Page 4 of The Lady
Philip started to march forward, that slice of cake awaiting him, when a feminine gloved hand shot out and grabbed his arm, holding him in place. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
When he turned back, he found his gaze locked on a gentle oval of a face with a softly pointed chin, and cat-like eyes darker than he might have originally thought. Finally, there was a firmly sensual pout of a mouth. Suddenly, he was awash with the delicate but fragrant scent of jasmine that came from her. He had years ago dismissed her as a pretty girl, but now, she was all woman—and all the better for it.
“Doctor Caton.” Lady Flora had a pleasing voice. Melodious and he noticed with a touch of guilty embarrassment on his part, there was a note of voluptuous texture to the sound. “I did not expect you here, surely you know Langley has already left Town.”
“Yes, my lady, my business in Mayfair did not involve his lordship.”
“Did you mean to hurry past me without even saying good day.”
“No indeed.” Philip lied.
“I rather think you did.” Lady Flora laughed, her mirth teasing and light, in a manner which confused Philip immensely. She released his arm, and gestured towards the nearby townhouse, where her own brother and his family lived. “As always you are a man of business, rushing here, there, and everywhere. Never a stone or a coin unturned. I hear you are most eager to be at the Countess of Wheeler’s house?—”
It was true the countess was indeed one of his most dependable patients. The woman was becoming increasingly desperate, it seemed, to convince him to become her lover. Though of course, none of that could be said to Lady Flora. However, she was watching him with a rather knowing look, as if she suspected as much.
Several steps above where they stood on the street, the front doorway to the Duke of Ashmore’s home opened, and the butler moved onto the first step ready to usher Lady Flora inside. Behind the servant came a short sharp bark, and a black spaniel, perhaps a little elderly and uneven in his gait, rushed down the steps, eager to reach his owner.
His mistress let out a gasp of surprise and said lovingly, “Lancelot” as the spaniel crashed into her legs, sending her flying backwards.
Philip instinctively grabbed at her, snatching at her hands before trying to catch her to him, but Lady Flora’s leg had already given way beneath the dog’s urgings. Philip saw with dismay as he pulled her upright that there was a small circle of blood pooling through the gown, where her kneecap must have buckled and hit the pavement.
Her eyes widened as Philip held on to her, his hands moving down her body to assess the injury.
There was a general hullabaloo around them as the servants caught up to Lancelot, and they asked after Lady Flora, fearful for her well-being.
“Carry her inside,” Philip heard one of the grooms say, and believing this to be an excellent idea, more because he wished to be off the street than actual fear for her life, he bent and scooped up Lady Flora, preceding up the steps into the Mayfair residence. It was cooler inside the hallway, the effect coming from the soft calming ecru wallpaper, and cream marble as Philip looked around himself.
“I find this attention unnecessary,” Lady Flora said, from her position in his arms.
He looked sideways at her face and detected an arch smile playing around her lips.
Determined not to be undermined, Philip made for the nearest door, kicking it open as the servants were still outside dealing with the dog and carriage. Thankfully, he had selected a salon which happened not to be an overly ornate one, but it at least did possess a plum velveteen settee. Not especially large, but big enough to accommodate Lady Flora’s frame.
“Your dog is misnamed.” he said as he walked over to the sofa and lowered his charge down onto the cushioned seat.
To this levy, Lady Flora only laughed. “I did not name him, that was my sister-in-law’s choice. The duchess is not at home at present to be blamed for her error.”
Having deposited her, Philip looked around the salon. Where was a chaperone? In his distraction, Lady Flora leant over her own knee and gently touched her injury. She flinched. Casting aside such worries of propriety, Philip dropped down onto his knees before her.
He realised as he looked up into her face, that this was the pose of a proposal, which explained why Lady Flora laughingly said: “That is a little much surely, Doctor Caton?”
“I meant to ascertain the extent of the injury, my lady.”
“I know.” She was laughing at him. “I was merely teasing you.” She paused and then added, “Lady Wheeler swears by your…” Her voice trailed off as Philip took hold of the edge of her gown and started to inch it higher, exposing her limbs.
“Lady Wheeler has often expressed views and opinions that I myself do not agree with.” He hoped that would be enough to satisfy whatever her ladyship might have heard, but when he glanced up at Lady Flora, he saw she wore a new expression, as if she was not entirely certain of his actions.
“Would you rather wait for your maid?”
“No indeed, it is nothing more than a scratch, I am sure.” She started to shift, but in one fluid movement Philip hitched her skirt up, over her knees, exposing the delicate stitching of her stockings, one which had a jarringly large hole in it. From this rip came a slowly weeping scratch of blood. With as much softness as he could, ignoring the sight of her long shapely limbs, and the neatness of her ankles in her heeled shoes, Philip rolled down the damaged stocking, to better expose the damage.
“I think I will live,” Lady Flora said, again attempting to sound lighthearted, but her voice was a notch thicker than it had previously been. Philip refused to look up in case he was imagining her response and attributing feelings to such a reaction.
Hastily, he banished such thoughts from his mind, the numerous reasons far more illicit than a good doctor should be thinking of when lifting her skirts.
Now he could see the wound. It was a scratch, and the blood was starting to clot. He knew it was nothing serious, but he could not help himself from leaning closer and, ever so softly, blowing on her kneecap to take the sting out of the injury.
The action stirred his blood and heightened his senses as he heard her surprised gasp.
