Chapter One

London, August of 1826

Doctor Ian McCullom narrowly dodged a messenger boy as he careened recklessly through the bustling walkway, heedless of those around him and bent only on earning an extra penny or two if he delivered his note with due haste. He shook his head and righted his beaver hat before resuming his pace. The early afternoon was surprisingly clear and crisp for an August day. The soot in the air was less cloying and summer’s heat loosened its grip upon London. The Season had wound down some weeks earlier, but, rather than retreat to their country estates as he’d hoped, the English elite seemed bent upon staying within the City for the time being…which placed them squarely within Ian’s jurisdiction. After the months of unending calls and social events, emergencies and overwrought alarmists, Ian had so been looking forward to a moment to catch his breath.

He paused at the edge of the narrow walkway and attempted to gauge when it might be safe to cross to his destination. It seemed as if the whole of London had taken to the break in the heat and the clarity of the air to fill the streets around him. Unfortunately, the scents of horseflesh and unwashed bodies smothered any hint of fresh air he might have hoped for during his outing. The cacophony of peddlers and coachmen, liveried tigers and roughly-dressed cart drivers all squawked for supremacy in the din which seemed to reverberate all the more thanks to the height of the fashionable buildings lining the street in their orderly rows of shops and cafes.

The door to the business behind him swung open and a wave of flour-scented air wafted into the street, momentarily masking the otherwise unpleasant odors. He knew the bakery well and sometimes sent his housekeeper there to purchase bread. The shop was the only one he’d found that could closely enough replicate the crusty bread of his youth and afford him that slight bit of nostalgic escape.

The brief reprieve on the air was all-too-quickly whisked away on the haunches of the next lathered steed which rumbled past.

As he continued to monitor the traffic and wait for an unlikely opening to cross, the lyrical tones of a woman behind him cut through the din like a songbird in a forest of crows. She must have been the patron who exited the bakery, as she was busy gently instructing her young, gangly footman to take care with the parcel of baked goods. Ian saw out of the corner of his eye a lavender skirt shot with iridescent threads as the woman finally came even with him. She stood slightly more than an arm’s distance away as she also seemed to be watching the bustle on the street—perhaps awaiting her driver or preparing to cross as he was.

Ian’s gaze sidelong traveled higher to take in the fashionable cut of her sleeves, the amethyst gems winking in her dainty earlobes, and the rich, inky curls caressing her ivory neck. He caught only a glimpse of her profile—a pert nose and daintily sculpted chin—as she glanced from side to side.

What little he saw was evidence of a pretty young woman; well-born and English in the way she dressed and the manner with which she held herself. As someone who was not of this heritage, Ian had spent a great deal of time examining such mannerisms to fit in and be better accepted within broader, more well-off social circles. No matter how the English liked to think themselves forward-thinking, there remained a decidedly prejudicial undercurrent when they were confronted with a man born and bred with the blood of the Scottish Highlands.

Just then, the young woman turned fully in his direction and Ian’s lungs forgot their duty. She initially looked past him with a pair of the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Rimmed with long, coal-colored lashes, her eyes were striking against the pale flesh of her cheeks and the contrasting darkness of her hair.

That captivating gaze flicked back over him like a butterfly and rested upon his face. Their eyes met and a spark jumped deep inside of Ian’s chest. It was a primal, irrational moment where the male in him recognized a desirable female. And by God, this woman was lovely…and utterly unattainable.

Still, their eyes inexplicably held.

Even as there was a shout from behind the woman, they remained frozen in that languorous moment…right up until another messenger boy burst through the crowd up the street, dodged between two affronted women, narrowly spun free of the grasp of a man who attempted to cuff the lad for his reckless behavior, and then knocked straight into the young woman in lavender.

Her eyes widened a moment before her lips parted in shock. Her arms swung in a wild windmill in a futile attempt to remain upright.

The messenger boy dashed onward and was once more swallowed by the crowd.

Ian watched as the woman tilted precariously forward and into the path of the traffic where she would undoubtedly be trampled and seriously injured—if not permanently maimed or killed.

