"Thank you," she whispered.

Bainbridge flashed his best cocksure grin. "My dear madam, 'twould have been ungallant of me to turn away a lady in distress. The rather sad state of my cravat will bring the wrath of my valet down upon my head, but I'd say it was well worth the risk."

She attempted a smile as she plucked at the now-limp folds of his neckcloth. "You are quite the gentleman when you want to be, Nicholas."

The way she said his name made his heart constrict with longing. He brushed a stray lock of tawny hair from her cheek. "Kit, I…"

Heavy footsteps rang out from the vestibule. Movement caught Bainbridge's attention, and he turned his head as the duke marched into the room. His arms went slack; Kit pushed herself upright, her face suffused with a familiar rosy glow.

The duke stared at them for a moment, his eyes like chips of ice. "She's awake," he said flatly. "Awake, and asking for you, Mrs. Mallory."

Kit spared Bainbridge an apologetic glance. "I must go to her."

"Go, then," he advised gently. "And keep the handkerchief, just in case you have further need of it."

The cambric square clutched in one hand, Kit bobbed a shallow curtsy to the duke, then dashed from the room. Bainbridge watched her depart, then with a sigh slumped against the padded back of the sofa.

"Quite a cozy picture," sneered the duke. "I would never have thought it of you."

"She was overwrought, Wexcombe," Bainbridge replied, a thread of irritation running through his voice. "What else was I supposed to do?"

"Are you mad?" his cousin hissed at him. "This chit has you all but wrapped around her little finger."

"I fail to see why that has you so concerned."

"Concerned? You are supposed to get her away from my grandmother, not get tangled up with her in the process."

"I know what I'm doing," the marquess shot back.

"Do you? Another moment and you would have played right into her hands."

Bainbridge scowled. "Don't be absurd."

"No? Do you actually believe that a widow of five-and-twenty is that sheltered and innocent? That desperate for solace? Bah. You may be fooled by those immense green eyes of hers, but I know what she's about."

"And what would that be?"

The duke snorted. "Surely you have dealt with enough devious women to recognize her type. Why should she settle for the dowager's money when she can snare herself a handsome fortune and an even handsomer title to go along with it?"

"How do you think she will do that?" scoffed the marquess. "I am an unrepentant rake, remember? Wild horses could not drag me to the altar."

"It's obvious, you dolt. She's making you fall in love with her."

Bainbridge stared at his cousin as though the man had grown three heads.

Love?

He blinked. Ridiculous.

But how else would he explain it? He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Admiration-yes.

Affection, or at least a moderate amount of fondness-yes.

Lust-yes. Oh, most definitely yes.

But love?

Balderdash.

He sat back and waggled a finger at his cousin. "You forget, Wexcombe. I refuse to fall in love, so if that is her goal, then her plan will fall sadly flat. I prefer a much more cold-blooded approach to matrimony: find myself a chit of excellent breeding, make sure she suffers from no romantic delusions of any sort, then wed her, bed her, and get her with an heir as quickly as possible. Rather like you did, old fellow."

The duke ignored the barb. "You're getting defensive, Bainbridge, which means you know deep down that I am right."

"I do not wish to discuss it. Besides, you have no reason to worry, Cousin." Bainbridge levered himself to his feet. "She is not the schemer you think she is, nor are my actions guided solely by, shall we say, my 'baser instincts.' Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to go upstairs and check on my great-aunt."

The duke shrugged. "As you will. But never say I did not warn you."

Bainbridge strode from the room, his jaw clenched, his annoyance tempered by nagging suspicion. Had this lovely widow outmaneuvered him? His first response was an unequivocal no, but his cousin's words taunted him. He climbed the marble stairs slowly, as if his boots weighed as heavily upon him as his thoughts. Had Kit deliberately positioned herself as an antidote to his jaded tastes? Her modesty, her intelligence, her refreshing candor, her sheltered innocence-all of it combined into a strikingly attractive package, something he had never encountered before. Had she used his fascination to entrap him?

Perhaps. But if this was a trap, why did he not feel a greater urge to escape?


Kit rapped anxiously on the dowager's door and was ushered into the darkened bedchamber by the lady's equally anxious maid. The heavy velvet curtains remained drawn over every window, and the only light shone from a low fire on the hearth and a branch of candles by the dowager's bedside.

Dr. Knowles, who had just finished packing up his black leather bag, nodded to her as she approached.

