Page 3 of The Lady (Daughters of Dishonour #3)

Ten years later…

Doctor Philip Caton walked briskly along the streets of Mayfair.

It was the final few weeks of the Season, and soon, his easy treatment of the more luxurious and pampered ladies of the beau monde would cease as the lords and their wives headed off to their various country estates.

It was a straightforward way of making money—working with the ton .

They seemed, especially the wives and ladies who liked the fact he was the bastard of a countess.

It added a touch of fascination and thrill to the treatments he offered.

Besides, they paid enough so he could accept non-paying, poorer clients.

Today, however, was different. Philip moved with an easy nonchalance, enjoying the warmth of summer before it started getting too hot. Several townhouses were being or had been packed up, but he had nowhere urgent to be.

In this balmy afternoon light, he might make his way back through Green Park, enjoying the sights.

Alternatively, he might stop at Fortnum’s for a pleasing cup of tea and slice of rich walnut cake.

It would be pleasant to finally have London back to being his, without the rigmarole and fanfare of the beau monde and their blasted Season.

Somewhat unaware of his motives or surroundings, Philip turned down Bolton Street where his older brother’s home was located.

The beautiful mansion had changed in the last ten years.

Transforming from a debonair bachelor’s paradise to a sprawling family home, filled with noise, a set of twin boys, and so much laughter it fairly escaped through the walls.

The family had departed a week ago, heading back to his brother’s country estate for Margot’s upcoming birth.

Pausing to look up the facade, Philip experienced a tug of envy for his brother’s married life with Margot, and their happy young children.

Across town on Marchmont Street, no such bustling, friendly homestead awaited his return.

Just the company of his elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Wotton, and her niece, Miss Harris, who was working as a maid.

It made for a comfortable place, but not one he could feel especially sentimental about.

At thirty-six, he had always hoped he would have a homestead, but life had not worked out that way.

Such a lowering thought meant he would need to cheer himself up with a trip to Fortnum’s. Once there, he would ask for the largest slice of walnut cake available.

Philip’s footsteps stopped as he looked at the passenger alighting from the paused carriage close by.

An elegantly dressed woman descended from the barouche, her lady’s dress and frock coat were of a soft romantic lilac colour.

Her blonde hair gleaming richly in the sun beneath a neat little plumed hat, her expression was all serenity as she smiled in thanks at the footman, whilst the man helped her down.

Lady Flora Fitzsimmons.

Recognition crashed through Philip. His sister-in-law’s cousin…

Yes, that was right. That was how he was connected to such a grand lady.

He had met her years ago, not that she would remember that, and she had been a tall, skinny, blonde chit who, he fancied, had a passing infatuation with him.

Of course, they had been in company again for various christenings, and the occasional busy Christmas party, but Lady Flora had pointedly ignored him, and Philip thought it best to keep his distance.

If there had been any short-lived fancy on her part, it must have passed very quickly when she’d seen how much better she might do for herself amongst the gentlemen of Society.

She was now transformed into the most eligible woman in the ton, who might well be on the way to becoming a patroness of Almack’s.

She was that well-connected and sought after.

As the sister of a duke, not to mention being a striking blonde beauty possessed of famed sparkling grey eyes and a quick wit, Lady Flora was a catch.

She was a bright star amongst the beau monde.

With at least four proposals under her cap that even he had heard of, she had enough swains to deal with.

There had been some talk of a match between Lord Gilbert and her, but it had come to nought.

No, it seemed her ladyship was in no rush to wed unless she deemed it necessary, and clearly, none of the gentlemen or nobles had pleased her. Yet.

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?”