Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,36
to mention—”
“A penis?” she suggested acidly. “I’m afraid I don’t have one of those. Nor is it a requirement for a medical degree. I am a real physician, and the sooner I treat Mr. Winterborne’s shoulder, the better it will go for him.” At Severin’s continued hesitation, she said, “The limited external rotation of the shoulder, impaired elevation of the arm, and the prominence of the coracoid process all indicate posterior dislocation. Therefore, the joint must be relocated without delay if we are to prevent further damage to the neurovascular status of the upper extremity.”
Had Rhys not been in such acute discomfort, he would have relished Severin’s stunned expression.
“I’ll help you move him,” Severin muttered.
During the short but torturous walk, Severin persisted in questioning the woman, who answered with admirable patience. Her name was Garrett Gibson, and she had been born in East London. After enrolling at a local hospital as a nursing student, she had begun to take classes intended for doctors. Three years ago, she had earned a medical degree at the University of Sorbonne in Paris, and subsequently returned to London. As was common, she had established her practice out of a private home, which in this case happened to be her widowed father’s residence.
They reached the three-story house, tucked in a row of comfortably middle-class Georgian-style terraces built with crimson cutting bricks. Such buildings were invariably designed with one room in the front and one in the back on each story, with a passageway and a staircase on one side.
A maid opened the door and welcomed them inside. Dr. Gibson ushered them into the back room, a scrupulously clean surgery that had been furnished with an examination table, a bench, a desk, and a wall of mahogany cabinets. She directed Rhys to sit on the examination table, constructed with a padded leather top over a cabinet base. The top was divided into hinged sections that could be adjusted to raise the head, upper torso, or feet.
After quickly shrugging out of her coat and pulling off her hat, Dr. Gibson handed them to the maid. She approached Rhys and gently removed the makeshift sling. “Before you lie down, Mr. Winterborne,” she said, “we’ll need to remove your coat.”
He nodded, cold sweat trickling down his face.
“How can I help?” Severin asked.
“Begin with the sleeve on the uninjured side. I’ll take the other. Pray do not jostle the arm any more than necessary.”
Despite their extreme care during the process, Rhys winced and groaned as he was divested of the coat. Closing his eyes, he felt himself sway in his seated position.
Severin immediately steadied him with a hand on his good shoulder. “I think we should cut off the shirt and waistcoat,” he suggested.
“I agree,” Dr. Gibson said. “Keep him steady while I attend to it.”
Rhys blinked his eyes open as he felt his upper garments being removed with a few strokes of a wickedly sharp blade. One thing was certain—the woman knew how to wield a knife. Glancing at her small, dispassionate face, he wondered about what it must have taken for her to earn a place for herself in a man’s profession.
“Holy hell,” Severin murmured, as the bruised flesh of Rhys’s back and shoulder became visible. “I hope saving that ragamuffin was worth it, Winterborne.”
“Of course it was,” Dr. Gibson said, having turned to rummage through a cabinet. “He saved the boy’s life. One never knows what a child might become someday.”
“In this case, definitely a criminal,” Severin said.
“Possibly,” the woman said, returning with a small glass filled with amber liquid. “But not definitely.” She handed the glass to Rhys. “Here you are, Mr. Winterborne.”
“What is it?” he asked warily, taking it in his good hand.
“Something to help you relax.”
Rhys took an experimental taste. “Whisky,” he said, surprised and grateful. A decent vintage at that. He downed it in a couple of swallows, and extended the glass for more. “It takes more than one to relax me,” he told her. At her skeptical glance, he explained, “Welsh.”
Dr. Gibson smiled reluctantly, her green eyes sparkling, and she went to pour another.
“I need to relax as well,” Severin told her.
She looked amused. “I’m afraid you’ll have to remain sober,” she replied, “as I shall require your assistance.” After retrieving the glass from Rhys and setting it aside, she slid a strong arm behind his back. “Mr. Winterborne, we’ll help you to lie down. Slowly, now. Mr. Severin, if you will lift his feet . . .”