Marrying Miss Hemingford by Nadia Nichols Page A

flora and fauna, tales of the sea, books of poetry and the novels of Sir Walter Scott and even two of Jane Austen’s. She was leafing through a treatise on the efficacy of sea water when the door opened behind her and Justin Tremayne entered.
    The books and the room itself faded from her vision as she turned to face him. He had retrieved his coat and put it on, but otherwise he looked just as he had on their first meeting. He was every bit as handsome, his brown eyes just as cold, his jaw just as firm, but his swim seemed to have done him little good; he looked so thin and tired, she had an unexpected urge to mother him, to make him sit down and rest and provide him with nourishing food. His opening words soon disabused her of the idea he was an overgrown child.
    â€˜Madam, I understand you wish to inspect my premises. The two rooms in which I work and the kitchen you have already seen on your earlier visit, and now you have had time to look round the drawing room. There is nothing else but my bedroom. Do you wish to see that? I have to tell you the bed is probably unmade and my garments strewn about—’ He stopped abruptly when he noticed the look of astonishment on her face.
    â€˜Dr Tremayne, you quite mistake the matter. I have no wish to inspect your premises, much less intrude on yourdomestic arrangements. My interest is purely in the work you do. I admire it greatly and would like to do something to help.’
    He bowed, unsmiling. ‘My apologies, ma’am.’
    â€˜Oh, please, do not call me ma’am, it makes me sound so old.’ It was said with a friendly smile that quite unnerved him. He had taken her for an interfering do-gooder who wanted to take over his charitable work and run it for her own gratification, but perhaps he had been wrong.
    â€˜Miss Hemingford, I beg your pardon. Please be seated.’ He picked up a little brass bell and rang it vigorously. ‘I will ask Mrs Armistead to bring us some tea.’
    â€˜Only if you were planning to stop for some yourself. I have no wish to take you from your work.’
    â€˜He needs to take a rest, Miss Hemingford.’ Mrs Armistead had come quickly in answer to the bell and had heard her last remark. ‘I have great trouble making him stop to eat at all.’
    â€˜Tea, please, Janet,’ he said wearily. ‘And some of those little biscuits you made yesterday.’
    â€˜You look tired,’ Anne said, as Mrs Armistead left them. She seated herself in one of the stuffed chairs, knowing he would not sit himself unless she did. ‘Could you not take on some help?’
    â€˜If I could find someone who would work for nothing, I would gladly do so,’ he said, collapsing in a heap in the other chair. ‘But as no one is prepared to do that, I struggle on alone.’
    â€˜Why do you do it?’
    â€˜Now there’s a question!’ His expression was lightened with a genuine smile. ‘I suppose because the workis there, crying out to be done, and someone ought to do it. Brighton is full of wealthy people, aristocrats many of them, able to pay handsomely for medical treatment for whatever ailments their imaginations conjure up, so it attracts the ambitious physician out to make his mark in the world, but they are not the only ones to fall ill. The poor are suffering too. Their ailments, unlike those of the rich, are often the result of too little food and not over-indulgence—’ He stopped, realising he was almost certainly talking to one of the wealthy upper class he was denigrating. ‘I beg your pardon, you do not want to hear this.’
    â€˜Indeed I do.’ He had a mellifluous speaking voice that she could have listened to for hours, whatever he had to say. She ignored the other voice, the one in her head, which told her she should not be holding a conversation with a man, not even a gentleman, alone in his rooms. She was independent enough and old enough to do as she