He really should hire an assistant. He’d tried twice, with men just completing their medical training at St. Bartholomew’s, but they never stayed long. They learned what they could from him, and then left for London or Bath, where people could actually afford to pay for a doctor’s care.
The worst of it was that since his visit to Starberry Court the night before he couldn’t stop thinking—for the first time in his life—that perhaps he should go to London. But each time, the thought was met by scornful reality: proximity wouldn’t bring him any closer to Miss Laetitia Rainsford.
The distance between them was insurmountable. And the fact that he saw a look in her eyes that echoed the longing in his heart . . . that was irrelevant. A woman like her—astonishingly beautiful, intelligent, with luscious curves, the daughter of a lady (no matter how much of a harridan that lady might be)—wasn’t for him.
He was disheveled and exhausted, and he still faced a waiting room full of patients who would run the gamut from merely irritable to dangerously ill.
Sarah was nowhere to be seen when he stepped into the entry although, to his great surprise, he heard none of the usual crying or cursing coming from his waiting room. First he would see which patients were desperately in need of help. After that, he’d try to find something to eat, because he’d had nothing since four o’clock the previous afternoon.
He braced himself for whatever he might find on the other side of the waiting room door, pushed it open, and stopped short.
She was there.
His patients were arrayed around the room, sipping tea as if they were at a party—well, all except that small boy with flushed cheeks, who definitely had a high fever. And she looked across at him with a smile that sent a bolt of lust all the way to his knees.
John wasn’t a man who lost control of his loins . . . and yet he was abruptly glad that his coat was cut unfashionably low. Miss Laetitia Rainsford was so damned beautiful.
Walking gracefully toward him, she counted off the patients on her fingers, described their conditions, and explained that there were no urgent cases. There was nothing he had to do this very moment, and therefore he should restore himself before attending to them. He glanced around and saw all the patients nodding at him. Miss Rainsford had bound up an arm and put a patch on an elderly man’s forehead.
He still hadn’t said a word, and an uncertain look crossed her face. “Cook has a hot meal waiting for you,” she said, sounding a bit hesitant.
Still, he didn’t speak.
He did the only thing he could, given the burst of feeling that spilled through his entire body. He caught her in his arms, and kissed her so hard that she bent over his arm.
But her arms wrapped around his neck, and she kissed him back.
He was dimly aware of cheering, but Dr. John Daniel Hatfield didn’t give a damn.
Chapter Twenty-six
Lady Rainsford descended from her bedchamber just in time for luncheon, which was enough to make India want to flee home to London. She hadn’t realized how profoundly disagreeable the woman was until she discovered that Lady Rainsford’s voice dominated whatever room she was in. Before the meal she talked on and on about the way society was degenerating into (if you listened to her) little better than a pack of wolves.
Fleming announced that Lala was confined to her chamber with a severe headache; all India could think was that if Lady Rainsford had been her mother, she would probably develop chronic migraines.
Luncheon was given over to a lecture on the medieval practices of royal ladies-in-waiting. All of which was meant to ensure that the entire party was made aware that Lady Rainsford had married beneath her.
At least, that would be India’s summation.