by Julia Quinn
“Good God,” Nicholas muttered. “Remind me never to allow him near my offices when I become a doctor.”
If he became a doctor. He did not know if Dr. Monro would make good on his threat. He wouldn’t have thought him so vindictive, but he’d also never seen him so angry.
But Nicholas didn’t care. Not at this moment, at least. He had Georgie outside, and if the city air was not as clear as he’d like, it was still a damn sight better than in the hallway outside the lecture theater, with dozens of men pressing in on every side.
Georgie’s cheeks had even started to show the first traces of pink.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” Nicholas said. His voice trembled. He had not thought it would.
She reached up and touched his cheek. “Thank you.”
“For not letting him draw blood?”
“For believing in me.”
They sat on a stone bench beneath a tree, Nicholas still holding her scandalously close for such a public place. But he wasn’t ready to let go.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Better. Not quite right, but better.”
“How long does it usually take to feel back to normal?”
She gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know, really. It’s hard to say.”
He nodded. And then, because he had to say it—
“I love you, you know.”
She smiled gently. “I love you too.”
“I’m going to tell you every day.”
“I will be glad to hear it.”
He frowned. Just a little. That was not quite the response he’d been hoping for. “And . . . ?”
She brought one of his hands to her mouth and kissed it. “And I will tell you every day as well.”
“Much better.”
“To think,” she said, with what he could only describe as a mystified shake of her head, “you were right there under my nose, all these years.” She looked up, her eyes suddenly wry. “Do I have to thank Freddie Oakes? Please say I don’t.”
“Freddie Oakes?” Nicholas echoed.
“He did bring us together.”
Nicholas rolled his eyes. “We would have found our way. It just would have taken a little longer.”
She let out a long breath, slow and sustained, and Nicholas was pleased to hear only the slightest remnants of a wheeze. “People are watching,” she whispered.
He looked over at the building. The front door was open, and several of his classmates stood on the front steps.
“I’m fine!” Georgie called out. She waved, but then the exertion led to a little cough.
“Stop that,” Nicholas scolded.
“They’re worried. It’s sweet.”
“It’s not sweet, it’s intrusive.”
“Can you blame them?”
Nicholas supposed not. She had collapsed in front of a group of medical students. There was no way they were not going to be curious.
“Why are you here?” he suddenly thought to ask.
“Mr. McDiarmid has more papers. I wanted to tell you, and then I thought we could ride back to Scotsby together.”
“Forget the papers,” he said. “Let’s go home now.”
“No! The sooner you sign, the sooner we can move into the new house.”
“The house can wa—”
“The sooner we can be together,” she cut in firmly.
He tapped one finger against her hand. “You do have a point there. But then it’s straight to Scotsby. And you are remaining in the carriage while I deal with Mr. McDiarmid. I want you to rest.”
“Yes, sir,” she said with an uncharacteristically meek smile.
“And then when we’re home it’s more rest,” he ordered.
She placed her hand on her heart. “I promise.”
“Nothing too exerting.”
Her brows rose. “Nothing?”
He groaned. He’d been looking forward to many exertions.
“I see Jameson across the street,” Nicholas said. “I’ll have him arrange to have the carriage meet us at Mr. McDiarmid’s office. Do you think you can walk there?” They’d done the same walk just two days earlier; it was not far.
She nodded. “I think it will help, actually, as long as we go slowly.”
Nicholas dashed off to give Jameson instructions, then returned to Georgie’s side. Together, they walked through Old Town.
“Nicholas,” she said.
He turned.
“I love you.”
He smiled. “I love you too.”
They took a few more steps, and then, with a little tilt of her head, she said, “I just wanted to say it first.”
“Competitive, are we?”
“No,” she said, a small pulse of amusement in her voice, “I just wanted to say it without saying, ‘I love you too.’”
“Oh. Well, in that case, I love you, and I love you too.”
“Who’s competitive now?”
“Not me, surely.”
“Well, then, I love you thrice.”
“Does that even make sense?” he asked.
“I think it does, actually.” She let her head rest on his shoulder. Just for a moment; they could not walk more than a step or two in such a position. “Everything about you makes sense,” she said.
“That’s hardly true.”
“Everything about us makes sense.”
She was on to something with that.
“Georgie?” he said.
She looked at him.
“I love you.”
She grinned. “And I love you.”
“Too?”
“Always.”
He smiled. That would work.
Epilogue
A few years later
“Shouldn’t the doctor be doing this?”
Georgie smiled and assured Mr. Bailey that she knew what she was doing. “Dr. Rokesby often asks me to stitch wounds,” she said.
But Mr. Bailey was not appeased. He yanked his arm off the table, nearly causing her to reopen the small section of wound she’d successfully closed.
“I want the doctor,” he said.
Georgie took a breath and once again plastered a smile on her face. She understood why patients wanted Nicholas. He was the esteemed Dr. Rokesby, and she—despite all the knowledge she’d acquired these past few years—was, and always would be, Mrs. Rokesby.
She liked being Mrs. Rokesby. She liked it a lot. But it would have been handy at a time like this to be able to spear Mr. Bailey with a withering stare and say, “I, too, am a physician.”
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 cou
ld 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.
About the Author
JULIA QUINN started writing her first book one month after finishing college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since. With tens of millions of copies in print, the #1 New York Times bestselling author has been called “smart, funny” by TIME Magazine. Her novels have been translated into thirty-three languages and are beloved the world over. A graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges, she lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest.
In 2020, Netflix will premiere Bridgerton, based on her popular series of novels about the Bridgerton family.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Praise for Julia Quinn
“If you’ve never read romance novels, start here.”
—Washington Post
“Quinn is . . . a romance master. [She] has created a family so likable and attractive, a community so vibrant and engaging, that we want to crawl into the pages and know them.”
—NPR Books
“Like an episode of Downton Abbey mixed with a great rom-com.”
—iBooks Best of the Month (on Because of Miss Bridgerton)
“Julia Quinn is truly our contemporary Jane Austen.”
—Jill Barnett
“Quinn is a consummate storyteller. Her prose is spry and assured, and she excels at creating indelible characters.”
—Publishers Weekly (★Starred Review★)
“Simply delightful, filled with charm, humor, and wit.”
—Kirkus Reviews
By Julia Quinn
The Bridgerton Prequels
First Comes Scandal
The Other Miss Bridgerton
The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband
Because of Miss Bridgerton
The Bridgerton Series
The Duke and I
The Viscount Who Loved Me
An Offer From a Gentleman
Romancing Mister Bridgerton
To Sir Phillip, With Love
When He Was Wicked
It’s in His Kiss
On the Way to the Wedding
The Bridgertons: Happily Ever After
The Smythe-Smith Quartet
Just Like Heaven
A Night Like This
The Sum of All Kisses
The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy
The Bevelstoke Series
The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever
What Happens in London
Ten Things I Love About You
The Two Dukes of Wyndham
The Lost Duke of Wyndham
Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Agents of the Crown
To Catch an Heiress
How to Marry a Marquis
The Lyndon Sisters
Everything and the Moon
Brighter Than the Sun
The Splendid Trilogy
Splendid
Dancing at Midnight
Minx
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
first comes scandal. Copyright © 2020 by Julie Cotler Pottinger. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition MAY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-295617-0
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-295616-3
Cover art © Juliana Kolesova
Hand-lettering by David Gatti
Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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