First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4)(92)

Dr. and Dr. Rokesby. What a thing that would be. Alas, her inquiries at the University of Edinburgh had been met with incredulity.

Someday a woman would be granted a degree in medicine. Georgie was certain of it. But not in her lifetime.

Unfortunately, she was certain of that, too.

“Dr. Rokesby!” she called out. Nicholas was treating another patient in the next room, one with a much more serious condition than Mr. Bailey’s lacerated arm.

Nicholas poked his head in. “Is there a problem?”

“Mr. Bailey would prefer that you stitch his arm,” Georgie replied.

“I assure you, you don’t,” he said, directing his words at Mr. Bailey. “My wife is far more skilled with a needle than I am.”

“But you are the doctor.”

Georgie rolled her eyes in anticipation of what she knew Nicholas would say. They’d been through this before, and she knew it was the only way to convince men like Mr. Bailey, but still, it was galling.

“She’s a woman, Mr. Bailey,” Nicholas said with a condescending smile. “Aren’t they always better with needles and thread?”

“I suppose …”

“Let me see what she’s done thus far.”

Mr. Bailey showed Nicholas his arm. Georgie hadn’t managed to get much done before he’d balked at having been placed in her care, but the five stitches were neat and tidy and, yes, better than anything Nicholas could do.

“Brilliant,” Nicholas said, flashing Georgie a quick grin before turning back to Mr. Bailey. “Look at how even they are. You’ll have a scar—there’s no getting around that—but it will be minimal thanks to her skill.”

“But it hurts,” Mr. Bailey whined.

“There’s no getting around that, either,” Nicholas said, his voice finally starting to betray his impatience. “Would you like a shot of whiskey? I’ve found it helps.”

Mr. Bailey nodded and grudgingly agreed to allow Georgie to continue.

“You’re a saint,” Nicholas murmured in her ear before returning to the other room.

Georgie bit back a retort before turning to Mr. Bailey with a purposefully bland expression. “Shall we resume?” she asked.

Mr. Bailey set his arm back on the table. “I’ll be watching you,” he warned.

“You should,” she said sweetly. It was really too bad he wasn’t the sort who fainted at the sight of blood. It would make all of this so much easier.

Twenty minutes later she tied off her knot and admired her handiwork. She’d done an excellent job, not that she could say that to Mr. Bailey. Instead she gave him instructions to return in a week’s time and assured him that Dr. Rokesby himself would inspect the wound before deciding if it was time to remove the stitches.

He departed and she wiped off her hands and removed her smock. It was nearly six, certainly late enough to close the small clinic Nicholas had opened in Bath. They had loved living in Edinburgh, but it was too far from family. Bath wasn’t exactly around the corner from Kent, but they’d both wanted to live in a proper town, and it was easy enough to visit home.

Besides, Georgie had discovered she liked having a little distance between herself and her family. She loved them and they loved her, but they’d never see her as a capable, grown woman. Her mother still went into a panic every time she coughed.

No, this was good. She looked around the clinic. This was where she was meant to be.

“Give him three drops every evening before bed,” she heard Nicholas say as he walked his patient to the door. “And apply the poultice I recommended. If he’s not feeling better in three days’ time, we will reassess.”

“And if he is feeling better?” a female voice asked.

“Then we shall all be delighted,” Nicholas replied.

Georgie smiled. She could so easily picture his face, warm and reassuring. He really was an excellent doctor.

An excellent man.

The front door shut, and she heard Nicholas turn the lock. They lived upstairs, their rooms accessible by a stairway in the back.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked when he appeared in the doorway.

“You.”

“Me? Good thoughts, I hope.”

“I am smiling.”

“So you are. Forgive me for not making the connection.”

Georgie crossed the small room and stood on her toes so that she could give him a kiss. “I was just thinking,” she said, “that this was where I am meant to be. And you”—she kissed him again, on the other cheek—“are who I am meant to be with.”

“I could have told you that,” he murmured. He leaned down.

And this time, he kissed her.