Ian cursed and dropped the paper-wrapped parcel he’d been carrying as he lunged forward to snatch her wrist not a moment too soon. He yanked the woman back to the safety of the walkway, but their collective weight collided with the sizable frame of her footman. Together, they all tumbled to the ground in an ungraceful spectacle. The young woman yelped against his chest as he landed with a thud. His beaver hat tumbled from his head and rolled into the street. Ian watched with more than mild annoyance as it was quickly flattened beyond all recognition beneath the muddy hooves of a fruitmonger’s mule.

That damned hat had been expensive, too.

Looking down at the dark curls pressed against his chest, he took quick stock of himself and realized there were no immediate injuries other than a likely bruise to his arse. He heard the footman groan and shuffle to his feet before attempting to gather up his packages before they could be further damaged or snatched up by greedy fingers.

There were murmurs of spectators surrounding them and Ian knew they needed to stand and he had to unhand her before much more was made of the scene.

“Are you alright, miss? Are you injured?” he asked gently, his heart pounding in his chest. It had been a dangerously near miss. He gripped her upper arms in his hands and, though he could feel the fragility of the petite bones beneath his practiced fingers, there was a strength to her frame that was surprising. Her dark curls bounced as she nodded her head and turned to look up into his face.

“I—I believe so. Thank you, sir.”

Ian was struck once more by the color of her eyes. This close, however, he could see they were rimmed in the darkest of blues; the color of far-off mountains in the hazy early morning light.

“My lady!” the footman clad in black-and-yellow livery rushed over, abandoning his task of gathering up the parcels once he saw his employer sprawled on the ground in a pool of purple skirts. The lad’s fretting grew until the woman in Ian’s arms reassured him.

“I’m well, Thomas. Here; please take my hand and help me to my feet before people begin to believe I’m just another fixture to be trod upon.” The footman assisted her and Ian’s legs were free of her slight weight. “There now—oh!” She stumbled as she attempted to put weight upon her right ankle.

Ian saw her grimace and lurched to stand and catch her about her slim waist before she crumpled to the ground once more.

“It would appear that I’m not so well as I believed,” she laughed breathily, and Ian found her attempt at levity quite charming. His tongue felt suddenly too large for his mouth as she met his gaze once more.

“You’re clearly injured,” he said, forcing the words from his mouth. “Your ankle must be examined to be sure there is no break.” Ian gestured as he helped her stay upright. “I am a physician. My offices are just across the street two blocks away; please, allow me to make sure it is not serious.”

“I couldn’t impose,” the young woman began as she gave her head a little shake. A few more curls had come loose from her coiffure and fell to her temples to dance as she moved.

“Nonsense. It is no imposition at all. In fact, I insist we have a look at that ankle.” Ian leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Besides, we’re making much more of a scene just standing here. If we retreat to my offices, it will allow you to compose yourself in more privacy.” This seemed to speak to her rational side and she finally nodded in assent. She, too, must have felt the many pairs of eyes upon them as she was propped up in the middle of the walkway on a busy afternoon.

“Thomas, please gather the parcels,” she said to the footman; “We will be retreating before I become even more of an object of interest.” Ian readily accepted the brunt of her slight weight and helped her balance as the footman stooped to gather what parcels he could.

“Would mind retrieving mine as well?” Ian asked, tipping his chin in the direction of his discarded box, half surprised that someone hadn’t already snagged it and run off. The footman obliged and, together, all three of them set off for Ian’s offices.

∞∞∞

Juliette leaned on the wrought iron railing of the neat Townhouse set just off of the busy street of shops on which she’d nearly lost her life. She watched her savior’s broad shoulders clad in a simple black overcoat now scuffed and dusty from landing on the walkway and absorbing the full brunt of their fall.

“Should we be doing this, my lady?” Thomas hissed, eyes wide like those of a cornered mouse—an oddly juxtaposing expression on a young man who stood at more than six feet in height. “Surely His Lordship would prefer I escort you home and send for his physician.” She could hear the young man’s nerves in his uneven tone.

“Don’t worry so; the man is obviously a physician,” Juliette attempted to reassure him as she gestured to the carved and painted sign above the door announcing to all the profession of the man who dwelled inside. Despite this, the poor footman continued to fret, glancing around as if he were afraid of being caught committing some heinous crime. To be fair, Juliette couldn’t blame him over much. Thomas had only recently been promoted to the role of footman and he was probably terrified of losing his position for inadvertently allowing his mistress into a dangerous situation. Not to mention, Juliette knew her brother’s temper could make even grown men quake in their boots and scramble for cover.

