Page 18 of A Touch of Charm (Miracles on Harley Street #3)

A ndre’s attention locked onto Thea’s injuries, each wound a problem to be solved, and he forced him to suppress the anger toward the attackers. How dare they touch the princess, much less push her against a tree in the park. As much as he despised violence, there was no other response he had for blackguards like that.

The rhythm of his work—cleaning, assessing, bandaging—was a balm against the storm of conflicting emotions that churned beneath the surface. While he emptied and refilled the small wash basin with clean water and picked some gauze and clean towels from the cabinet, he found clarity, a reprieve from the questions that loomed unanswered in his life. Yet, beneath the calm exterior, a muted truth lingered: no matter how proficiently he navigated this world of healing, there would always be parts of his life that eluded his control—his heart among them. He resolved to confront those truths again as he worked, but only after ensuring Thea was safe and whole. For now, this was all he could focus on.

By the time Andre had applied the arnica tincture on Thea’s leg and covered it with a wet cloth to cool it while she rested, Mary was sitting on Stan’s lap, the bleeding wound forgotten, and Stan told her a story.

“She climbed every tree, I’m telling you; Mother said Thea was more akin to a monkey than a princess.”

Andre saw what Stan was doing and gave him a reassuring nod; the distraction of the patients was always a good idea to calm them and made the work for the doctor much easier, given that Andre had to close some of Stan’s stitches again—even if it was the patient, Stan, distracting the little nurse.

Mary’s eyes were wide with joyful admiration. “My Thea can climb trees?”

“I’m rather quick, too,” Thea called from behind Andre, who’d retrieved a few small white muslin squares to tap Stan’s wound clean. The stitches were still intact, and the wound closed. The strain of defending himself had made it bleed again. What concerned Andre was the redness around it and the small white pustule in the corner of the suture.

Infections of flesh wounds were common. The low-life criminals who didn’t have anything better to do than to injure innocent and good people used such dull and dirty blades that he had seen patients die from the infections more often than the wounds themselves.

He wouldn’t let this happen to his friend.

Andre touched Stan’s forehead.

The prince was still feverish.

That explained why he didn’t see the intruders sharply and why his reaction had been slowed.

“Stan, you need to rest so the infection can heal.” Andre tried his sternest doctor voice, but getting the ton patients to do what he said was difficult, much less a prince.

“I’m fine,” Stan said.

Andre cleared his throat. He didn’t want to worry Thea, but he had to explain to Stan that this was more serious than he seemed to think.

“Miss Mary,” Andre said, “I would be most obliged if you could ensure that our patient, the princess, keeps a healthy fluid balance so her knee can heal.” Mary’s eyes widened, her gaze focused and alert as she folded her hands in front of her.

“Yes, certainly.”

“Can I entrust her to you?”

“Yes,” Mary said as seriously as an adult on a mission.

“Thank you.” Andre turned back to Stan.

But then he noticed that Mary stood primly and didn’t say anything.

“Is something the matter?” Andre asked.

“To what do you entrust her to me?”

“To give her fluids.”

“How?” Mary’s mien darkened, and she frowned.

“Tea.”

“Oh!”

“There’s usually tea being served in the sunroom.”

“Let’s go,” Thea told Mary, carefully sliding off the treatment cot and leaning on Mary with more ado than was necessary. “I feel so weakened; you may need to stir the milk in for me.”

“Certainly, Miss Thea,” Mary said dutifully. “I can do that for you. That’s quite a scare you gave me when you up and disappeared.”

Mary sounded so precocious; Andre would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so terrible.

“When you disappeared. There’s no need for the preposition up.”

“Yes, Miss Thea.”

Thea nodded gravely and winked at Andre, who stifled a chuckle.

Adult patients created jobs for the little would-be nurse to feel good about herself. It should have been the other way around, but it would never have been; a child was always the priority.

Andre closed the door behind Thea and Mary when they left.

Now to the stubborn prince .

“Stan, this is serious and not a joking matter,” Andre started.

“I know, I’m resting.”

“The infection could worsen. It would be best to rely on your body’s defenses to heal. Rest alone is not enough.”

“I need my own nurse.” Stan’s eyes shot up at Andre. “Is Miss Folsham back?”

“Not yet. Nick and Pippa will probably arrive with Wendy any day now.” Even though it was Stan who deflated, Andre could feel the weight lifting at the thought of his friends returning. “But you have to take this seriously. An infection could potentially become life-threatening.”

