“That sounds like a warning.”
“Yes.” He smiled crookedly. “But I shan’t be the one to prove how unwise it is to bring strange, besotted men home as you would a wee lost puppy.”
“I would bet that you are not a puppy, Quentin Forster.”
“Ah, do you gamble?”
“Only when I have no other choice.” She gathered her skirts and began to rise.
He stopped her, laying his hand on her knee. She had a perfect right to slap him for his forwardness. She went very still. Their gazes locked. He was a gambling man, and he would have wagered all his winnings that she felt his touch the way he felt hers.
Not that any such effect would show on that carefully schooled face.
“What is your opinion, Doctor?” he asked. “Can you help me?”
“If you refer to your dipsomania… it is possible, if you wish to change,” she said. “If you do not, no one can help you.”
“Can I expect a lecture on the evils of drink?”
“There are plenty of reformatory societies for that purpose. I have other techniques.”
“I’m fascinated.” He let his hand slide just a fraction of an inch. The muscles in her thigh tensed. “Just what are these techniques?”
“They were developed by my father, using the science of hypnosis he learned in Europe, where he was educated as a neurologist. Hypnosis enables a doctor to communicate with that part of the mind that is hidden from a patient’s own conscious thoughts. Using this method, a trained physician can help the patient to fight mistaken ideas that create many of his problems.” She made a gesture with her hands—controlled, but revealing her enthusiasm as much as her eyes and voice. “In your case, this would be the desire for strong drink. My father’s method has proven most effective in a number of cases, where insanity is not too far advanced.”
“I’ve heard of this hypnosis,” Quentin said. “It’s something like mesmerism—”
“Mesmerism became little more than superstitious nonsense, rejected by men of science. Hypnosis, as we employ it, is far more advanced, yet misconceptions remain. My father—” She stopped. Quentin noticed that one of her fists had clenched. She caught his glance and relaxed her fingers. “This is hardly the time for a lecture.”
“Your father must be an interesting gentleman,” Quentin said, watching her face. “I confess that I’m a bit surprised that he sent you to deal with a strange male patient.”
The zealous light went out of her eyes. “My father is no longer seeing patients. I received a full medical education in the United States and Europe; you need have no fears about my competence.”
“I’m not afraid.” He let his lashes drop over his eyes and lowered his voice to a seductive purr. “I shan’t mind your company in the least, fair Valkyrie.”
She flinched. “Why do you call me that?”
Well, well, well. Something else she was sensitive about, along with her patients, and her father. Had she been mocked for her height and hardy frame in the past? What blind fools men could be.
“Because you remind me of those ancient Teutonic warrior maids,” he said. “Girded for battle and prepared to sweep the wounded from the field. I suppose your hair ought to be blonde, but I quite like it just as it is.”
She actually blushed. It was the first typically female behavior he’d seen in her.
“That was my father’s pet name for me,” she whispered. Was, as if her father were dead, though she’d said he was here.
“It suits you,” he said. “I mean that as a compliment.”
She scraped back her chair and stood, shaking off his hand. “If I am to be your physician, Mr. Forster, you had best realize that our relationship must remain strictly professional.”
He feigned surprise. “Naturally. If I am to be your patient.”
“We shall discuss that possibility at a more appropriate time,” she said. “You will stay in bed for the remainder of the day; I shall bring you a healthy breakfast to restore your constitution. And put from your mind any thought of drinking while you remain in this house.”