last tip-to-toe scan. No doubt about it. Mud-slicked outdoor wear suited Julia MacKenzie. It’d be interesting to see how she scrubbed up.

Bubble bath? Shower? Oliver! Stop it.

He followed her eyes as she glanced up at the clock built into the stable’s spire. It was just past two.

“Fine.”

She didn’t look happy. He didn’t feel happy. A match made in heaven.

“Well, then. It’s a date.”

IF JULIA’S HAND hadn’t been throbbing so much she would have had a proper go at washing that very annoying man right out of her hair. If only she could scrub the soap bubbles into her brain. As it was, she could just about handle a quick rinse and a slapdash effort to clean herself up before Dr. Oliver Wyatt—or was it just plain old Oliver?—met her in the clinic’s exam room. She pulled on a sapphire-blue blouse she knew flattered her neckline and brought out the color of her eyes. Not that she was dressing up for him.

Maybe just a little.

Who knew Oliver Wyatt would be so good-looking? From the tangle of Chinese whispers she’d heard, the mental picture she’d formed of him would’ve matched the gargoyles leering over the roof of the gatehouse.

Now she was going all googly-eyed on herself, which was really irritating. Particularly considering that Oliver’s presence here at St. Bryar could very well pull the very nice rug out from under her feet.

Then again, had the rug been all that permanent? No one had been able to tell her what would happen long-term with the country hospital. The Duke of Breckonshire had been very clear about the fact that when his son returned home the reins would be handed over.

The duke had stipulated she was free to fund-raise her heart out if she thought it would help the clinic. Help? The clinic was definitely … erm … retro would be putting it nicely. But it had spoken to her and she loved every worn linoleum inch of it. She had thought if she could somehow get the place free of needing funding from the estate before Lord Oliver— Oliver —returned from his posting in South Sudan, she could look toward a future here. Turned out seven months wasn’t quite long enough to jack the place into the twenty-first century.

Her eyes moved to the lead-plated windows of her bedroom overlooking the tiny hospital’s garden. If she was really going to go for accuracy, St. Bryar Hospital was little more than a patch-em-up service. Even so, thanks to a few beds and a twenty-four-hour rota of volunteers, it served as the only round-the-clock resource for the small village cut off from big city hospitals. There was a midsized NHS clinic about forty-odd minutes away if you didn’t get stuck behind a tractor. Helicopter was the only quick way to get to a proper hospital in an emergency and, with the government cutting funds left, right and center, she worried about the day they wouldn’t even have those. She’d searched on the internet for grants and extra funding and had already printed out an imposing stack of application forms waiting to be filled out. Soon. She’d get to them. Tonight.

She tugged on a skirt and ran her good hand along the soft fabric of the peasant-style blouse she’d chosen. A peasant blouse to meet the aristocrat? She snorted. Hilarious. Her stomach did a nervous flip, and she gave herself a get-a-grip shake.

What did she have to be nervous about? Being born into a great family didn’t make you great. Actions made you great. Like finishing a fun run with a throbbing hand. She let herself give a smug little sniff before grabbing her keys and heading to the clinic. Hopefully, the brisk walk would focus her.

Julia was only seven months into her new job and it had already woven itself into her heart. Fat chance she was going to let Mr. Enigmatic Green Eyes with an unrelenting case of wanderlust take it all away. Never mind the minor fact he would one day be the rightful owner of it all—he clearly didn’t have any staying power! South Sudan? Republic of Congo? Libya? Where else had he been over the previous year? Sure, he’d been helping people—but what about the people here in St. Bryar? What about his father? It was one heck of a big place to be knocking around in on your own.

She stopped short of harrumphing as she pulled open the clinic door, knowing full well she couldn’t really point that particular finger. Her whole life had been a catalogue of packed bags, long-haul flights, change-of-address cards and now, finally, in this beautiful untouched village, she thought she’d found her place in the world.