“Valentin is . . . difficult.”

Anthony realized he was standing, shoved back his chair. “He certainly is ‘difficult.’ And you won’t ask him to do anything he doesn’t care to, will you? Are you worried he’ll disappear on you again? That’s why you’re asking me to step into his shoes.”

“My relationship with Valentin is no concern of yours.”

“Isn’t it? How strange, it seems like it has everything to do with me. Val gets to do what he likes because he’s the prodigal son, and I . . .” Anthony stopped talking, realized what he’d said and simply glared at his father. “I’m supposed to roll over, take whatever the pair of you decide to hand out to me and be grateful.”

The marquis stood too, his still-handsome face cold. “I didn’t realize how jealous you were of your brother—considering all he suffered, how can you be so cruel?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? When he came back, he took everything from me.”

God, had he really said that out loud—had he really felt that? He ran a hand through his hair, trying to collect his scattered emotions. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean that. I’m obviously overtired.”

His father stared at him. “Anthony . . . Valentin could never . . .”

“It’s all right, sir. I understand.” He managed to dredge up a smile and a bow. “I’ll certainly think about what you have suggested, although I’m not sure how Valentin will react to the idea of losing me.”

The marquis dropped his gaze to the papers on his desk and shuffled them around. Anthony let out his breath. “Valentin’s already agreed, hasn’t he?”

“Actually, he was the one who suggested it.”

“Of course he did. What a masterful piece of manipulation. He not only gets me out of his business, but ensures I’m stuck serving his needs in another capacity for as long as I live. And he doesn’t even have to pay me any more.”

“As to that, I would, of course, increase your allowance to cover all your additional costs.”

“I expect you’d both like me to rusticate in the countryside far from temptation as well, wouldn’t you? So much for me prostituting myself for trade or for sex; you’ll allow it only if I keep it in the family!”

“For God’s sake, Anthony, whatever is the matter with you? I’m only asking you to display some loyalty. This isn’t like you at all.” The marquis strode to the window and pulled open the drapes. Thin dawn light filtered through the grimy window panes. “Perhaps we’ll have this discussion again when you are sober.”

“I’m completely sober, Father.” Anthony walked across to the door and grabbed the handle. “And don’t worry: I’ll certainly think about what you’ve said.”

“Where the devil did you say you were tonight?” The marquis’s harsh question made Anthony turn back.

“I didn’t.”

“From the state of you, I’d assume you were at Madame’s.” His mouth twisted. “So much for changing your ways.”

“I haven’t been to Madame’s.”

“Then why is there blood all over your pantaloons and on your hand?”

Anthony glanced down at his white satin pantaloons, saw the splashes of red seeping through the fabric and went cold. God, he had hurt Marguerite, and she’d denied it. Hell and damnation! She must have been too afraid to tell him. He flung open the door as his stomach threatened to rebel.

“Anthony . . .”

He couldn’t bear to speak to his father, not now, not when he knew what he’d done. With a curse he hurried upstairs to his room, stripped off his clothes and quickly splashed himself with cold water. He had to get back to Marguerite, to see if she was all right and to promise her that he’d never touch her again.


Marguerite opened her eyes. Something was preventing her from going back to sleep, and it wasn’t the noisy sparrows congregating on the roof of the mews below her window. Idly, she allowed her mind to float, hoped whatever it was that was worrying her would surface and become clear. Her hand drifted down to her stomach again and she winced. Anthony had been extremely careful with her, so there was no reason for her to feel so . . .

She sat up so quickly she felt dizzy. Now she knew what that strange pressure meant. She carefully pulled back the covers, saw the faint red stain on the sheets and between her thighs and let out her breath. Her courses had begun, that’s why she felt so peculiar.

She carefully moved to the edge of the high bed and felt for the floor with her toes. Shivering in the cold, she managed to fumble across to her dressing table and find the rags and bindings she needed. There was just enough water left in the jug to wash with. Then she returned to bed and cuddled back into the warmth she and Anthony had created.