“So can a broken heart.” Stan quirked his brow.

And for a moment, Andre didn’t know whether it was meant for him or Stan.

But it was true.

“I’m not in the business of breaking hearts,” Andre said, resisting the sinking feeling that Stan could see into his heart and find the forbidden affection for Thea.

“You mend bones, I know. But some injuries in life ought to be prevented at all cost.” Stan cast a look in the direction of the door that Thea had left through a few minutes earlier. “Look after her, please. I must face List and can’t keep her safe when I am like this.” Stan tried to move his shoulder but winced. “Please do this for me, Andre. Not as my doctor but as my friend.”

Andre nodded. He’d look after Thea regardless of Stan’s request.

“She’s my only sister, and…”

“Understood.”

Agreed. No other words were needed.

Andre thought about how Thea faced the men just minutes ago in the park. She held her head high and didn’t show any fear.

Only when she was in Andre’s arms did she cry a little.

Andre attempted not to show it but inwardly winced because he was charged with protecting Thea and her heart. Yet the two were at odds with protecting himself, and he knew his heart would shatter if he couldn’t be with her—which he mustn’t allow to happen—to protect her.

What a dilemma!

*

Thea stood by the window at the far end of the hallway, the cool pane beneath her fingers grounding her as she stared into the darkened gardens. Somewhere beyond the glass, in the faint silver light of the moon, the world carried on as it always did, distant and indifferent. Inside, however, her thoughts whirled like an unruly storm. She had left Stan to rest, confident in Andre’s care, but the uneasy weight of the day still pressed against her chest. Had she attracted those dangerous attackers and led them to Stan?

With a sinking heart, she thought so. Worse even, she’d been so selfish as to run from the groom her father had chosen, thereby fueling the conflict that seemed to target her brother and her own life.

It’s all my fault.

Suddenly, the soft sound of approaching footsteps stirred the quiet. She didn’t turn, though she knew who it was without question. Andre’s presence was unmistakable, an awareness she couldn’t explain but couldn’t deny. Her breath caught, and her grip on the window tightened as the sound stopped short behind her.

“Thea.” His voice was low, carefully measured, as it always was, yet something in its quiet timbre tugged at her.

She turned slowly, heart jolting at the sight of him. He stood just a few paces away, stiff with the sort of control that made her chest ache. She searched his face, taking in the faint shadows under his dark eyes, the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He held himself carefully, as though even the act of breathing might betray something he dared not reveal. Yet his eyes—they gave him away every time. There, in the fleeting moment before he schooled himself, she saw the look that tore at her. That unspoken softness seemingly reserved for her, restrained and yet achingly clear.

“You’ve spoken to Stan?” she asked quietly to match the stillness of the hall.

“Yes. He’s resting now,” he replied. “I hope so at least.” His words seemed curt, his eyes now fixed just beside her—not meeting hers directly. She noticed the way his hands had clasped behind his back, and she bit back an odd sense of frustration.

“Well, thank you for looking after him,” she said. “He needs to recover.”

“I merely fulfilled my duty,” Andre said quietly, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder. “Nothing more.” His stance remained rigid, unnatural. Didn’t he know how much it hurt her to see him so formal, so impenetrable? Or perhaps he had to. Perhaps he didn’t allow himself to think beyond the rules and expectations that seemed to govern his every action.

When he didn’t speak, Thea hesitated before softly asking, “And me, then? Have you come to watch over me, as Stan requests?” She tried for a touch of levity, but her voice faltered slightly.

“You shouldn’t be wandering the halls alone until we put some guards in place,” Andre said after a pause, his gaze shifting briefly to hers before darting away again. Even that single moment brought a heat to her cheeks she couldn’t suppress.

“I’m hardly wandering,” she replied, unable to keep the note of defense from her tone. She hated how small her voice sounded just then. “Is there so much danger lurking everywhere I go?”

His lips parted, but no answer came straightaway. Instead, his brow furrowed, and his expression became unreadable—a mask, yet one that seemed to pull tighter with every second. The longer he remained silent, the worse it felt, her stomach tying itself into cold, uneasy knots.

When he finally spoke, there was a stiffness in his voice that stung. “This day has been taxing. You ought to rest.”

