“Here, you in the bed, aren’t you finding your condition sinking, if not oppressive? That eruption means someone might as well start carving your gravestone, so why not be depressed?”

“Yweth,” came from the bed.

“Now this is fun,” the man said. “Someone ask him what color the sky is, why don’t you?”

No one said anything.

“Bwuu,” the patient offered.

There was a crack of laughter.

“You’re an ass,” the blond doctor stated. Linnet agreed. How could that lout make fun of a dying man?

Just then the group of young doctors parted, and she could see who was spouting all this incivility. “The ass in this room is the person who diagnosed a patient without asking him a single question. Now this man has a thick tongue, leading to that amusing lisp. Could be dry, could be swollen. Either way, not a good sign. If it’s dry, it could mean miliary fever. But if swollen, what would that indicate?”

Her first impression of the rude man was that he was big—huge, in fact. The blond doctor was tall and lean, but this man was even taller, and much bigger. His shoulders seemed twice as wide as those of the other men. He was all muscle, with a kind of predatory force that looked out of place next to a sickbed. In fact, he looked as if he should be out leading hordes of Vikings . . . berserking, or whatever it was those men did for a living.

He’d been pointing out something on the patient’s chest, but he looked up and their eyes met. Instantly his face went stony.

What was beautiful in his father was harsh in him; his blue eyes were frosty, like bitter winter. He didn’t look civilized. No one would put that face on a coin, Roman or otherwise. He looked too tough . . . too . . . too beast-like, she suddenly realized.

Her heart skipped a beat, but his eyes moved over her face and then down her body, as if she too were a patient he was diagnosing. Quite carelessly, without looking away from her, he said, “It’s petechial fever, numbskull. He should have been put in the east wing, not the west, though he’s likely no longer infectious. You should stick to sawing off legs; you’re an ass when it comes to diagnostics.”

And then, “Look who’s here! My father actually managed to find a woman more beautiful than the sun and the moon.” There was a faint ring of contempt in his voice that made Linnet’s backbone stiffen.

“Piers,” the duke said.

His son’s implacable eyes moved from Linnet to the duke, standing next to her. “And accompanied by Dear Old Dad, no less. Well, this will be a jolly party. Guess what, fellows?”

The other doctors were frankly gaping. Unlike the earl, they each had a quite normal reaction to Linnet; she saw that in one lightning glance.

“I’m getting married,” he said. “To a woman who apparently has a remarkable wish to be a duchess. Aren’t I the lucky one?” He walked forward, around the end of the bed.

Linnet just stopped herself from stepping backward. She realized with a jolt of nerves that she could either stand up to him, starting now, or she’d spend the rest of her life being bullied.

Because he was a bully, no question about it. He walked over until he was standing too close to her, using the fact he was so much bigger to intimidate her.

“My father did inform you that I’m planning to live a normal life span, didn’t he?” Marchant said, his voice liquid with distaste.

“He didn’t mention it,” she managed, grateful to hear her voice unshaken. The contempt in his eyes was so thinly veiled that her back went rigid. “Sometimes plans change,” she added. “One can only hope.”

“My plans rarely do. I wouldn’t want you to have scampered all the way to Wales just because you thought I was lining up pallbearers.”

“The duke told me everything essential about you, and your reputation provided the rest,” she said.

His eyes drifted slowly down her body again. “Interesting. There are a few things he seems to have forgotten to tell me.”

Linnet turned to the duke. Surely he’d mentioned the baby in his letter—that is, the baby she was supposed to have? Marchant’s eyes had definitely paused at her thickened waist.

But the duke was staring at his son like a greedy man in front of a French custard. There was a great deal more going on here than she had realized.

“And you must be my father,” Marchant continued. His voice was not in the least welcoming.

“I am,” the duke said, his voice halting. “I am he.”

There was a painful silence. It was clear that Marchant wasn’t going to say anything else, and the duke didn’t seem to have the nerve.

“Now we all know who each other is,” Linnet said brightly, “perhaps we should go downstairs and leave this poor patient to himself.”

The man in bed had propped himself up on his elbows and was staring in fascination. “Not on my account,” he said, his swollen tongue making a mangle of the sentence.

Marchant looked from the patient to her. “Beautiful and cheerful. My, my, this really is my lucky day, isn’t it?”

“A delightful family reunion of this nature brings out the best in everyone, don’t you think?” She turned and walked to the doorway, where she paused and turned around. Just as she expected, the men were staring after her, including—she noticed with a pulse of pleasure—her own fiancé, not to mention the patient. “Doctor?”

“I believe that’s my cue,” Marchant said. For the first time she realized that he was leaning on a cane clutched in his right hand. She watched as he made his way toward her. Oddly enough, his huge body gave the opposite effect to the gentle list to the side that she had expected.

He lurched as he walked, moving like a wounded but still ferocious lion, all the more dangerous for his injury.

“Don’t tell me that His Grace forgot to inform you that your future husband is a cripple,” he said, reaching the door. He had walked straight past his father without seeming to notice the way the duke’s hand started toward him and then fell to his side.

Linnet decided to hold the family smile back for a better moment. “He mentioned it,” she said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t take your arm, in case I topple you?” She ignored the fact that he hadn’t offered his arm.

He narrowed his eyes. They both knew that he was built like a brick house, and her hand on his arm wouldn’t shake him.

“You’re playing a deep game,” he said.

“So, are the three younger men your students?” she asked. They walked down the corridor. Behind them, she could hear the duke introducing himself to the remaining doctors.

“You can count to three,” he said approvingly. “That bodes well for our offspring.”

“And here I thought we weren’t having offspring,” Linnet said.

“It is true that the responsibility for the business rests on your shoulders,” he said, walking with a sort of rolling gait that sent him stalking just before her. “Though I must say that my father’s letter seemed to imply you were more precipitate in that regard than you appear to be.”

The worst thing she could do was to skip to catch up with him. He was obviously far too accustomed to young doctors tagging along at his heels.

He turned his head. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”