AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Who is the lord of this manor?” Miranda’s mother imperiously demanded of the hovering housekeeper. “I expect the best rooms to be prepared right away." Her lips were pinched in pain and when she tried to move the countess cried out in pain.
“Mother, what is it?” Henry asked, his brows furrowed with concern.
Mamma had insisted he accompanied them to Lady Peregrine’s house party, putting a halt to the amusements he had planned for himself in town. Her brother had not been a happy follower, but invariably he always obeyed Mamma’s commands.
"My right ankle pains me horribly," she replied, her eyes watering.
“I’ll summon Dr. Astor right away, milady," Mrs. Clayton replied and scuttled from the room.
Miranda swiped the wet ringlets from her face and glanced around. It was an impressive manor and elegantly appointed. The hallway was lined with richly carved oak paneling, and the décor one of luxurious elegance. How fortunate a physician had been on call here and could have attended them so readily. She dearly hoped that the little boy would be well.
The sound of booted feet echoed in the distance and the man who had been out in the ghastly weather barking commands appeared. In the dark by the bridge, it had been very hard to ascertain his features. Now under the warm glow of candles and lamps, he looked a bit wild and unkempt but so astonishingly virile he stole her breath.
His Hessian boots were muddied, his black hair plastered to his forehead, his white shirt clung to the wall of his chest, and with each movement, the muscles rippled and twisted. The man was shockingly without a jacket or a waistcoat, and his cravat was unknotted. His gaze narrowed in on Miranda. His eyes were the darkest blue of midnight—and she fancied she could drown in their unfathomable depths. A sweet, mystifying ache trembled low in her belly, and it appalled her for she’d never had such a reaction to any gentleman before in all her years. It shocked her that he did not give her more than a cursory glance. No doubt she looked like a drowned rat.
Those eyes returned to her. “Are you hurt, miss?”
Before she could reply, her mother bit out, “It is Lady Miranda to you, Sir, and I am Countess Langford.”
Brief irritation furrowed his brow, but then he bowed with charming elegance and clipped, “Are you hurt, Lady Miranda?”
“Are you a physician?” her mother demanded.
“I am, my lady. I am Dr. Simon Astor.”
Her belly flipped when his regard returned to her. "I ask again, are you hurt?”
She assessed him with a critical eye. “I am not, Sir, but Mamma has been piteously complaining of a pain in her ankle.”
He moved then with sharp competency despite her mother’s bluster.
“May I have permission to lift you in my arms, my lady?”
Her mother gasped, flushed, and glared at him. Miranda bit back her smile.
“If you wish, I could summon two footmen to assist you. Or perhaps your son might do the honors.”
Her mother nodded, and he swept her into his arms with impressive strength. With quick strides, he made his way down the hallway, and Miranda hurried after them with Henry following. A maid opened a large oak-paneled door, and they entered a small but tastefully furnished parlor. He lowered her mother to the chaise longue with care, then glanced at the hovering maid.
“A basin of warm water, towels, and strips of linens. Also the rubbing liniment.”
The maid hurried away to do his bidding. A clap of thunder startled Miranda, and she rushed to her mother's side. The doctor tried to remove her mother's boot to her great distress. Her pain was genuine, and she clasped her mother's hand and muttered soothing nonsense.
“We will have to cut this boot off,” he said. “The ankle is too swollen and will cause you considerable pain if I should attempt to tug it off.”
Her mother’s eyes glistened with tears, and her lips were pinched. “Very well,” she said with a s
niff. “Please do hurry about it, I am dreadfully uncomfortable and put out!”
A decidedly imperious brow rose from the doctor, but he made no reply and went to work, and soon after the swollen ankle was freed. The stockings were removed, and Miranda gasped to see the awful mottled purple which surrounded her mother’s ankle down to her toes.
“Good heaven, mother!” Henry exclaimed, bending for a closer inspection.
“What is wrong?” Miranda asked anxiously.
Dr. Astor sent her a reassuring smile while tenderly probing her mother’s ankle. “It seems there is a bad sprain.”
"I believe it happened when I was flung from the seat of the carriage, and I struggled to find purchase. I placed most of my weight on this right leg, and there was horrible pain," her mother said fretfully.
