Against every ounce of his better judgment—
Helikedher.
What afascinatingwoman.
More importantly, he needed to apologize.
Grovelingly, abjectly, submissively.
Tomorrow, if possible.
12
You wished to see me, Dr. Whitaker?” Lottie walked into the dragon’s bedchamber, stopping at the foot of his bed.
She had avoided the doctor for three days.
Three days of mentally constructing sharp retorts to hurl at his snapping eyes.
Three days of watching snow fall out the windowpane and listening to Grandmère’s drowsy snores.
Three days of sitting in the library, studying a treatise on the moral importance of a vegetal diet, and trying not to think of the good doctor lying in bed above her head.
She had steadfastly refused to visit him.
I dinnae need a pretty, feather-brained debutante tae recount how to practice my profession.
He clearly thought little of her, and she did not wish to give him the opportunity to abuse her sensibilities once more.
She had almost spurned his request to speak with her on principle alone.
But it seemed as if boredom propelled her to his room. Though she took a leisurely amount of time to do so. No need for the man to think that she had been waiting for him to snap his fingers.
She would not jump to his bidding.
Dr. Whitaker looked up from the bed, a relieved smile on his face. As if he were . . .pleased. . . to see her.
His eyes, however, held a wary hesitance.
Abruptly, he seemed akin to the doctor of her memory.
More Cousin Alex and less fiery dragon or stern Dr. Whitaker.
Had the strain of his visit and the distress of his injury altered his demeanor so thoroughly?
And was it only now, nearly two weeks after his accident, that the man was coming back to himself? To the man she met on that road so many years ago?
Granted, his leg was no longer in the bone box, so perhaps that lifted his mood? Earlier that morning, Dr. Smithson and two footmen had wrapped the injured leg with starched plaster bandages. Now the leg rested atop pillows as the bandages dried, looking like a white bale of wool.
Additionally, someone—a footman, if she had to guess—had assisted Dr. Whitaker in donning a banyan and scraping his jaw clean of whiskers and taming his hair.
Though, his hair perhaps wasn’t as tame-able as she supposed. At first glance, it appeared sleek and straight, like a mink’s pelt.
But mixed into the brown were strands of caramel and ginger, as if it struggled to commit to any one particular color. And there was one rogue lock near his right ear which curled defiantly against his temple.
Dr. Whitaker appeared so decisive, but his hair was fence-sitting, unsure which pose to strike.
“Thank ye for coming, Lady Charlotte. I regret that I cannae rise tae greet ye.” He smiled a bit wider and nodded toward his leg. “It goes against every last lesson my mother and tutors drilled into me as a lad. Will ye have a seat?” He motioned to the chair beside his bed.
