Chapter Three

I ntroductions had been made, along with profuse apologies, and Nick had decided that the least he could do was accompany her. A split pelisse dunked in cream and custard on such a striking woman could invite all sorts of mischief, even from the driver of a hack. No, it was best to take her himself. At least it would allow him to enjoy her pretty blue eyes a little longer as he ensured her safety. He was a gentleman, above all.

And she was a vision in spite of the torn coat and custard splatters.

"When you offered to walk me home, I'm afraid you failed to ask how far it was," Pippa said with a crooked smile. She was adorable.

Nick was painfully conscious of the large smear of white whipped cream drying on his coat front, and Chromius's need to stop at every grassy spot—the results of the whipped cream surprise he'd enjoyed.

"It was my mistake entirely, yes. But I promised to take you back." He reached to make sure his hat was on properly; at least he'd look neat, if not clean.

They'd walked all along Bayswater Road and were heading toward Sheffield Terrace. Nick's feet were growing tired. And worse, he realized as he checked his pocket watch, he had to get back to Harley Street soon and would need to hire a hack if he wanted to be on time for the scheduled surgery.

"Where do you live?"

"Cloverdale House, on Abbotsbury Road," she said with the nonchalance of a true lady.

"You are jesting," Nick sputtered, unable to fathom how rich this beauty must be if she lived on one of the greatest private estates in London.

"Not at all, Dr. Folsham. Have you heard of it?"

He'd not only heard about its splendor but read about it in the paper. The large gardens surrounding it were even a park open to the public and frequented by none other than the royal family.

"Heard of it?" Where should he start? "It has a rich history, and many people know of it, but nobody knows what exactly the arrangement of the people who live there. It's part of a large estate." He was in the presence of a grand lady and wanted to know the extent of his honor. "Tell me more, please!"

She quirked a brow. "Very well. Well, it's an early Jacobean country house and passed from the Earl of Nunsford, who'd inherited the house and, in 1773, succeeded his first cousin as fifth Duke of Sussex." Nick's eyes fixed on her lush lips while she talked, though he supposed he should stop watching them as his body was beginning to show its arousal from the sight. He forced himself to focus on her words, instead of the lovely wet gleam of her lips and the tantalizing tip of her tongue. And the memory of how she'd sucked the cream from her thumb.

She continued, unaware of his struggle to remain polite and gentlemanly. "It was even used as a military hospital under Oliver Cromwell, but to be honest, it's so damp that nobody wants to live there in the summer." She shrugged. "The Duke of Sussex is my father; he's the seventh duke. I'm his only daughter."

Nick swallowed hard. She was chatty, and oh so beautiful. And so out of his class… He twisted his fists in his pockets to ensure that he didn't touch her no matter how badly he longed to. He'd known she was a high-born lady the moment he'd seen her in her ermine collar.

And yet, there was something about her that awakened his senses like a walk on dew-covered grass in early spring. He felt more masculine around her, and somehow more himself—if such a thing were possible—than ever before. It was the way she'd looked at him and how she'd tumbled onto his body that had made him realize he'd miss her if he let her go without speaking with her. Yet, despite her friendly and nonchalant conversation, she was so far above him. She was of a class where she should be out of reach, and not so close that he could feel the warm air of her breath when she spoke… His manhood twitched and he reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time since they'd begun walking: Listen and stop looking!

"Perhaps you know my father by the name Randall Pemberton." She cringed and then lowered her gaze. Her words hung heavy between them, for there were several ranks of the peerage between them in the abstract sense and yet only a few inches and some air physically. She kicked a pebble with the toe of her dainty shoe, and it was as if telling Nick that her father was a duke— that duke in particular—sounded as if she'd admitted to a crime.

It was, in a way, because no matter what one's social class was in London—or all of England for that matter—everyone knew who Randall Pemberton was. Nick tried not to gape. "The one who beheaded his wife?"

Her delicate shoulders hunched forward, as if she was trying to shrink in size, while her eyes sparkled with a mix of shyness and dismay. Of all the stupid things he could have said… Why did I quote the gossip columns?

He truly was the pauper and felt like a fool for his inability to carry on a conversation with an aristocratic lady outside his practice. There, it was usually easy to speak with his noble patients, but here, with her, he wanted to impress and yet he stuttered nonsense like a green boy. Nick pressed his fists deeper into his pockets, straining against the fabric of the lining.

At the end of his leash, Chromius stopped, hunched, and strained over a patch of grass. Honestly, if that didn't prove to him that he was out of his depth and too far below her to even be casually talking to her, nothing would.

"He didn't. My mother died of a fever, and the papers wrote that she lost her head. It was construed to harm his reputation, and he didn't fight it because he'd caught the same fever. My father survived my mother's death but never overcame the heartbreak. He's on wife number six now. Her name is Carolyne Pemberton. She calls herself a lady."

