So this was the “wicked widow.” Despite the October chill, she wore neither bonnet nor gloves; rather than boots, she wore thin slippers, the sort one might wear to tea. He thought it highly likely that, in her determination to quickly come to her friend’s side, she’d barely remembered to don the coat. It had been interesting to watch her attend the duchess. I wonder the purpose of the essential oils. He would ask, but as soon as the carriage had lurched forward, she’d turned to stare out the window as if transfixed by the scenery, thereby eliminating the need for conversation. Perhaps that’s for the best. And yet he couldn’t stop looking at her pure profile. Such a lovely nose, and those lips—He shook his head at his ridiculous thoughts. I’ve seen lovely women before; there’s no reason to think this one is any different. Perhaps he felt this way because he’d known and respected her father. There weren’t many in London’s medical field who did not know of Sir Reginald Fitzgerald.
