Page 11 of If You Were the Only Girl in the World
“I did.” She beamed at him, attired in her own white blouse and black suit skirt. One leg was in its stocking and shoe, the other leg, wrapped in a large towel lumpy with ice. She shifted in her chair and pointed to her affected ankle up on a footstool. “Thanks to you and those three draughts of brandy, I never felt my ankle all night long. I might not even now.”
“A fine idea. Stay where you are. We will whirl around you.”
She rolled her eyes. “A helpless lady. Not my style, sir.”
“Nonetheless.” Leaving the door ajar for propriety’s sake, he took a step inside. A morning breeze swept up her hair from her shoulder, granting her a carefree look that struck him. How long had it been since he’d seen any woman charmed by the sun and wind? His gaze drifted to the far casement window, the drapes pulled back to let in the sun and air. “Would you like to go downstairs and out on the veranda? Take in the fine air and warmth directly?”
“I would. But I fear for your back, sir.”
“I’m in excellent shape.”
Her gaze roamed over him with appreciation.
He welcomed the accolade.
“Still.” She seemed to shake herself. “I’m fine as I am.”
“Should you change your mind, let me know. Fitz just left for the Durrand to fetch your bags. He should return soon and bring them up. I am on my way to meetings, but before that, I go to the Durrand myself to impress upon them the need to forward any correspondence for you here.”
“Thank you. Getting a reservation on a packet across the Channel is a bit of a nightmare.”
“I understand. One thing more before I go. I don’t want you to be surprised but we are not alone here. One of my cousins stays here in the house, too. Dylan Hanniford just arrived from Texas and is on the way to France himself. You didn’t meet him last night because he was out later than usual with his friends. I’ll make a note to him to have him come introduce himself to you.”
“Good. I’d be happy to meet him.”
“Wonderful. I’ll check in on you this evening.”
“I look forward to it.”
He stared at her. When was the last time he had felt this urge to take a woman in his arms and keep her there? “So do I.”
* * *
Three evenings later, Katrina ventured the grand staircase down. Dinner was served and she’d told Fitz earlier that if Lord Carbury was in for the evening, she’d love to join him.
She wearied of her time in her suite. Luxurious as it was, she’d become testy with her own company. She fought with her rebellious self that what she really wanted was not just any company but the excellent conversation of Nate. Oh, he’d popped in to see her morning or night as he went out or returned for the evening. But his evenings were usually late ones—and as far as she could tell, though she never inquired, he attended casual meetings with fellow officers.
She’d also met just briefly his cousin Dylan Hanniford. That young man was as tall and devastatingly handsome as Nate, and appeared to be the same age as Nate. Unlike Nate, Dylan wore only civilian clothes. His speech, a mix of British accent and a touch of flat American, intrigued her. She was drawn to this evening’s dinner hour not only to sit with Nate but to learn more about Dylan. The name Hanniford had struck a bell with her and it had taken her a full afternoon of pondering before she asked Fitz about the name.
What he told her struck her to her toes. Hanniford, the family of famous millionaire and American businessman Killian, was the one that ranked with the likes of Carnegie and Morgan. Vanderbilt too. Killian Hanniford had emigrated from Ireland to Baltimore when he was young, taking with him his young sister. There he built ships, bought factories, engaged in blockade running briefly, only to end it all when he realized he prolonged the American Civil War by doing so. After that, he had made it his life’s work to build useful products. His son, Pierce continued the practice and was known for aiding cities and towns building suitable drains and sewers, fine roads and accessible ports. No less famous were the women of the Hanniford family. Born into it and married into it, the women were notable. Fitz had met Killian’s wife, Olivia, who had begun a prestigious decorating business. Other women in the family, said the butler, were into everything imaginable. Killian’s daughters came to town occasionally, but less so since the war began. Fitz had a hard time remembering which women in the family did precisely what. But they were good at it. All had many children, too. They had combined their personal lives with their professional ones successfully. Quite a unique accomplishment in this day and age.
When she turned into the yellow salon where she’d been welcome three nights ago, she grasped the back of one chair at the sight of the two men together. Truly, the Hannifords were graced with the finest looks in Britain. The prospect of a delightful evening with two such men was one she’d not had the pleasure of in many years. Women in medical school were often regarded as two-headed creatures who belonged in the kitchen or the nursery.
Both men turned to her with smiles on their faces. At once she noted that despite their same height and obvious healthy complexions and dark hair, Nate and Dylan did not look alike. Nate had more dark brown than red to his locks, while Dylan possessed more red highlights in his hair.
Nate came to her side, his arm out. “We’re happy to see you down.”
“And delighted we’ll have such good company too.” Dylan added. “This fellow can be a bore. And not very pretty, either.”
Nate stared down at her, his greeting suffusing her with the mellow delight she’d grown to expect each time he came to see to her welfare.
“Come sit with us.” Dylan moved to hoist the decanter in offer. “I can see how lovely the lady doctor is and I can tell you, I’ve seen few her equal.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. You are much too kind.” She hobbled toward the large Chippendale and sat with relief. “I was dreadfully bored upstairs. My ankle will be much improved by your wit.”
“Ah, expect not much from him!” Dylan gestured as he poured her a sherry and placed it in her hand. “He can talk only of supplies. What’s tonight’s issue, Nate? Bandages?”
Nate took the chair to one side of hers and sighed. His expression was resigned. “Surgical needles.”