It looked like Pippa shuddered, but he couldn't quite tell. She was a veritable lady, and he would have never thought it possible that she'd smear him with whipped cream, lick it from her fingers, then talk to him leisurely on an extended walk home. He could not peel his eyes off her face. Her features were mesmerizing, and her bright skin looked so touchable. She was taller than most women, the ideal height to look him in the eyes. Ideal, perfect, and beautiful. Nick willed his heart to stop thundering lest she heard the effect she had on him, for how could he hide it? Worse, it wasn't proper for him to be found with her alone, yet he couldn't have left her besmeared to fend for herself and hire a hackney. Outside of his practice, he knew he could not speak so informally with any member of the high ranks of the England. He needed an explanation because he was not turning away. Could he feign an excuse that as a doctor that he'd walk her home as a matter of an emergency? What was the emergency? A large vanilla-scented cream stain?

They'd entered the estate through a garden that resembled a park more than a private yard and continued their walk until they reached a one-story glass house with tall windows.

"This is my orangery," she said as she turned a doorknob and led the way into the building. "Really, it's my mother's orangery. Well, it was hers. I inherited it of sorts."

"Why did you hesitate?" Nick asked.

She squinted as if the inheritance wasn't completed but there was such pain in her gaze that Nick decided not to probe further as she hung her pelisse on a hook on the wall and pulled on an apron, once white but now covered with yellow stains.

Stepping out of the crisp park and into the warm orangery, Nick was immersed in a verdant paradise, an oasis of tranquility. The orangery was radiant with sunlight streaming through the glass panes, casting myriad shadows to dance on the stone-tiled floor. Two elongated raised flower beds stretched out before him, brimming with an exotic array of tropical plants. Their leaves, a vibrant spectrum of emerald, jade, and olive, shimmered as they basked in the sun's warmth. Majestic palms in large clay pots were arranged along the wall and towered above, their fronds forming a natural tapestry against the glass ceiling. Glossy ferns and vibrant bromeliads nestled below, their lush textures contrasting with the rough-hewn stone of the raised beds. It was hot, damp indeed, and Nick wished he could take his coat off, roll his sleeves up, and lay her on a bench.

Stop! She's a lady and taboo.

"There you are, Truffles." She bent down as a little brown bunny hopped onto her arms. Chromius strained at the end of his leash and gave a happy, excited bark. Pippa continued speaking to her rabbit. "Have you eaten too much?" She turned to Nick. "He's getting heavier every day."

Nick shortened the leash as he noticed that the little brown bunny only had three legs. But he moved well and swiftly, albeit he was now nestling into Pippa's arms. A good safe place, no doubt.

"He's named after my favorite chocolates, truffles. Sir Truffles Hoppington."

She was too adorable for words. Nick checked his pocket watch again. He had to leave soon but he didn't want to leave the side of this fascinating beauty who'd taken him home with her without regard for propriety.

"What happened to him?" Nick couldn't help but notice the stump that was Truffle's left front paw. He touched the stump, which looked well healed and was certainly not due to a fresh injury. "He's missing the metatarsal, the little bones of the paw," Nick said.

Pippa's eyes locked with his, and she studied him, looking at him with a slight squint. "I found him in a fox trap in the garden two years ago. He was a baby and squealed."

"Poor bunny. Rabbits only make loud noises like that when they are in grave distress."

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "Yes, so I got him out of the trap and brought him here. There was so much medicine left over from my mother, I used whatever I could find. He seems to have forgotten that he ever lived anywhere else but with me."

Nick could see how comfortable the bunny was in Pippa's arms, nestling against her chest. Smart little creature.

"He's lucky to have you."

"Except that he eats too much here. I cannot let him out, and he's munching all day." She set him down. Truffles appeared to flick an ear at Chromius and give him a scornful look before he hopped away.

Nick didn't know much about rabbits, but this one did look a bit chubby, with a wide, fluffy belly. Soon Truffles was happily nibbling on some tiny leaves. Chromius seemed to realize that he wasn't going to any closer to him, and panting, lay down like a little Sphinx, head raised, paws outstretched. Watchful.

In this secluded haven, their whispered conversations danced amidst the sunlight that filtered through the leaves, casting playful shadows upon their faces. The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of the tropics—the sweet perfume of blooming orchids, the tangy aroma of citrus fruits ripening on dwarf trees, and the earthy fragrance of damp soil. It was a symphony of scents from a far-off forest like in Felix's stories. Yet, Nick was in London. And the only magical and enchanting effect was the one Pippa had on him.

Every time he addressed her as Pippa , a rush of warmth washed over him, a potent reminder of their shared connection. But, at the same time, the name felt too intimate for someone with his station to use for a woman of her status. It wasn't merely her noble heritage that gave him pause, but the delicate beauty and her smile that intimidated and fascinated Nick at the same time. Although a part of him yearned to respect her station and address her as Lady Philippa, to uphold the proper decorum, he could only think about tracing the contours of her face with his fingertips.

To his left, a wall fountain burbled melodically from a plain tap, its soothing cadence the only sound in this serene sanctuary. The water sparkled like diamonds under the soft sunlight, providing a cooling respite for the surrounding plants. This was a place of solitude, a place to contemplate and admire nature's bounty.

In the midst of this serenity, Pippa froze, tilted her head as if listening hard to something, and then darted to a raised garden bed partially hidden behind potted palms a few steps away, where little green plants stretched pairs of two leaves each no more than an inch into the air. "Not the sprouts!" She ordered fiercely and shooed Truffles away. He hopped out from behind the palms, greenery hanging from his whiskered lips. "Bad bunny. Bad bunny!"

