Page 67 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

Before he had the chance to answer, she reached up and placed a cool hand against his brow. His head swam. Concern flickered at the corners of her eyes.

He jerked away on reflex. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You look quite flushed.”

“I assure you I know my own person.”

But did he, really? For he felt with that single touch of her delicate fingers to his forehead that she’d bewitched him somehow. Or rather, that the innocent touch had been a key that unlocked something within him—something he might never have otherwise admitted to himself. Something he’d been actively avoiding and rejecting for weeks now.

Vera gave him a sidelong glance and frowned again. “Why don’t you step out and get some fresh air? I can make the steam bath; I know how.”

Stephen nodded and fled out the back door without another word. Behind him, he could have sworn that Mr. Douglas was laughing. At him. For the man had seen the whole exchange and surely knew what was running through Stephen’s mind as he paced the small garden at the back of the house.

Vera.

She was amazing. Beautiful, kind. Compassionate. She was everything he’d thought that Samantha was. He groaned and rubbed at his temples. What a mess he’d made of things! If he’d started off right, she might have one day looked at him with something more than friendship.

Now—because of his own actions—friendship was all they would ever have. They’d made excellent progress these last few weeks, but their relationship was far from what it could have been. If only he hadn’t acted as a paranoid lunatic!

If only he’d realized that the reason he’d been suspicious of Vera wasn’t because of the danger she posed to his mother, but because of the danger she posed to him.

To his heart.

Some deep-down part of him must have realized it from the beginning. And drat it all—how had Mr. Douglas figured it out well before Stephen had?

Stephen took a deep breath and tried to reorient himself to this new reality. It didn’t change anything, him knowing what he knew. Just because he felt a certain way didn’t mean she ever would. It certainly didn’t absolve him of his duties as a physician.

On that thought, he took another deep breath, steeled himself, and ducked back into the house. Vera sat very close to Mr. Douglas’s chair. The man had a steaming bowl on his lap and a towel draped over his head, but upon Stephen’s entry, he looked up.

“All right there, Dr. Winthrop?” Mr. Douglas asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“Yes, thank you.”

“How was that fresh air?”

Stephen frowned at him—how did the man make a mockery of such a simple question?

“Very pleasant.”

Mr. Douglas nodded. “I bet that fresh air got you all sorted.”

“Enough chatter,” Vera chided gently. “You’re wasting the steam, Mr. Douglas.”

“All right, girl. If you say so.”

He pulled the towel back over his head, and Stephen was relieved to be free of the man’s cunning gaze.

“Are you truly feeling better?” Vera’s eyes were wide, guileless. “You certainly felt a little warm.”

A little chuckle from beneath the towel, which they both ignored.

“Much better. I think the kitchen was stifling.”

“Vera certainly wasn’t warm,” Mr. Douglas said gleefully.

“Perhaps you should loosen your collar,” she said. “I usually have to do the same when I’m near the fire.”

“I doubt that thought will help,” came Mr. Douglas’s muffled voice.