Danice Allen by Remember Me Read Free Book Online Page A

Aunt Nan or Aunt Prissy, but she liked the way he’d said it. She wished she could hear him say it again, if only to reassure herself that he was going to regain consciousness and be restored to his former vigorous self.
    There was no chance of a full recovery, however, if she didn’t hurry up and get his wet clothes off, she reminded herself. Picking up a multicolored quilt that had been thrown over the arm of a rocking chair, Amanda draped it over the man, leaving his stockinged feet to poke out at the bottom. Standing at the foot of the bed, she tugged on the man’s breeches till she had them off.
    “Thank goodness,” she said aloud, folding the trousers and placing them on a chest of drawers with his other domes, “that’s finally done. I should hope that the worst of this unfortunate predicament is over!”
    She had a few moments to tidy herself before the doctor arrived … a portly gentleman in a worn brown coat and trousers, sporting muttonchop whiskers, much like Theo’s, and a pair of thick magnifying spectacles that made his eyes look owlish and wise. He came into the room without knocking—which habit seemed customary at the Inn of the Three Nuns—bade Amanda a gruff good day, introduced himself as Doctor Bledsoe, then bent over the patient.
    After prying open the man’s eyes and peering into them, sniffing his breath, checking the gash beneath the makeshift bandage, determining his temperature with a palm held against his brow, then listening to his pulse, the doctor straightened and turned. “What is his name?” he inquired, looking gravely at Amanda.
    “His name?” Amanda repeated stupidly.
    “Yes,” said the doctor, raising a shaggy brow. “What is your husband’s name?”
    Her brain searched for a title she could use without impersonating an existing earl, then decided impulsively to make one up. “He’s the Earl of Thornfield,” she informed the doctor loftily. At the doctor’s scowling expression, she added nervously, “Have you never heard of him?”
    “Never,” he replied briskly. “But I don’t care a fig what the butler announces when your husband arrives at a fancy ball. I want to know what you call him, m’dear. What is his Christian name?”
    Surprised but not offended by the blunt, familiar way he addressed her, Amanda decided that it wasn’t necessary to play the grand lady with the doctor. She sensed a compassionate nature beneath his rough exterior and immediately warmed to him. She was about to tell him that her husband’s name was John, when a sudden playful quirk got hold of her. Her ideal romantic name for a man was Demetri, a hero from a novel she’d read.
    “His name is Demetri,” she said, repressing a smile. “Why do you ask, doctor?”
    “Because he is more apt to respond to his Christian name than to Lord Thornfield. Don’t you think so, m’dear?”
    Amanda nodded meekly but knew full well that it was extremely unlikely that the unconscious fellow would respond to either of the unfamiliar forms of address.
    The doctor cleaned and re-dressed the wound, then stood over the man and said loudly, “Demetri? Demetri, can you hear me?” The gentleman did not stir. The doctor said Demetri three more times in a booming voice, then turned his penetrating gaze on Amanda again. “Are you aware, m’dear, that your husband is extremely inebriated?”
    “Yes, I know he is,” Amanda replied. “I wondered if that was the reason he’s still unconscious.”
    “I’m not sure,” the doctor answered seriously. “But it certainly doesn’t help matters. Your husband has a concussion, and there may be complications.”
    A shiver of fear raced down Amanda’s spine. “What sort of complications?”
    “I will speak plainly. There might be pressure on the brain due to internal bleeding, which could cause him to sink into a coma.”
    “Good heavens!” exclaimed Amanda, horrified.
    “I only said it might, m’dear. I want you to be prepared for the worst, though