Nick burst into laughter. She was too sweet as she told the bunny off. It hopped off toward the right of their position, to another low, green bed.

But then, he realized, she didn't follow him there. Instead, she looked in the wrong direction, directing her attention to a different place completely apart from the brown bunny. In fact, she appeared to be speaking what was only a pile of dry soil.

His stomach fell. What was wrong with her? She'd been perfectly delightful, and now she was having a conversation with garden dirt a similar shade of brown. Did she think the soil was alive? Did she think it was her bunny?

Nick felt as if he was being punched as he watched her trailing her hands over the sprouts. She slowly but deliberately patted the tiny plants and inhaled when she shut her eyes. She was feeling for something. Nick knew that people derived all sorts of energy from plants, but he'd never seen this, except when he had a patient who…and then he understood. It made perfect sense.

She hadn't seen him at the patisserie , he'd been too close. She knew her way around London, because she walked toward the points in the distance, but she couldn't see the rabbit when it was closer than a meter from her. Nor could she see the sprouts in the soil and how many of their budding leaves that the rabbit had gnawed off.

"Hyperopia!" Nick blurted out.

She stopped her perusal of the little plants, straightened her back, and turned to cast him a fierce look. "I beg your pardon?"

*

Pippa was flushed from the heat, or perhaps the intensity of the doctor's gaze. She wasn't quite certain. Plus, he'd called her something, a name she didn't recognize. Pippa bristled. She'd been called too much already. Her father never defended her, and it gave the gossips of the Ton leeway to mock Pippa without restraint.

"What did you call me?" she asked with as much dignity as she could muster. She'd never brought a stranger into the orangery. And yet, the first time she did, he called her a Greek name and stared at her as if fascinated. Or repulsed, more the like. Her heart tumbled to her stomach; she'd been enjoying this young man and his company. He was kind, he was polite, he was smart…and he was handsome. Beyond that, he was different from the men of the Ton, who always seemed to make her uncomfortable. Until this moment, at any rate.

"You are farsighted. Hyperopia is a refractive error, not a name that I called you. What it means is that you—because of your condition—see nearby objects blurry."

How did he guess her secret? "I see perfectly well," Pippa said and put her hands on her hips. Perhaps not a ladylike posture, but certainly one which exhibited her dismay.

Nick shook his head. He seemed oddly delighted. "No, not when something is close. That's why you didn't see me at the patissier's counter. And it's why you are feeling for your saplings and talking to a heap of soil instead of Truffles."

She gasped sharply and took several steps away, her eyes searching for the bunny.

"See, that's a coping mechanism. You step away from things to see them better."

"How would you know?" She realized that exasperation pierced her voice, but she didn't care.

He shrugged. She could see that at least but decided that to point that out wouldn't make a difference at this point. "I'm an oculist. It's my job to diagnose—"

"I don't need a diagnosis, Dr. Folsham. Thank you very much. I thought you were a real doctor, for the body and such."

"Eyes are part of the body." Again, he shrugged.

She deliberately narrowed her eyes at him. Pippa didn't like it when people spoke about her flaws. She'd had more of that than she cared to admit, and no tolerance left to stomach being mocked.

He didn't seem to notice that she was unhappy with his line of questioning, or reasoning, or accusation, or whatever it was. "Tell me, Pippa, do you get headaches when you read for a long period?" He didn't even wait for her answer. Instead, he continued, "I can see that you make up for the blurry vision with touch. It's perfectly logical to compensate for the deficit of one sense with another."

"Deficit?" She mumbled. She'd never wished to hear these words from a man as handsome as the one before her. "You find me deficient?" Her heart sank, and she could barely say the words. He'd be so kind and gentle. The fact that he didn't know her family was an advantage, she'd hoped, because he didn't realize the many nasty things she'd been called. Although Pippa had never considered mingling outside the Ton, the idea of being outside the circle of people who made her feel smaller than a speck of dust had appealed to her. It was the first thought on her mind when she'd fallen onto the handsome stranger's lap. She had a scarf full of whipped cream but a clean slate with him.

"Don't misunderstand me, please. A vision deficit doesn't mean you are deficient in any way."

His gaze washed over her, and she shivered. Nick—Dr. Folsham—made her feel things she and everyone she knew considered absolutely improper, but he hadn't even touched her. But when he looked at her, a bolt of heat shot up her arms and through her chest until it settled deep under her belly.

"I'm sorry. I have to go; an important surgery is waiting for me."

She nodded, speechless and mesmerized by him.

"But please. Come to my office any time and get fitted for a pair of eyeglasses. You'll see so much clearer." With these words, he handed her a white card, bid her goodbye, and left with his little dog following alongside him with a wagging tail.

Pippa fumed.

How dare he call her deficient!

Although, it would explain everything, wouldn't it?

Realization fell heavily over Pippa like a hammer on an anvil.

She didn't see well.

She needed glasses.

And the handsome doctor offered to help.

He could give her exactly what she needed.