Page 4 of The Lady (Daughters of Dishonour #3)

“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.

Unfolding his handkerchief, he pressed it against the wound. Only then did he lift his eyes to check her face, to access what her reaction was.

Lady Flora’s cheeks were scarlet, her breathing rapid, and her eyes wide.

For a moment, Philip felt a rush of pleasure as he realised she was encountering a moment of awareness.

Was it arrogant to think it was lust? Certainly, her pupils had dilated in such a way that might indicate such a feeling, and one of her hands had drifted to rest on her chest, as if she was trying to control her breathing.

Perhaps it was the first time she had experienced such a thing.

Had none of her gentlemen callers ever so much as kissed Lady Flora?

The beau monde did do things differently he supposed.

There were so many rules for unwed ladies.

Taking up her nearest hand, he pulled it over and pressed it against the damp handkerchief. “A good amount of pressure should do the trick.”

“I’ve had such injuries before and never required such attentions,” Lady Flora said. It sounded almost scolding, as if she knew there had been an undercurrent to his actions. Guilt flamed through Philip as he admonished himself for not behaving in an appropriate manner.

“Nonetheless, perhaps your attentions will prevent a scar. For which I am grateful. As will be, I suppose, my future husband.” Lady Flora said.

“Will you join me for some tea, I believe that would be a good way of repaying such generosity on your part, Doctor? Besides, I am not sure I can afford your fees.”

Ignoring her dig about fees since, he assumed, it was a pointed reference to his supposed affair with Lady Wheeler, Philip said, “I would not dream of inconveniencing you any further, my lady.”

“No, I insist, after all we are not merely doctor and patient, are we?”

Without much wit to properly form the reply he would like to make, Philip moved to the bell pull and summoned a footman.

Lady Flora ordered tea and cake, and when the servant had departed, they lapsed into an uneasy silence, both of them subtly studying the other and waiting for what the other might say next.

“I don’t suppose you would recall our first meeting.” Lady Flora sounded so light that her voice might have been a pleasant breeze, tripping and dainty.

“I do indeed. It was at my brother’s wedding. As well as your brother’s, the duke. To different ladies. Obviously.”

“Yes,” Lady Flora said, “I thought it was a beautiful day, although one which caused a great deal of talk.”

She might have been referring to any number of things with this comment, but when he looked at her face, Philip knew Lady Flora was alluding to his presence at the ceremony.

“I have never been embarrassed by my heritage.”

There was a pause, and he saw Lady Flora smile, one which lit up her face.

“Of course not, you have precisely what your brother Langley has, his quality of self-assurance.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Hmm.” She made a strange little noise, “Not everyone would consider that a compliment.”

“No, certainly based on Langley’s reputation a decade ago that would be warranted, but he is a changed man. The very definition of a reformed rake.”

“A great number of women… Well, I suppose we are beyond such formalities now, but your reputation is certainly like that of your brother’s. At least amongst the ladies of my acquaintance.”

Of all the unfair things that had happened in his life, this seemed deeply unjust charge.

After all, Philip was indeed a bastard. His mother, the Dowager Countess of Langley, had been amorous with a footman, and he had been the result.

With the previous Langley out of the country, Philip had to be shipped off since he could not be passed off as the earl’s.

Of that “crime” he was guilty or as much as an innocent babe could be deemed responsible for the actions of his parents’.

However, it seemed his brother’s prior rakish name, and his own mother’s, was now damaging his good name.

He was of a bad repute despite never making love to any one of the ton -ish ladies who had offered.

He was tainted by his brother and his mother’s reputations.

But how exactly could he tell Lady Flora that?