Tension vibrated from him. His anger with her was palpable. She cleared her throat, determined to try and set matters to rights between them. She supposed she owed him an apology. She had not managed that yet. Marian had apologized as though she had been the perpetrator and not Nora. That stung a bit.

As the youngest, Nora was accustomed to her sisters speaking for her whether she wished it or not. Of course, she usually did not wish it, but they had been doing that all her life, much to her annoyance. Her pride smarted every time, but there was naught she could do. This instance was no different.

She drew a great breath. Admitting when she was wrong wasn’t her strong suit. She knew that weakness of herself, but she would do this.

“I am sorry for my deception. I never imagined I would be confronted—”

“With the evidence of your deceit,” he bit back.

Heat flushed through her. “I never imagined my actions would harm anyone.”

He said nothing for a long moment and a quick glance revealed the taut lines of his face. Her words had not appeased him. In fact, they might have angered him more if the dull red creeping up the planes of his cheeks was any indication.

She cleared her throat. “I would like to be of help to you . . . and to your duchess. That is why you came all this way, after all,” she reminded him, pausing for a breath and studying him, gauging his reaction. “Of course, nothing quite compares to visiting a patient in person and performing a proper examination, but if you could relay her symptoms to me along with the duration—”

“Forgive me,” he cut in, his voice tight with exasperation. “But I find myself with limited trust when it comes to you. I have no intention of discussing the Duchess of Birchwood’s private health matters with you. I should like her to live, after all.”

“Oh!” Wretched man! She stopped and glared at him. “I know what I’m about, sir!”

The look he bestowed on her could turn water to ice. “What right have you to misrepresent yourself?” He sliced a hand through the air. “To lead people astray dispensing medical advice?”

“My advice is not faulty.” She resisted stomping her foot in childlike pique.

“No? Who’s to say?” He shrugged. “How would I know?”

“I’m not an amateur. You consulted with me for years. Since I—”

“Was a babe in swaddling?” he finished with spiteful flourish.

“Oh!” She gasped at that gibe to her apparent youth. True, she had been an adolescent when they first began writing to each other, but she was no child. Not then. Not now. She had just turned twenty.