Thea’s breath caught at the gentleness underneath his firm words. But it wasn’t enough—not when the strain in his body and voice said so much more. “I don’t want to be alone,” she admitted quietly. “Could you stay with me?”

His gaze snapped back to hers then, and for a painful, fleeting moment, she thought she saw the true weight of it all—his turmoil, his restraint, his deep, unspoken affection. She stepped closer without meaning to, her skirts brushing the polished floor, her pulse quickening.

“It wouldn’t be proper.” His voice came low and heavy, as though the very words bore the weight of the impossibility that lay between them.

“Why do you do this?” she asked, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Why do you insist on placing walls where they are not needed?”

Andre stiffened, clearly unnerved at her approach. He dropped his gaze—a flicker downward that lingered for an instant too long before he caught himself again. Thea felt both exposed and dismissed in that single moment. She stopped, her cheeks burning, her heart wavering. Why wouldn’t he speak? Why couldn’t he simply look at her and acknowledge what simmered between them, what had grown in the silence of these moments where his restraint had failed to hide him completely?

“You are a princess,” Andre said evenly, though the words felt brittle. “Your safety… your station… these things are not subjects of—”

“Of what?” she interrupted, her voice faltering but insistent. “Of choice? Of my own decision?”

His expression shifted again—tighter, colder. “Your station demands… Much. Forgive me for intruding upon it. I would not dare—should not dare to drag you down to my level.”

“Down?” Her voice came shriller than she’d intended. “Or do you mean up to the man who saved me today. Who’s standing with my brother and me against this impossible Baron von List who’s sabotaging everything nobility stands for?”

But Andre didn’t meet her gaze. So she continued even though her heart dropped further than she thought possible, the carefully erected hope she’d clung to crumbling beneath the weight of his formal reply. “You have seen only the part of the threatened princess in my life, Andre. But there’s more than—”

“None of it is for me to see.” It seemed as though he couldn’t even give her his true feelings masked in those words—only half-measures meant to protect her, or perhaps himself.

“I see,” she said softly, swallowing back the sting of tears as she stepped back. “Thank you for reminding me where I stand, Andre.”

“It would not be proper,” he said, his voice low and heavy, as though the very words bore the weight of the impossibility that lay between them. “We mustn’t…” Andre faced the wall, hung his head, and she didn’t hear the rest of what he mumbled.

Thea turned quickly, her skirts brushing the floor with a soft whisper, intent on escaping before her composure fractured entirely. Yet as she reached the shadowed corner of the hall, she hesitated, glancing back despite herself. The light from the wall sconce flickered faintly, illuminating Andre where he stood—or rather, where he leaned now, his back pressed against the cold stone. His head tipped forward, his hand gripping the wall beside him as though bracing against the burden he carried. His broad shoulders, always so resolute, sagged under the weight of some unseen anguish. His jaw tightened, but his eyes betrayed him, dark with a tempest of emotions he seemed unable—or unwilling—to release.

From the shadows, Thea watched, her breath caught in her throat, her heart splintering as she tried to make sense of the sight before her. He was not merely composed or withdrawn, as he often made himself in her presence. No, he appeared unraveled, broken in a way that made her chest ache. She had done this. She was certain of it. Her presence, her foolishness, her very existence seemed to bring danger to him and cause pain.

The memories pounced on her like wolves—twice now, the danger that had burst into her life had caught him too. Andre, steady and loyal, had been pulled into the fray not out of duty but because of her. The attackers had seen her weakness, and in their threats, Andre had stood by her side, his life entangled with hers in ways it never should have been. She was a princess, born to a world of privilege but also peril, and he—he was a healer who sought to mend, not to bear the brunt of her troubles. Yet here he was, suffering in silence, crushed by emotions he would never allow himself to voice.

Because of her.

Her fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the hallway’s frame. She wanted to go to him, to speak, to say something—anything—that might ease his torment. But the weight of what she’d seen rooted her in place, guilt pressing down until the idea became impossible. How could she apologize for what could not be undone? Could she unlove the man who’d captured her heart?

No, she realized, her stomach twisting as tears pricked her eyes. She was not good for him. She brought him nothing but danger—and, worse still, despair.

Unseen in the darkness, she lingered a moment longer, her heart unable to look away even as her mind screamed that she must. Then, turning once more, Thea slipped into the stairwell, the soft fall of her footsteps swallowed by the stillness of the night.

