Free Nurse for the Doctor by Averil Ives Page A

very quiet but incisive voice, as he returned to Josie’s side with the drink he had poured for her. He put the glass into her hand, and as he almost forced her into a chair, she had the curious conviction that there was something very deliberate about his movements, and that his dark downward glance was like the offer of a shield and buckler in that lovely, flower-filled, brilliantly-lighted room, so full of other pairs of eyes that were offering nothing of the kind.
    There was Sylvia Petersen, for instance, in a cloud of lilac gauze that swirled with her every movement, her white arms and shoulders like a bed of milk-white velvet selected for the display of diamonds that caught every ray of light in the room, and which had the appearance of heirlooms. Her hair formed burnished wings on either side of her face, her eyebrows and eyelashes were so many shades darker that the effect was slightly staggering, and her eyes were a brilliant kingfisher blue as they gazed straight at Josie. It was a hard, inquiring stare, which suggested that her sympathies were entirely with Mrs. Duveen.
    The latter looked a trifle agitated.
    “I thought Josie looked a little tired—and she complained of a headache,” she said, rather feebly, while her elderly companion on the settee rescued her brocade evening bag, which she had allowed to fall with a little thud to the carpet.
    The marquis said nothing, and Josie took a hurried sip at her wine.
    Michael looked a little quizzical.
    “A headache, Josie? That sounds extremely unlike you. And if it was as bad as all that you should have come straight to the doctor for advice.” But he smiled at her with sudden gentleness. “How are things now? Did you have any dinner at all?”
    “Oh, yes, I had something upstairs on a tray,” Josie assured him hastily.
    “And you’ve got a supply of aspirin, of course?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    A faint sigh went through the room—whether of boredom, or because of the relaxing of a sudden moment of slight, but unexpected tension, Josie was unable to tell—and Sylvia Petersen went on talking to a young man with polished black curls who had been regarding Josie through a haze of cigarette smoke. Dona Maria bent down once more to light Michael’s cigarette, Mrs. Duveen turned to the sharer of her settee with a little burst of confidential conversation, and a very elderly lady with high-piled silvery hair and a magnificent black lace shawl, that must once have been a mantilla draped about her shoulders, continued laying out patience cards at the far end of the room as if that was the one thing in life she preferred doing to anything else.
    The marquis made no attempt to introduce Josie to his guests—perhaps because the color was only just beginning to steal back to her cheeks, and he knew how unwillingly she had made this belated appearance—but he drew up a chair close to her as if, looking upon her also as a guest, he felt that some little attentiveness from himself was slightly overdue to her.
    While she sipped her wine he asked her whether it was too early for her to have made up her mind whether she was going to like his country, and when she assured him shyly that she already liked it very much indeed, he smiled and told her the various things she ought to see and do while she had the opportunity. His voice was very smooth and gentle and courteous, and he not merely looked the part of host—an extremely distinguished one at that!— in his white dinner jacket, with a crimson carnation in the lapel, but in spite of his empty sleeve he looked devastatingly handsome. It was an order of handsomeness that Josie had never come upon before, making her think once more of stained-glass windows and medieval knights. She even found herself wondering a little, when she summoned up the courage to peep at him shyly, at such sheer perfection—a combination of unusually regular features, controlled expression, and unfamiliar coloring. She had seen many dark men in her