“But, my lady…” the footman whimpered.

“It’ll be alright,” Juliette sighed and patted his shoulder. She turned her attention away from her anxious servant and back to the large form of the man before them. He wore well-made, if simple, clothing. The coat hugged his broad shoulders with a finesse which spoke of a fine tailor. The blue twine encasing the paper-wrapped package he once more held beneath his arm was the trademark of a well-known bookstore and lending library in the West End. This was a man who was well-off enough to dress in tailored clothing of good quality, but not so rich as to retain staff to carry and deliver his packages for him; or open the door to his residence when he was not in attendance.

He wore his longish hair in a neat queue at the nape of his neck. Now that she was able to get a good look at him without his ill-fated beaver hat, she noticed his hair was not brown, but a rich auburn chestnut which shone with threads of dark gold in the afternoon sunlight. How interesting. The man replaced his key in his pocket as the door swung open. He turned to the side to allow Juliette to enter first.

“After you, My Lady,” he said. And not for the first time did she enjoy the rich, velvety burr to his speech. His diction was impeccable, but no amount of practice could ever completely erase the lolling Scottish tint to his tone—not to her practiced ears. She returned his small smile with gratitude and placed her hand in his so he might help her over the threshold. They were admitted to a pleasantly appointed foyer with an ivory-tiled floor and walls papered in a simple green stripe. It was clean and the scent of citrus lingered in the air, along with a hint of something Juliette could not name. Something herbal and warm and pleasant.

Their host set his parcel on a spindle-legged oaken side table. “My offices are belowstairs,” he explained. “I felt, in your condition, that the extra distance through the alleyway to that entrance might be a burden. Come.” He gestured for Thomas to help her down the hallway to a door and set of stairs. With his assistance, Juliette was able to maneuver down the steps and into what she could only assume had once been the kitchens and other servants’ quarters for the Townhouse. Her experience with the lower level of dwellings was extremely limited, but she doubted highly that the rooms of this home were typical.

Similar to what little she’d seen of the main floor, these basement rooms were immaculately clean and well-appointed in a simple, welcoming manner. The muted yellow-papered walls and black-and-white checkered tiles decorated what she assumed must have been a sitting room of sorts, lined as it was with a trio of simple wooden chairs. Off to one side was an open doorway leading to what remained of the kitchens, as well as another door butting up to the back alley. This must have been the aforementioned entrance through which the physician’s patients usually came. The secondary basement foyer created a hallway that led to yet another door; this one was polished mahogany. It was to this door that the physician escorted Juliette and her footman. He closed the distance in only two long strides and held the door open to admit them.

Once she entered, a wave of that warm herbal scent washed over her. Glancing around in interest, she realized from where it had originated. A wall of small pigeonhole cubbies stretched up from a long desk to reach the height of the low ceiling. Each had its own small label with markings she could not quite make out from that distance, and they were filled with organized rows of packets and pouches. Some were paper, others looked to be a waxy material to keep their contents drier. Other cubbies held neat rows of glass bottles in varying sizes and colors; a white marble mortar and pestle lay neatly in the center of the desk beside other instruments and measuring implements Juliette could not have named had she been asked.

The physician gestured to a piece of furniture resembling a low cushioned chaise without any sides or backrest. It was draped in crisp, clean white linen sheets.

“Please, be seated,” he spoke softly, reassuringly.

Thomas helped her to the table and lowered her to sit. Juliette sighed in relief after the exertion of trying to maneuver in her skirts and impractical shoes; her ankle throbbed with a fierce, burning pain. She’d fallen hard when the selfless physician wrenched her back from certain catastrophe in the street, but she couldn’t fault his efforts even if it had ended in injury. She flinched when she tried to move her foot experimentally. She prayed it wasn’t broken.

Don’t be ridiculous , she silently scolded herself for feeling the least bit ungrateful that her life had been spared. Anything is better than being trampled.

Juliette returned her attention to their surroundings. A small street-level window behind her emitted some warm afternoon light from the street. The occasional shadow of passing legs crossed the cloudy glass. To her left was another doorway, its door slightly ajar. The room within was dim, but she could make out a desk and some stacks of books—his study, perhaps?

Several frames hung in an orderly row on the wall beside the doorframe. The elegant script announced their owner’s completion of several degrees of study, accolades and awards. The name emblazoned below was that of Dr. Ian McCullom.

