with good grace. But he’d made it clear to her, upon her father’s death, that should she ever need him, he was hers to command. Would Amiable accept her despite the current threat of scandal? She owed it to him to explain what had happened before he committed to her. Perhaps she should write and accept his proposal.
She shook her head. This sudden urge to marry was unsettling. The reason that surfaced, unbidden, sent icy fingers down her spine. If she was already married she could not be forced to marry the man in the lion’s mask.
That was an absurd fear. Katarina lay down again. She did not know who he was, though he certainly knew her name. But he would never seek her out. Surely he would avoid her and any hint of the scandal she would bring.
Staring into the dark, she heard again his excited cry of, “One thousand pounds.” The man had paid a fortune for a night with her in his bed. Who was to say that he would not find her and make good on his purchase? Her ample dowry would more than compensate him for his bid tonight. Oh, yes, if he truly wanted her, he would find her and claim his right to marry her.
Her heart beat faster at the thought. That unaccountable attraction she’d felt when in his arms resurfaced. She had abandoned herself shamelessly, done things she’d never dreamed of doing. If the man could sap all her self-control that way, he was as dangerous to her as a loaded pistol in the hands of a lunatic. She never lost control, not until tonight.
Even now she could feel his mouth on hers, his lips straying downward... No. Kat fought against the images that rose. He would not seduce her again tonight. Or any night. Somehow she would make her brother see sense and let her go to Amiable; she would write to the captain in the morning. And pray God she had seen the last of the man in the golden mask.
* * * *
Duncan Ferrers awoke in the dead of night, alone in bed. His head pounded even as his cheek throbbed with fire. He groaned in agony, then stumbled to the washstand, wet a cloth and pressed it tentatively to the ripped, aching flesh. He’d have to send for Pritchett in the morning. Damn woman.
He’d awakened on the floor of the blue room at Madame Vestry’s to the sound of the clock striking twelve. Moving his head had been torture, but he’d managed to gather his senses and leave the house undetected by Amorina or her henchmen. He had no idea what happened to the girl and frankly didn’t care. He suspected she’d escaped the house completely, else whoever caught her would have returned her to the room. Best to simply forget the whole unfortunate episode.
Duncan slipped on his red-striped banyan and poured himself a brandy. He sat gingerly on the sofa before the banked fire, moving his head as little as possible. Cautiously, he alternated sips of the fiery brew with bathing his cheek. Wincing, he rubbed the swollen scratch marks.
He took a long pull at the cognac, relishing the fire that smoothed a path down into his stomach. The girl had been magnificent. Her hair, her face, her form, her spirit. He almost wished her story had been true, for she would make an excellent candidate for his bride.
But what on earth would a lady of good reputation be doing in a brothel? Absolute absurdity. He shook his head then cringed as pain streaked from side to side. Of course he hadn’t believed her. And truth to tell, he hadn’t wanted to. Not with that brilliant hair swirling around her luscious body, tempting him with the delights it promised.
But the marks he’d felt on her wrists had been real. Duncan paused, the glass halfway to his lips. Those rope burns had made him hesitate earlier too, because if she had been kidnapped as she said... He set the glass down with a none-too-steady hand.
Was there another explanation for rope burns? An ugly idea rose. She could be one of Amorina’s girls recently used by a man who favored that sort of roughness. Amorina hadn’t stood for such tastes in the past, but as Tommy said, things had changed. A plausible set of circumstances, though the thought of that girl being badly used ignited his anger. The idea certainly presented a much safer scenario, however. Because if the woman had told the truth, then he had just compromised the sister of a peer.
Yet another scandal ruining his life. Her identity was at least something he could check without calling undue attention to himself. He’d been out of the country almost a year. Of course he was sadly misinformed about all the news and gossip from the past ten months. If William, Earl of Manning, had indeed died and his brother or nephew had inherited the title, most people should know. Perhaps he could ask Pritchett in the morning. Normal thing to do. Should raise no suspicions at all.
Duncan drained the remaining spirits in his glass. He would get to the bottom of this; he only hoped the bottom would not be covered in scandal.
* * * *
Next morning as he sat to a breakfast of soft eggs and toast, Duncan pored over last evening’s London Chronicle, putting it down when Grayson informed him that Dr. Pritchett had arrived. Duncan had the man shown into his office and presented himself for treatment. The cheek had gotten worse since he’d bathed it.
“Pritchett.” He greeted the little man with a nod as he entered the room. “Good of you to come so early.”
“Anytime, my lord. Lord!” Pritchett caught sight of the gashes and sucked breath in between his teeth. “What on earth happened, Lord Dalbury? Were you attacked?”
“Not exactly.” Duncan eased into his leather chair. “A slight run-in with a light-skirt last evening. She proved less enamored of my charms than I expected. Perhaps I should make her actions known to Harris for inclusion in the next edition of his list.”
As the doctor examined the wounds, Grayson returned with hot water. Pritchett gently bathed the scratches and applied a noisome ointment. “I won’t stitch it, my lord. Such things heal better if left thus. You need to bathe the area and apply this ointment morning and night. The cheek should heal cleanly, but I fear there will be some scarring.”
Duncan scowled, then winced as the movement pulled at the tender flesh. “Thank you, Pritchett.”
The doctor bent to gather his bag and belongings.
Duncan forced himself to remark casually, “I heard last night that the Earl of Manning died.”
Pritchett’s head shot up, his brows lowered in a fierce scowl. “I would not believe every rumor I heard, my lord. And that one is certainly far from true.”
Duncan sat up abruptly in his chair. “He’s not dead then?” Relief flooded him, the specter of scandal vanishing like scattered fog. An odd sense of loss rose as well; the captivating girl was merely a whore. So much for the prospective bride. Nevertheless, he was relieved.
“The earl got a nasty bump on the head, but he was conscious when I left last night and I don’t foresee any lingering effects if he keeps to his bed for a week.” Pritchett shook his head and smiled. “Especially since his sister is bound and determined to nurse him back to health.”
“Sister?” He swallowed with difficulty, his head pounding as dread returned full force. “I thought Manning only had a younger brother.”
The doctor looked at him oddly, then his eyes widened. “You were speaking about the old earl? Lord William? I beg your pardon, Lord Dalbury, I had forgotten you were out of the country last year. Yes, William, the fifth Earl of Manning died in August of last year. At his club. Heart, I believe it was. The current earl is his nephew, John Fitzwilliam. Had a bit of a run-in with highwaymen last evening. My lord, has your cheek become worse?”