"How is she?" Kit asked in an anxious whisper.

The portly man adjusted the wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose. "Her Grace was most fortunate. She suffered a concussive blow to the head, and her bumps and bruises are only minor. No bones were broken."

Kit exhaled slowly. Her shoulders slumped. "Thank God."

"But as I told the duke, head injuries of this nature can be tricky," he continued.

Her head snapped up. "What do you mean?"

"She may be up and about tomorrow, or it might take much longer. These things cannot be rushed. But I have every hope that, given time, Her Grace will make a full recovery. I have given her some laudanum for her pain and to help her sleep. Rest will help her heal more quickly."

"Kit?" came the dowager's querulous voice.

"Thank you, Dr. Knowles," Kit murmured.

"Of course. I shall return to look in on her tomorrow." The physician nodded to her, then took his leave.

"Kit?" called the dowager, more loudly.

She hurried to the elderly woman's bedside. "I am here, Your Grace."

A wan smile lifted the lady's lips. "Where… have… you been, child?"

Kit took the dowager's hand. "I have not been far, I assure you. How do you feel?"

"Like… I've… been sat upon… by… an elephant," the lady replied with a wheezing laugh.

An answering smile tugged at Kit's mouth. "Only an elephant? I am relieved to hear it, ma'am. We feared the worst."

"Bah." The elderly woman lifted her hand, then let it drop. " 'Twill take… more… than a tumble… to bring… me low."

"Please try to rest, Your Grace," Kit advised. "Do not overexert yourself."

The dowager frowned; her sunken eyes began to dull. "Feel… strange. Laudanum?" she croaked.

"Yes, the physician gave you some for the pain."

The lady blinked. "Must… tell… you," she mumbled.

Kit gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "It's all right, Your Grace. We know what happened."

"No." The dowager struggled to raise her head, but failed. "Must…"

Kit restrained her. "The duke sent Lady Elizabeth away, made it clear that she is no longer welcome. She can do you no further harm."

The dowager's eyelids fluttered. "… would not… have… made… him… happy."

Kit leaned forward, straining to catch the whispered words. "Your Grace?"

"Had… everything… planned…"

Plan? What was this about? Kit shook her head; clearly, laudanum had fogged the elderly woman's wits. "Please, you must rest," she insisted.

"Dear… child…" The dowager's head lolled to one side.

As she tucked the comforter more securely around the dowager, Kit's brow puckered in a frown. What had Her Grace been so insistent about? She rubbed her temples. It didn't matter now; the dowager could tell everyone when next she awoke.

Several light taps on the chamber door distracted her. Motioning the maid to stay with the dowager duchess, Kit rose and answered the summons. Lord Bainbridge's drawn face greeted her when she opened the door.

"How is she?" he inquired in low tones.

Kit opened the door a little wider. "Dr. Knowles said she suffered a concussive injury to the head, but he believes she should recover well, given time."

"Thank God. May I see her?"

She glanced back toward the bed. "Yes, but she's sleeping. Laudanum."

"Did she say anything about what happened?"

"No," she replied, then bit her lip to prevent herself from mentioning the dowager's strange request.

The duke came up to join them, his eyes still glinting with the same cold, hard light Kit had noticed earlier. "Mrs. Mallory."

She curtsied. "Your Grace. I fear your grandmother is indisposed; Dr. Knowles administered laudanum."

His arctic gaze flicked over her shoulder to the darkened bedchamber beyond, then back to her. "That is just as well, for it is you with whom I wish to speak, Mrs. Mallory."

Kit exchanged a cautious glance with Lord Bainbridge. "I, Your Grace?"

"Wexcombe, this is really not-" the marquess began, his face taut.

The duke cut him off. "Cousin, will you be so kind as to look after my grandmother in our absence?"

Bainbridge stiffened. The two men stared at each other for a moment.

The duke cocked an eyebrow. "Surely you will not disoblige this rather modest request."

Bainbridge relented with a curt nod. A tic began in his temple. "I will stay, if you wish."

"I do." The duke motioned to Kit. "This way, Mrs. Mallory."

As Kit moved past him, the marquess seized her elbow.

"Be careful," he whispered in her ear.

Kit nodded. "I will."

"Coming, Mrs. Mallory?" inquired the duke, in a tone that brooked no opposition.

"Yes, Your Grace," she replied.