A bell of recognition sounded within Juliette’s skull. Of course! How could she not have made the connection?

Dr. McCullom was the latest rage amongst the health-conscious—and often deluded— ton . Scottish-born and, reputedly, quite good-looking, he was lately the preferred physician to the upper-class London elite. He catered to wealthy clientele, but, if the stories were to be believed, his treatments and practices were not the smoke and mirrors or antiquated practices of her grandparents’ era. Word was, he was extremely well-educated and had purportedly studied beneath some of the greatest minds both in Britain and abroad on the Continent.

Every woman wanted to be able to say she was in his (handsome) capable hands, and every household wanted to have his interesting mind in attendance. He’d amassed an unbelievable amount of renown and a sterling reputation over the past several years—particularly for a Scotsman in London. McCullom had made his name introducing medical advancements into his treatments and had become known for his quick mind and sometimes unorthodox treatment methods which proved to have some astounding results never before witnessed. There were even some rumors that he’d been involved in the care and recovery of Viscount Sommerfeld after his mysterious, debilitating leg injury.

McCullom turned back to face Juliette and she was forced to admit to herself that the rumors of his attractiveness were far from truth. She was used to physicians being elderly gentlemen; quiet and unintimidating. What the women of the ton had been tittering about more and more frequently at the parties she’d attended did not do this man justice.

He was dangerous.

Part of what had caused her such distraction earlier in the street had been the shocking contrast of his well-groomed appearance to the rugged edge in his glittering blue eyes, the unnatural breadth of his shoulders and the height of his build. Dr. McCullom appeared to be more suited to wielding a claymore than an instrument of medicine. He had a broad jaw sharp as an axeblade, a strong nose, and bold brows a shade darker than his overlong chestnut hair.

Juliette swallowed convulsively.

No wonder women clamored to be in his care.

“You’re Dr. Ian McCullom,” Juliette finally croaked. His strong features softened some when he smiled. It was remarkably pleasant.

“Aye. I supposed we’ve foregone all polite niceties, haven’t we? That does happen when one’s life is threatened.”

Juliette could have kicked herself for the silly, breathless laugh that escaped her lips. She prayed it came out more charming than she thought it had.

If it wasn’t he showed no sign of noticing when he said, “Then you’ll forgive me for being so forward as to ask for your name, since we’ve no mutual acquaintance here to perform the introductions?” He cocked a brow when she didn’t immediately reply. “Did you hit your head in the fall?”

Juliette shook her head vigorously before he could reach out to check her skull for cracks. She was taken aback by the size of those hands; they could probably palm her entire head with ease. How did he possibly manage any of the finesse one would expect from a physician expected to perform delicate procedures?

“Lady Juliette Crawford. My brother is the Earl of Hopesend.”

With polished manners, Dr. McCullom inclined his head and took her hand to bow over it. “A pleasure.” His barely perceptible burr made the words almost like a purr that tickled every inch of her spine.

“Now,” he righted himself and turned to Thomas. “If you will excuse us, lad. I need to examine her ladyship’s injury.”

The poor young footman’s eyes widened. “If it’s all the same, I think I should stay.” He straightened his spine in an admirable show of protectiveness.

“I do not treat my patients with an audience, and I don’t particularly believe the lady would enjoy having a young man look on as I treat her.” The doctor’s words were calm and even, but there was an undertone that indicated he usually got his way; plainly, the statement brooked no discussion. Torn between a well-intentioned sense of duty and an innate desire for self-preservation, Thomas began to splutter until Juliette stepped in to rescue him.

“You may wait just outside the room, Thomas. It will be fine if the door remains open a crack if you would like to keep an eye on me.” This seemed to assuage his indecision. He strengthened his narrow jaw and gave a nod before bowing out of the room. He shot the doctor what she supposed was meant to be a warning look, but it was rather less impressive when aimed at a man who was easily two stone his superior.

Dr. McCullom watched the footman leave and he made a point of closing the door several inches more than the lad had allowed. He turned back to her and Juliette became suddenly aware that she’d never been so alone with a man to whom she was unrelated. As if sensing her nerves, McCullom’s face softened. His tone was gentler than when he’d spoken to Thomas; this was quite clearly the tone he used with overwrought and ailing ladies. With the faint lilt to his inflection, she found she didn’t mind it as much as she might have had it come from anyone else.

