Page 1 of Love with a Notorious Rake

Prologue

Standon, Hertfordshire

January 1845

How fortunate that Cristyn could study under her father, Dr. Gethin Bevan, at his private sanatorium. Women could not attend medical school—which was a vile injustice in Cristyn’s mind—so she soaked up everything her father taught her. There was no formal instruction or recognition for nurses, and the positions were often taken by volunteers, for the pay was low. Although much of Cristyn’s work consisted of cleaning and serving meals, there was more involved as her father’s sanatorium treated those suffering from addictions—specifically opium.

Cristyn moved about the clinic’s kitchen, preparing a tray for a patient. She toyed with the idea of a more solid fare, but decided to stay with the broth for the time being. This particular patient had her concerned.

The people—more specifically, men—often arrived with multiple injuries and their health in a precarious state. This meant she was able to utilize her skills to treat wounds and diseases of the mind, which her father vehemently believed—though the medical community did not—was the cause of addiction.

She had managed to remain compassionate toward her patients, but professionally distant.

Until Aidan Black.

Mr. Black had arrived five days ago in dramatic fashion. He was in a ghastly condition: barely conscious, malnourished, dehydrated, in the firm grip of an opium addiction, and quite out of his mind. He had been accompanied by his Uncle Garrett and another man, Edwin Seward, from London.

Mr. Black’s first few nights were harrowing as he experienced the various stages of withdrawal. Cristyn stayed with him every step of the way, cleaning up his vomit and wiping his brow. Try as she might to remain detached, she had been immediately struck by the vulnerability and loneliness that radiated from him. Never had any of the male patients she’d treated affected her this way. It was entirely inappropriate.

Sighing, she ladled the beef broth into a bowl, then placed it on a tray along with a spoon. How could this attraction be happening? Yes, beneath the illness and addiction was a comely man, but it was more than his looks. He touched her heart, burrowed his way in deep. As much as she tried to stay professional and emotionally disconnected outwardly, inside she could not.

Pushing the thoughts from her mind, she carried the tray down the hall, then entered Mr. Black’s room. The curtains were closed to keep out the winter sun. He lay on the bed wearing nothing but his drawers, since he alternated between perspiring and vomiting and had already ruined two nightshirts. Lord above, she should not be staring at him. He was finely made, though far too thin—his ribs were clearly visible. His shoulder blades were barely hidden by thinly stretched skin. How surprising to find that some delineation of lean muscle remained, considering his shocking physical state.

These wayward and inapt thoughts were not worthy of her. Focus on the patient’s needs. Not that she was in a profession acknowledged by men in the medical field, or society as a whole—another entirely unmerited inequality.

Mr. Black’s breathing was ragged, wheezing with every exhale, for he had a chest infection and a low-grade fever to accompany the symptoms of opium egression. Not to mention the flea and rat bites on his hands, arms, and chest, which she had treated the first night; he was covered in gauze dressings.

“Mr. Black,” she called out.

His shallow breathing ceased momentarily, and his glassy eyes tried to focus on her. “No. Leave me be!” he exclaimed in a raspy voice, trailing off with a slight groan, as if the act of speaking was a great effort. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked the tepid broth from her hand, sending it careening across the room, but not before it splashed across her apron and part of her face.

Mr. Black leapt from the bed, but couldn’t stand on his shaking legs and promptly slid to the floor. Cristyn rushed to his side, then fell to her knees, gathering him into her embrace. He was trembling, and she couldn’t tell if it were tears running down his cheeks or beads of perspiration, or perhaps both. “Hush now, it’s all right,” she soothed.

“Let me die,” he whispered. “My angel of mercy—end it.”

His stark, pleading words caused her heart to contract with sympathy. “No, Aidan, you will not die. I won’t allow it.” As she said the words, she gently caressed his forehead, moving his matted hair aside. She had called him by his first name, which was far too familiar; another constraint between a nurse and a patient that should not be ignored. Cristyn didn’t care.

He curled into her embrace, grasped her arm, and rested his head against her chest. “Lost… I’m…lost.”

“I’ve found you, and I will never let you go.”

Aidan began to sob, his shoulders quaking with each mournful lament. The somber sound arrowed straight to her soul. It was utterly improper for her to allow her unfettered emotions to enter this situation—emotions she had never experienced toward any man. The truth? She was attracted to Aidan, and Cristyn would own her feelings and not be ashamed of them, though she would keep them to herself. It was not as if she’d become besotted with every young man who had come through the sanatorium’s doors.

Cristyn held Aidan close, speaking soothing words of comfort. “All will be well, cariad. On this, I vow.”

She was falling for her patient, and had no idea what to do about it.

Chapter 1

From the papers of the Earl of Carnstone, 1704:

Hear ye future men of Wollstonecraft Hall. Misery awaits! For ye shall never find love. We are cursed. If ye marry, she will die. There is only one way for the curse to be broken, affirmed by Morag the Scottish sorceress: only a love bond accepted by all the men of the family alive during a lunar year will break the curse. I pray that somewhere in time, the cycle of grief ends.

Standon, Hertfordshire

Late May 1845

As Aidan Wollstonecraft came to learn, there were consequences for being a notorious rake. There was an exacting penalty for allowing yourself to sink to the lowest depths, wallowing in vice and sin, abandoning all restraints, moderation, and good sense. And he’d had plenty of time to reflect on it. What else could he think about all these hours alone, staring out the window, watching winter turn to spring?