*

Andre stood in the quiet hallway, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest. He could no longer hear Thea’s footsteps and the rustling of her dress. He pressed his hand flat against the cold stone of the wall for even the elegant wallpaper barely hid the hard bricks underneath. His fist was still trembling from both the force of his earlier blow and the raging turmoil within him. Although his knuckles burned in fiery protest, he barely felt it compared to the hollow ache deep in his chest.

The faint echo of Thea’s retreating steps still haunted his ears, though she was gone now, vanished into the shadowed halls. He could picture her even now—her slender shoulders stiff with unspoken emotions, her skirts gliding against polished wood, each step purposefully quiet yet heavy with meaning. She had turned from him not just physically but emotionally, and he could feel that distance as surely as a blade had come between them. And it was his fault. He had driven her away.

Andre turned to lean his forehead against the wall, the cool surface grounding in a way the air could not. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the relentless pounding of his thoughts to still themselves. Stan was just two doors down, close enough to catch any noise—close enough to make all of this unbearably real. Thea had only just walked out of sight, and he could not risk her hearing him break apart in the hallway like a man undone. He owed a princess, at the very least, his restraint.

But his heart did not listen, and neither did his body. The dull throb in his knuckles wasn’t enough to release the tension coiled in his stomach, nor was bracing himself against the solid wall. He wanted to hit it again, to feel something sharper, something clearer. He wanted to shatter the thoughts spiraling through his head, dragging him down into a futile, aching place where his longing for her rose undeniably against every shred of logic.

He couldn’t move forward—she had left. He wouldn’t follow her.

His promise to Stan was a cord wrapped tight around him, binding him not to his emotions but to his word as a man. Protect Thea. Look after her. Ensure she was safe at all costs—that had been Stan’s request, given to him in trust. Andre had taken them to heart, perhaps too much so. But what choice did he have now? To fail at that charge, even for a second, was unthinkable. And to compromise her in any way—even just to tell her what simmered inside him—would be the worst betrayal of all.

Thea was a princess. Her title was not a mere formality; it was her entire identity, built on the expectations of a world far above his own. And he—he was no prince. Medicine was his calling, but it was also his boundary, defining him more concretely than any title could. He was not a lord or even a gentleman of means. He had no estate, no legacy aside from the patients he patched back together one broken limb or feeble cough at a time.

What could he offer her? The answer came as quickly as it always did—nothing. Worse than nothing. A life with him would reduce her to obscurity, to whispers from the court and wagging tongues that would follow their union ruthlessly. A doctor’s wife. A princess who had abandoned all she was born to for a man who could boast little beyond his skill with stitches. It wasn’t just scandalous; it was impossible.

He pressed his aching fist lightly to his forehead, his pulse thrumming in his ears. And yet, even knowing all that, even with the clarity of every reason why he must not—he could not—his mind betrayed him. It betrayed him with the memory of her warmth, her frame pressed to his side as she had sought him for comfort only days ago. He could remember it too clearly, the way her breath had brushed against his neck, the feel of her head resting so lightly against his shoulder. It had been an accident of necessity, a fleeting moment that should have passed like mist. But instead, it lingered, as vivid now as if it were happening again. The weight of her had steadied him and set him aflame all at once.

She sought his closeness and protection. Him.

What if she likes me back?

Andre swallowed hard, fighting against the swell of emotion that threatened to choke him. Thus, he drew back from the wall and rubbed at the dull ache spreading through his hand. He had not meant to strike it as he had, just as he had not meant to ache for Thea as he did. But his control slipped further every day. The promises he made to himself—to keep his distance, to do only what was necessary—they were eroding faster than he could rebuild them.

His shadow stretched long against the wall as he turned to gaze down the hall once more, toward the silent stairwell where Thea had disappeared. The thought struck him then, painfully clear, like stepping into frigid water—what did it matter if he burned for her, if his chest ached and his stomach twisted with longing? It changed nothing.

Only she could change everything —if she liked him back.

With shaking breath, he clenched his hands into fists again, forcing himself to feel the ache, to bind his emotions within those raw, bruised knuckles. Thea deserved far better. She deserved the life waiting for her, the suitors who could offer her gowns and jewels and castles. She deserved stability, honor, ease—even if Andre himself hated thinking that no other man might fulfill that role. It did not matter what he wanted. He could never earn the privilege of standing beside her, not in this life. All that mattered to him was what she wanted.