“Now, my lady; if you would please remove your stocking so I might examine your injured ankle.”

Juliette’s thoughts came to a screeching halt.

“I beg your pardon?” Had he asked her what she thought he had?

“I assure you, I’ve no ill intentions,” he reassured her; “I merely need to see the limb to assess the best course of treatment.”

She met his eyes but saw no subterfuge. There was no spark of mischief or lechery. Still…to allow a man such a liberty…even a doctor. Juliette scolded herself. Were he not half so handsome, would she have been quite so nervous? What a silly notion. He was simply doing his job. And he was well-respected. Surely something would have been said by now were he mistreating his female clients.

Reading her indecision with his uncanny sensibilities, McCullom sought to reassure her once again. “It truly is the best way for me to determine if the limb requires a splint or a wrap. I can always perform the examination over your stocking, but I want to be sure the bruising is not extensive.”

Convinced, Juliette nodded. McCullom excused himself to wash his hands and allow her some privacy. She waited several heartbeats before getting to her feet as best as she could. Not without a great deal of difficulty and whispered curses, she was able to pull aside her skirts, unbutton and kick off her shoe, undo the tapes holding up her thigh-high stocking, and slide off the undergarment.

She’d just regained her seat when there was a light rap at the door. She bid the knocker to enter and McCullom’s large frame filled the doorway. It took her but a moment to realize that he’d doffed his coat and was only in his charcoal-colored waistcoat and shirtsleeves. If it was possible, he seemed even larger without the confining fabric of his well-cut coat.

Suddenly aware that she was still holding her silk stocking in her hand, Juliette hastily shoved it beneath her hip. If he noticed, then he was kind enough to say nothing. He closed the door and left a gap only an inch or two wide, as he’d promised he would. It afforded them some privacy but allowed Thomas to hear anything should she require his presence.

McCullom gave her a reassuring smile that did funny things to the pit of her stomach.

“There, now; let us see what damage has been done.” He knelt before her and Juliette realized he was waiting for her to lift the hem of her skirts. As awkward as the encounter was, he was affording her every nicety possible and respecting her space as much as he could.

Her cheeks burned painfully when he began examining her foot and ankle with focused interest. When he asked permission to touch her, she just about expired on the spot. She had to avert her eyes and focus on one of the documents mounted on the wall. Though supremely gentle, the sight of her foot in his enormous hands made her realize that he really could snap her in two if he so wished. It was an unexpectedly heady realization.

Dr. McCullom proceeded to tenderly palpate the swollen joint with surprisingly gentle fingers, flexing it this way and that, stopping just shy of when he would cause her pain. Juliette watched the top of his head as he worked quietly and efficiently.

“I don’t believe I truly thanked you for your quick reactions,” Juliette murmured, fascinated by the tingling sensation of the pads of his large fingers on her foot and ankle.

What might it feel like to have those hands elsewhere…?

“There’s no need to thank me,” he replied, still focused on her foot. He moved aside her skirts to see just how high the ugly purple bruise and the corresponding swelling had traveled. The foreign sensation of his fingers against the back of her calf sent a pleasant chill down her spine.

So in tune with the human body, McCullom noticed the slight movement she made. His eyes flew to her face.

“My apologies; was that painful?”

Juliette quickly shook her head and he turned back to his examination.

∞∞∞

Ian was always detached and professional during his examinations. He’d seen many a disrobed woman and even been outright solicited for other services alongside the medical care he provided, but never before had he been so distracted by a patient. And by such an inane body part as a foot and ankle.

It was ridiculous, but it was the truth.

He silently chided himself, but a part of him couldn’t help but appreciate the dainty toes and sweetly turned ankle—despite its obvious injury. An ugly blue-and-purple bruise marred the pale, perfect flesh. The swelling, while obvious, was not worse than to be expected. What he could see of her calf was lean and smooth to the touch…

Ian had to force himself away. He replaced her skirts and cleared his throat.

“Your ankle is badly sprained, but I do not believe there is a break,” he said as he stood. “You will need to stay off the leg completely for at least the next week,” he added, turning toward the nearby desk.

“But that is impossible!” Her posture slumped dejectedly.

