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Mrs. Thackpenny’s worth wasn’t precisely a topic of conversation in the beau monde’s most elite drawing rooms or ballrooms, but her sizeable fortune was the envy of many peers.

For all of Joy’s patience and attentiveness to her aged employer, her straight back, squared shoulders, and what might be considered an obstinate tilt to her delicate chin, indicated that Miss Joy Winterborne possessed a fiery spirit beneath her outwardly serene façade.

The sparks glinting in her brilliant blue eyes gave her away as well. Still, one had to observe her carefully to detect the almost imperceptible gleam of mutiny within their captivating depths. She guarded her secret well, as if afraid of discovery by her employer.

He had a hunch Mrs. Thackpenny wouldn’t appreciate a spitfire or a hellion for a companion. Although—he grinned—that interaction might be quite entertaining to observe.

Even Doctor Daggat had warned Brandon of the contentious Mrs. Thackpenny and also advised him to request payment at the time services were rendered. Or he’d likely never receive them.

It baffled him how she could be so stingy when she had plenty, while others survived on so very little. Charity obviously didn’t begin at home under Mrs. Thackpenny’s roof.

That was one of the reasons he’d chosen to pursue medicine rather than a career in the military or church, as was generally expected from nobles’ younger sons. Besides not having the temperament for either, he believed he could do more good for mankind as a physician.

It wasn’t that Brandon didn’t have a strong belief in God or that he didn’t attend Sunday services regularly. Being a man of the cloth wasn’t his calling, and he’d known it from a young age. The military held even less appeal for a man who wanted to heal people.

Father hadn’t been pleased. Not at all. Nevertheless, in the end, he’d given Brandon his blessing. He’d paid for Brandon’s education, and until his death two years ago, Father had even contributed funds to St. Peter’s House for the Impoverished and Infirm every quarter.

Brandon seriously doubted Mrs. Thackpenny would be as generous. Few of those blessed with great wealth were generous with their riches. According to Doctor Daggat, Mrs. Thackpenny was amongst those who hated to part with her coin.

When billed for his services, she was known to have sent Doctor Daggat leftover kidney or shepherd’s pie, a half-drunk bottle of wine, stale bread, a hideous needlepoint footstool, calf’s foot jelly procured from God only knew where, and once, a moth-eaten cloak. Daggat vowed the garment had been her husband’s, dead these past five decades.

Why the devil isn’t anyone answering the door?

Shifting his feet against the blistering cold, Brandon lifted his hand to knock again when the door finally swung open, creaking and scraping on unoiled hinges.

“Doctor Morrisette.”

A rather breathless, fresh-faced Miss Joy Winterborne greeted him with a winsome smile that stole the air from his lungs for a heartbeat.

“Forgive me for making you wait. I was, um…” She pressed a long-fingered hand to her trim middle, her throat working as she swallowed. “That is to say, we were making preparations for your visit.”

She glanced down self-consciously and brushed at the vibrant blue of her gown. Color bloomed across the delicate slope of her high cheekbones.

By Jove, she is blushing.

Because she’d anticipated his calling today?

Well, now, wasn’t that an unexpected but most excellent turn of events?

Primal male satisfaction winged through Brandon’s veins, heating his blood as a grin tugged the edges of his mouth upward.

This was the first time he’d seen Joy in anything other than dreary gray or dull brown frocks, and he couldn’t help but admire the becoming color on her. The hue did remarkable things to her glorious hair—the shade somewhere between a shimmering, coppery gold and rich, warm honey.

The long-sleeved gown hugged the gentle swells of her bosom and emphasized her tiny waist before flowing to the floor in a swirl of midnight. She’d secured a silver brooch atop the lace at her throat.

All in all, Miss Joy Winterborne looked very fetching, indeed.

“You are looking very well today.” He flashed her the practiced smile he used to calm nervous patients. “Is that a new gown?”

Her impossibly blue eyes went round, and her tongue darted out to wet the seam of her plump lips.

That was unforeseen and wholly telling as well.

The minx was as aware of Brandon as a man as he was of her as a very appealing woman.

“No.” She shook her head and snagged her lower lip between her neat white teeth as if to prevent herself from saying more.

Heaven help him, for the desire to taste that sweet mouth slammed into him with such unexpected force, Brandon felt as awkward as a first-year medical student. That his blood heated further condemned him as an inexperienced beginner.