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No, blister it, he felt as inept and clumsy as when he’d lost his virginity at sixteen to the buxom, older parlor maid who’d been flirting with him for months. What Brandon had lacked in finesse he’d made up for in endurance, and he and Marissa had enjoyed each other that summer until he’d gone off to university.

She’d been Brandon’s one and only lover, for he’d found he didn’t have the disposition for casual intimate encounters. They seemed shallow, and though his view was unpopular, he’d always believed sex was an expression of love. Not just a carnal urge.

Later, as a physician, his knowledge of the havoc sexually transmitted diseases wreaked upon humans kept him from jumping in and out of beds with the same proclivity as many of his friends.

For that matter, his older brothers, too, before they’d wed.

He couldn’t count the times he’d been mocked for his abstinence and had long since developed a tough hide regarding the ribbing.

Setting his well-used brown leather bag on the half-table, the only piece of furniture in the entry other than a slightly lopsided straight back chair, Brandon examined the dim interior.

He’d never seen it otherwise.

Always dull and gloomy and fusty.

So unlike the vibrant woman beside him with her reddish-blond hair and sparkling blue eyes fringed by thick lashes. She should be surrounded by color and light.

“I hope you didn’t become chilled while waiting,” she murmured before giving him an unconstrained, breathtaking smile.

That simple upward bend of her mouth directed toward him scattered his wits. The wintery breeze blew them like thistledown, pell-mell along the lane. His attention remained riveted on her tempting, parted lips as his mind pondered if they’d taste of peaches and cream.

“Doctor?”

Her winged reddish eyebrows puzzled together, she gazed at him expectantly, one arm extended and indicating he should enter the house.

Brandon scrambled to come back to himself and recall what she’d said.

Chilled.

Yes, she fretted that he’d taken a chill.

In truth, he was more likely to do so inside the house, which, in his experience, was always underheated.

“It’s of no matter.” Forcing a nonchalant smile, he stepped across the threshold. “It’s a fine day outside.”

If you could count a cold, blustery December day as such. Nonetheless, the sun valiantly shone through the few scattered pewter clouds, and the wind but teased rather than blew with any real determination to cause discomfort.

Joy peered past him, a wistful expression skittering across her face. “It does look to be so.”

She glanced upward, meeting his eyes, and he noticed the dark blue ring around her iris. It was exactly the same shade as her gown. She had quite the loveliest eyes, and he found himself boldly staring. A man could drown in those sapphire depths and not mind it in the least.

“Even though I don’t like the cold, I’ve always liked the winter, especially when it snows.” She raised one sloping shoulder and inch. “I suppose it’s because I was born in December.”

Winterborne.

“Your birthday is this month?”

“Yes, the seventeenth.”

Assessing her, he narrowed his eyes the merest bit.

How old was Miss Joy Winterborne anyway?

Running his gaze over her face, Brandon examined the creamy skin, the clear blue eyes, and the aristocratic bone structure.

Somewhere in the middle of her third decade, he decided.

Had her family fallen on hard financial times, and she’d been obligated to find employment? If so, hers was a common enough tale.