Ian barely resisted rolling his eyes as every ounce of attraction he felt rapidly melted into a puddle at his feet. She might be attractive, but there was nothing so different about this woman from any other English lady he’d thus encountered. They were more concerned with their social calendar than anything else, to a one.

“Should you wish to not do permanent damage then I fear you'll have to postpone the rest of your shopping and forego any balls for the time being,” he apologized somewhat insincerely. He didn’t know why this struck him so hard, but he was more than a little bit disappointed that there was nothing to separate Lady Juliette from any other young chit of the ton— of course, not to say that anything would have happened had she truly been a unique specimen. She was the sister of an earl and he…Ian was an orphan son of an impoverished territory whose people were generally looked upon as savages. Just because he’d managed to claw his way from starvation and persecution to attain some knowledge and comfortability didn’t mean he was necessarily much different from whence he’d come. Now he was simply more of a unique oddity; an object of interest.

“I don’t care about any of that,” her voice sliced through his musings and he met those captivating eyes of hers. “I have a meeting of my ladies’ reading society and I’ve so been looking forward to discussing Dushenka .”

Ian had been expecting her to protest, but practically any other response might have been more likely than that one. What lady lamented being kept from a literary circle—and one that discussed Eighteenth-century Russian poets, for that matter? He checked her face for sincerity and read only disappointment in her eyes and the slight downturn of her pretty rosebud lips.

Silently, he strode to the nearby worktable and carefully weighed and measured a packet of powders. He dispensed them into a waxed pouch and carefully folded it closed. He retrieved a rolled length of clean, white linen strips and held out the packet to Lady Juliette.

“Take this and mix a spoonful with your tea—the sugar will cut the bitterness. It will help with the pain. I can wrap the ankle to give it some stability, but allow it to rest when you are abed and remove the wrappings to allow it to breathe.”

She nodded gratefully and accepted the packet from him, seeming to take great pains that their fingers didn’t touch. He watched for a moment as she turned the packet over with her graceful hands before he knelt once more and did his best to ignore his traitorous heart as he pushed aside the hem of her skirts and began to wrap her ankle. She proved to be a keen student and paid close attention to his technique as he wove the linen around her ankle and foot in an orderly and strategic pattern.

“Should you require anything,” Ian began as he retrieved one of his cards and handed it to her; “please send notice. I should like to call upon you in the next couple of days to see how you’re healing.”

“Oh, that truly isn’t necessary,” she tried to protest, but he allowed no discussion on the matter.

“It is the least I can do since I am partially responsible for your injury.”

“Hardly!” she gave a breathy little laugh. “You were not the one who pushed me; you saved me from being squashed beneath the wheels of a cabbage cart.”

“Still,” Ian retorted, unable to hide his smile; “I never leave a patient’s treatment in the hands of another. I always see my patients through.” Her remarkable gaze met his and Ian found he momentarily forgot how to breathe.

“Very well, Dr. McCullom,” she conceded. “I shall await your call.” In response, she extracted a copy of her own engraved, extremely costly calling cards from her small beaded reticule which had, somewhat miraculously, managed to remain strapped to her wrist. Ian scanned the flourishing calligraphy and recognized the wealthy Mayfair address. He’d treated a neighboring dowager’s gout just the other day.

Ian proceeded to delve into his extensive and necessary knowledge of the English peerage and quickly recalled how Lady Juliette’s brother—her twin—was a powerful political Goliath and had made quite the waves in Parliament. Despite his relatively young age, his fiery vehemence and oratory prowess were legendary. He traveled in slightly different circles than those that involved Ian’s work so he’d not met the Earl in person, though that would undoubtedly change when he came to call later in the week.

Ian beckoned to the footman standing vigil outside the office door. The lad poked his head into the room and Ian instructed him to retrieve the lady’s carriage to convey her home for rest.

“But, sir…” he hesitated and looked between Ian and his employer’s sister. “I don’t think I should leave.” Ian barely resisted the urge to huff an impatient sigh.

“Then how do you propose Lady Juliette get home? My housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, should be in the kitchen. You may ask her to serve as a chaperone if you so wish. Have the carriage brought ‘round to the back alley entrance. We shouldn’t like to have the lady gawked at even more than has already happened today.” The young footman nodded and he was quickly replaced by Ian’s plump, kind-eyed housekeeper. The older woman took the opportunity to seat herself in one of the chairs in the waiting room just outside of the door and continue her careful mending of one of Ian’s shirts.

