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 theton—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 discussingDushenka.”
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.
