Page 1 of Doctor Hardy and the Hysteria Machine (The Doctor’s Pleasure #1)
Prologue
LONDON, 1877
Lady Beatrice’s heart thumped wildly against her corseted ribs when Lord Eric Greenwood spotted her across the room.
Behind her back, white-knuckled fingers tightened around the pink and ivory fan.
Eric deposited his glass in a servant’s silver tray, stopped to exchange a few words with the magistrate, then made his way through the crowded parlor towards her.
“Lady Beatrice,” he bowed and kissed the back of her gloved hand.
She was ever so glad for the cover of her gloves. Underneath the silky layer was a damp palm and fingernails bitten down to a most unladylike shape.
“Lord Eric.” She lowered her eyes and curtsied.
To an outsider, this might appear to be the pair’s very first meeting. But Beatrice enjoyed this deliberate formality they shared. Like in a quadrille, they danced through their months of courtship with elegant civility. Never pressed bodily against each other, and never alone without a chaperon. Traditional and polite, everything she was taught a courtship should be.
“Always a pleasure, my Lady. You look breathtaking tonight.”
Beatrice was feeling a little breathless herself, caught inside Eric’s green eyes.
“You are too kind, my Lord.”
“May I have the honor of this next dance?”
Beatrice made a show of checking her engagement card, knowing full well that she saved the waltz for her dashing suitor.
One-two-three.
They glided together, arm in arm, and their surroundings faded into the background.
One-two-three.
The lapel of Eric’s evening jacket felt luxurious under her nervous fingers. Light from the chandelier, fractured by his sandy hair, danced off the gold watch chain swaying with his graceful steps.
One-two-three.
His cologne, sandalwood and amber. A keen awareness of his hand at her waist, its warmth burning through her layers. His eyes twinkled, and Beatrice could not find it in herself to break his intent gaze.
The dance came to an end, and she had to steady herself in his strong arms.
“Beatrice?”
“Yes, Eric?” She had missed his question.
“I asked if you’d like a tour of the rose garden. It’s lovely this time of year.”
Beatrice nodded. Feeling overwrought from the dizzying dance, she jumped at the opportunity for some fresh air.
They sneaked out of the party. Taking her hand, Eric led them through a side passage towards the back of his sprawling estate. When the old butler emerged from the cellar with more refreshment, they hid noiselessly in the shadows to avoid discovery. Beatrice had to cover her mouth to suppress a giggle.
Their first time truly alone together without her overbearing family or eagle-eyed chaperons, and she adored every second of it.
Finally, they stepped into the conservatory.
In her twenty-three years on earth, Beatrice had seen a great number of fine things, but the sight stunned her silent.
Housed in a cathedral of wrought iron and glass panes was an ocean of roses. In the dim evening light, white, crimson, and blush sprawled as far as her eyes could reach. The blooms clustered in thick bushes and clamored along trellises, some draping over artful archways, some climbing up towering marble statues.
She took a deep breath and let the heady scent wash over her in waves.
“Oh, Heavens. How marvelous!”
He beamed. “My late mother’s pride and joy,” then quietly, he added, “And I hope one day… Yours.”
Turning to face her, the young man took both her hands in his.
“Lady Beatrice. There is no delicate way to put this, but my duty demands I marry and secure the family bloodline. It was a heavy burden I carried and loathed, but after I met you… The idea of matrimony became one I relish.”
“Eric—” Her heart was in her throat, her dearest wish on the tip of his tongue. One word. Say it, and I will be yours. Beatrice willed her heaving chest to calm.
He squeezed her hands and chuckled, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Please, before I lose my nerves.”
Taking a deep breath, he continued, “The thought of you passing through this life by my side invigorates me. I’ve never been the most daring man, but you give me courage. Lady Beatrice Campbell, will you marry me and make me the happiest soul in England?”
“Oh, Eric!” Beatrice felt breathless, the aroma of a million roses in bloom coursing through her veins. “Are you in earnest?”
“Most earnest, my darling.”
“Then, my Lord—”
Sensing her ready affirmation, Eric wound his arms around Beatrice and lowered his lips to hers.
Before he could close the final inches between them, however, before she could promise her undying love to the man of her dreams, Beatrice felt her knees buckle.
Her vision darkened.
The last thing she saw as she tumbled to the ground was Eric’s worried face and hundreds of red roses, turning into a deeper shade of crimson, then blood, and finally black.