“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 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.”