She wrapped her arms around her aching stomach and curled up into a tight ball. If her mother’s information was correct, there would be no child to mar the perfection of her night with Anthony. Another thought prevented Marguerite from falling back to sleep. Had Anthony noticed her courses had begun? And if so, was he offended? Maybe that was why he had left so abruptly. Justin had been horrified at her even mentioning she bled and had refused to share the same bed. Perhaps her French pragmatism about such things was not appreciated in England by any man.

Marguerite smiled into the half darkness. Hopefully Anthony was made of sterner stuff and had gone home to rest without a care in the world.


“You don’t understand, I need to see her.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but my lady isn’t receiving visitors at this hour of the morning.”

Anthony glared into the unresponsive face of Marguerite’s butler. True, it was barely light and he’d had to bang on the kitchen door for at least ten minutes to get anyone to pay attention to him over the morning clatter, but he had to see if Marguerite was all right.

“Is my lady’s maid here?”

“She is, sir, but . . .”

Anthony took a guinea out of his pocket and pressed it into the butler’s unresisting hand. “Perhaps she might be able to check on her mistress and ask if she wants to see me. Tell her it is extremely important.”

The butler pocketed the coin and turned back into the kitchen. “Mary, come here.”

A pretty black-haired young woman dressed in crisp pink muslin and an apron rushed over, her expression full of curiosity.

“Yes, Mr. Jarvis?”

“Go and see if her ladyship is awake, and ask her when it would be convenient for her to see Lord Anthony, here.”

“Yes, sir!”

Mary bobbed a curtsey and hurried off, looking thrilled to be involved in such early morning drama. Anthony shivered as the wind came up and buttoned the neck of his coat.

“Can I at least come inside and keep warm?”

The butler grudgingly stepped back. “All right, my lord, but don’t try any funny business. I’ll have you know, her ladyship is a respectable woman.”

“I know. I’m the last person in the world who’d argue with that.”

“Then you just sit here and wait quietly, sir.”

Anthony sat at the big oak table and stretched his hands toward the fire. It appeared that every older male he encountered today was intent on making him feel like an inadequate boy.

“Here you go, sir.”

The cook set an earthenware mug in front of him and poured some weak tea from a pot into it. He smiled his thanks. He was too cold to care about the quality of the beverage, just grateful to have something warm inside him after his hasty flight out of his parents’ house and back into the streets.

He looked over his shoulder as the kitchen door opened to reveal a smiling Mary.

“Her ladyship says she’ll see you, sir.”

Anthony got up, aware of the disapproval emanating from the kitchen staff around him. It seemed they all cared for their mistress, which he supposed was a good thing. He bowed at the cook and the butler.

“Thank you for your help. I promise I won’t keep her long.”

He ran up the stairs two at a time and found his way back to her bedroom, hesitated outside the door long enough for Mary to catch up with him.

“She’s still in bed, sir, and not feeling quite the thing, so please be quiet.”

Anthony let himself into the shadowed room and stopped several feet from the bed. Marguerite lay back against a mound of pillows, her face a pale shadow against the darkness of her unbound hair. He swallowed hard.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m a little tired, but that is to be expected.” She frowned. “Why did you come back? Did you forget something?”

He ignored her questions, concentrated on her face. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry?”

He glanced behind him, made sure that Mary had left them alone and advanced on the bed. “As I said, I’m used to bedding men.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I only hope you can forgive me and I assure you I will never trouble you again.”

“Anthony, what are you talking about?”

“I’m here to apologize for . . . injuring you.”

“You didn’t . . .”

“I beg to disagree, I hurt you. I saw the blood.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, “Mon Dieu. I didn’t think about that.”

He sat on the side of the bed, still holding her hand, watched her concern change to something more difficult to interpret. He swallowed hard, tried to find the right words to comfort her. “I should never have touched you. I’m obviously not capable of bedding a woman.” An even more appalling thought crossed his mind. “Unless, I was your first . . . unless Justin didn’t, couldn’t . . .”

“Justin could and he did. You didn’t take my virginity, Anthony, I’m quite certain of that.” Marguerite let go of his hand. “Did you really come back because you thought you’d injured me with your lovemaking?”

He managed to nod. To his astonishment she started to blush.

“I thought, perhaps you wanted to . . . chastise me.”