She would ensure that Dr. Whitaker healed.
She would do what she could to convince him that he did not, indeed, wish to assume the title of Lord Lockheade. How she was to accomplish this . . . she had no idea. But surely something would occur to her.
Margaret smiled in parting and climbed into the carriage, the nurse and men following. A footman slid hot bricks in after them to provide warmth. Lottie did not envy them the cold journey to London.
She watched until the carriage disappeared into the fir trees lining the lane.
Grandmère was still abed. Her grandmother held a Parisian attitude toward mornings—they were to be slept through or, if she chose to awake before noon, experienced in bed with a pot of chocolate and a bundle of letters from her vast circle of intellectual friends.
In short, Grandmère would not leave her chambers before luncheon.
Which left Lottie with a Scottish physician to attend.
Well, she supposed she needn’t do much for Dr. Whitaker.
He was asleep, last she had asked. He had awakened earlier, eaten a bit, and then drunk down another dose of laudanum. A maid had been assigned to sit in the room, darning socks and mending clothing, keeping watch as the doctor slept.
Lottie was not needed there.
Her goal was to keep the man comfortable and healing but not keen to take up residence. Hovering and caring would be anathema to this.
Sheknewthat.
And yet . . . her feet seemed incapable of taking her anywhere else in the house.
It was just . . .
Dr. Whitaker was . . . interesting.
There.
She admitted as much to herself.
He was so very different from primped dandies who swore by champagne to shine their boots. Or bucks who loudly recounted a recent carriage race. Self-important men like Nettlesby who saw Lottie as another potential accessory for their lives. A bauble to be collected.
Despite the brevity of their acquaintance, Lottie sensed Dr. Whitaker saw her as a person, unique and valued beyond her pretty face. After all, people lived or died at his hand. Hehadto see each one as an individual.
How would the marquisate fare were a man such as Dr. Whitaker at the helm? A man who had been trained to notice and heal?
Was it like Ferndown and Lord Frank claimed? That only those born and tutored in the peerage could effectively govern it?
Or did a man’s innate character and competence matter more?
Logic told her that the latter was the weightier factor.
She sighed.
Such thoughts were at complete odds to her mission and goals; therefore, she would be wise to banish them.
Focus on Freddie.
Even knowing that, her feet led her up the stairs and into the main bedchamber where Dr. Whitaker lay.
Stepping into his darkened room felt a little like sneaking into a dragon’s lair, the sort from a child’s fairy tale. The thrilling sense of lurking danger—of reaching for something forbidden and potentially dangerous, but oh-so-alluring, it was nigh impossible to resist.
The drawn window curtains, red velvet bed-hangings, and golden lap of the dancing fire in the hearth did nothing to dispel her fanciful thoughts. The room was awash in blood red and flickering flame.
Lottie crossed to the enormous poster bed, motioning for the maid to stay seated. The girl nodded and went back to her mending.