Ian proceeded to tidy his work area and do his best to ignore the caress he swore he felt as Lady Juliette’s eyes watched his every movement. Her gaze was a palpable entity, hovering over his shoulder and pressing its length against his back in a warm, intimate fashion. A glass vial slipped through his fingers and clinked to the wooden tabletop; the sound seemed to echo in the silent room.

“Oh!” Lady Juliette suddenly chimed in as if the thought had just occurred to her, or she could no longer bear the silence—Ian suspected it was the latter. “May I offer you payment for your services?” she offered and he heard her rustling around for her reticule. Ian turned and waved away her offer of payment.

“Please, no.”

“Are you certain? I feel as if I have put you out so.” There was an uncertain gleam in her eyes.

“Truly.” Ian smiled reassuringly.

A moment of companionable silence passed between them. Was Ian imagining things, or was there a tiny flame of attraction blossoming in the space separating their bodies? He knew he felt it in the way his fingers ached to touch the softness of her skin and determine if her lips tasted as sweet as they appeared; but did she feel it as well?

It might seem so because she could no longer hold his gaze and there was a telling, delicate pink tint rising on the crests of her cheeks.

Before he could stop her, Lady Juliette made a move to stand. She had either forgotten the weakness in her ankle, or she was desperate to take leave of his office because she moved far too quickly. Ian rushed to steady her before she fell.

“You really shouldn’t stand,” he gently admonished. Her hands clutched his forearms as a grimace flitted across her face.

“Thomas will be returning shortly with the carriage; I promise I shall stay off of my feet when I am home.”

Ian’s eyes ran the length of her body and hesitated at a swath of ivory fabric standing in stark contrast to her skirts. A small bell from the door indicated the footman’s arrival. Ian smoothly snagged the fabric and balled it up in his fist before the footman entered.

“The carriage has been brought ‘round, My Lady,” said the lad, eyeing their closeness.

“Thank you, Thomas.” Did Ian imagine the slight tremor in her voice?

“May I assist you—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ian cut off the footman a moment before he swept Lady Juliette into his arms and lifted her against his chest. Her little breathless gasp of surprise teased something deep inside his soul. She wrapped her arms around his neck to steady herself and he was instantly overcome with a warm, sweet scent. It was much more delicate than anything else that was so en vogue these days…and far more alluring.

Ian indicated that the footman should lead the way; the lad hesitated only a moment before he rushed to open the doors for them. He was obviously more than a little shocked at Ian’s actions but was unsure of what to say or how to handle the situation. He settled for accepting it when his mistress did not protest.

Ian held Lady Juliette close to his chest, taking pleasure in her slight weight in his arms, as he exited his townhouse and found a black-lacquered, well-sprung carriage pulled by a team of perfectly matched horses as blue as midnight. The conveyance spoke of the undeniable wealth and power of their owner. When he’d been a boy, Ian had never thought to see such a vehicle, let alone be climbing into one to deposit an injured young woman upon the plush velvet squab.

He stepped aloft and ducked into the carriage, the springs creaking with his added weight, and he settled Lady Juliette on the overstuffed forward-facing seat. Her arms slid from his neck, though he still felt their warmth seared into the skin beneath his clothing.

“I wish you the best, Lady Juliette,” Ian murmured and then took her hand in his. He pressed what he held into her palms.

Her face burned and her eyes flew to his when she realized what he’d done.

“I didn’t think you’d want your footman to see your stocking stuck to your skirts,” he spoke in a low tone and gave her a wink. “I will call upon you in a few days to check on your progress,” he added normally.

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice as Ian ducked back out of the carriage. He stepped back down to the cobblestones and watched as Thomas latched the door before jumping onto the back of the carriage as they lurched into motion.

Ian watched them trundle down the wide alleyway and pondered what, exactly, had made him offer to call upon Lady Juliette in her home. He hadn’t lied when he’d said he personally monitored each of his patients, but he knew very well his schedule was already tightly packed. An astonishing number of peers were on a waiting list to be seen by him—something else his younger self would never have believed possible. He made a very good living by being in such high demand, but it left little time for other pursuits.

Still…something drew him to this Russian poetry-reading woman who was unlucky enough to nearly tumble headfirst into the wheels of a cart.