“If it’s any consolation, your sense of modesty is common. I see it every day in my practice. But please be frank. I’m sure I can help remedy whatever is troubling you.”
Rosalind hesitated. “The fact is,” she began, then blew out a small breath, embarrassed to be talking to a stranger about such private matters.
“Please, go on,” Dr. Swindell prompted, cool and unruffled.
“Well…you see, lately”-another small sustaining breath-“after having been long celibate, I’ve engaged in rather a good deal of intercourse. As a result, I experienced a decided tenderness-much improved now,” she quickly added.
“Yours is a very ordinary complaint, my dear. Women who haven’t previously engaged in sexual relations or those who have become active again after a long hiatus often feel as you do. If I could examine you, however, I could better determine whether some remedy is required.”
Rosalind blushed furiously. “I couldn’t possibly. Not now. The store is open until six, I’m here alone, and actually I feel quite well again.”
The doctor checked a small jeweled timepiece pinned to the lapel of her grey tailored suit. “Since you won’t be available for several hours, why don’t I leave you some salve. It will alleviate any tenderness. Then, at your convenience, you could come round to my office. I don’t anticipate anything of a serious nature, but an examination would allow a proper diagnosis. My office is in my home, so you could make an appointment for any evening.” Opening her leather valise, she rummaged through its contents and came up with a small jar. “Apply this to your tender areas as needed. Also, a good hot soak in the tub does wonders,” she added with a smile, handing the jar to Rosalind. “Do you have any other complaints? ”
Only that a libertine duke has embarrassed me by sending over a complete stranger. At the word libertine, Rosalind was suddenly seized by panic. A libertine was by definition promiscuous. Might she have contracted some dreadful disease from Fitz? “Maybe I should make an appointment now,” she said.
In her years of practicing medicine, Dr. Swindell had become adept at reading people. She recognized fear when she saw it. “How does tomorrow at seven sound? ”
“Tomorrow at seven would be most welcome.” The prospect of having to worry about some dire affliction for a protracted period of time would have been torture.
“Let me give you directions.” The doctor wrote down her address on a page from a small notepad. “There now.” She tore off the sheet and handed it to Rosalind with another warm smile. “Until tomorrow, my dear.”
At the doctor’s departure, Rosalind was left with an unsettling sense of unease.
Walking back to the counter to dispose of the jar and note, she glanced at the clock. Bloody hell, she had hours yet before she could lock up the store. Much too much time to worry about possible unsavory repercussions from Fitz’s prodigal past, she thought, nervously fussing with the papers on the counter before her. Too much time to concern herself with potentially alarming diseases. Why hadn’t she thought of the risks before she succumbed to his charm? How could she have been so incautious?
Even as she asked herself the questions, she knew why. She’d been tempted like all the women before her-by his dark good looks and flagrant masculinity, by his seductive smile and practiced charm, by the sensational pleasure he dispensed with such facility.
Despite short interruptions by customers that afternoon, the tumult in her brain continued apace-the question of should she or shouldn’t she have succumbed, the more fearsome issue of possible medical problems, the continuous steamy memories of Fitz doing what he did best.
She kept her eye on the clock as she wrote up new orders a short time later, willing the hands to move more quickly as a bored child might. Although longing for the six-o’clock hour had nothing to do with boredom and everything to do with escaping the public eye. She needed time alone to deal with her turbulent, conflicted emotions. She needed the quiet of her apartment to put everything into perspective, to remind herself that she’d had a life before Fitz. A busy, contented life.
Hearing the shop door open, she looked up and was shocked out of her musing. There he was, as if conjured him up from her imagination.
“What are you doing here? ” she tartly asked, his casual appearance annoying. Particularly when her own feelings were in anarchy.
Fitz quickly checked to see if she was picking up anything heavy to heave at him and was pleased to see nothing but the weightiness of her scowl. “I told myself to stay away, but as you see, I couldn’t,” he said, opening his arms in a brief gesture of demur. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner tonight? Anywhere you like.” He was offering her carte blanche, knowing full well they would likely meet friends of his. But no more than he’d scrutinized why he’d come here after Clarissa’s, he ignored the issue of his friends. It was about casual sex, he told himself, and nothing more. Why shouldn’t he treat her like any other lover?
Instead of politely accepting his invitation, Rosalind gave him a hard, gimlet-eyed look. “How could you have a doctor call on me? I might very well have been embarrassed in front of my customers!”
“I doubt it. Hutchinson would have warned her about the need for discretion. Did you like her? ”
“Do you actually care?” she shot back, irritated by his cool composure, by his exquisite pale linen suit that cost a fortune, by the fact that he felt no compunction about blatantly interfering in her life. “Admit, the only reason you had her sent over was to make sure nothing curtailed your libertine pleasures. And speaking of libertine”-she jabbed her finger at him-“if you gave me some ghastly disease, so help me God, I’ll do you in somehow!”
“Relax,” he said smoothly, undeterred by her threats. “I don’t have any diseases. Believe me, I’m probably more phobic than you about contracting something that might kill me.” His smile flashed, quicksilver and waggish. “Consider, I have much more to lose than you.”
She should have taken issue with his comparison, but she was so relieved, she unintentionally smiled. Not willing to so easily absolve him from his past sins, she hastened to scowl again. “Everything isn’t about money, Groveland.”
“After our rather intimate relationship, feel free to call me Fitz.” He chose not to argue about the seasoned orthodoxy concerning the virtues of wealth. “And if you don’t mind, I won’t address you as Mrs. St. Vincent unless we’re out in public.”
“You needn’t worry. I shan’t be going out in public with you again,” she acerbically returned. “Last night at the Turner exhibit was more than enough embarrassment for me.”
He bowed with practiced grace. “Please, accept my apologies.” Not that he hadn’t apologized to her lavishly and unstintingly at Mertenside last night.
“It’s a little late for apologies.” She wasn’t in a reasonable mood. He was much too blasй, too familiar as well with making amends to women and being forgiven. At base, too inexcusably privileged to understand ordinary mortals. His emerald watch fob alone would feed a family for years.
“Come to dinner with me. You set the rules.”
Certainly that was capitulation-or suave charm, more like. Nevertheless, perhaps for purely practical reasons, she should consider taking Mrs. Beecham’s suggestion and put herself out to please the Duke of Groveland. On the other hand, Mrs. Beecham might be shocked to learn how very far she’d already put herself out for him.