She heard the roar of blood through her veins, her own harsh breaths, and his rasping exhalations overlapping both.

With a gut-wrenching sob, she came. The hot, tight ball condensing within her suddenly burst, exploded into a million sparks of agonized pleasure that shot through every nerve in her body. She froze, unable to move, to speak, to breathe, as it rushed through her, more powerful than any physical sensation she'd ever experienced.

He didn't stop. He stroked her through the powerful orgasm as her body clutched his fingers like a vise. She began to shake, her hands grasping at his back, trying to find purchase, and finally gripping his shoulders again. He was her lifeline. He kept her grounded, whole, kept her from falling completely apart.

"My God," she heard him say, as if from a distance. "My God, Becky..."

The contractions in her body slowly began to recede, and his expert fingers continued to keep her from falling, bringing her down gently back onto the soft sheet.

She was gasping, she realized. Loudly. Sweat-or was it tears?-caked a strand of hair to her cheek. Fresh tears leaked from her lids, and he kissed them away. "Don't cry. Please, sweetheart, don't cry."

A loud creak sounded from just outside the doors that led to the sitting room, and Becky froze. Jack jerked into action. He pulled away from her, tearing himself out of her grip and throwing the covers over her, hiding her body.

The doors banged against the inside walls as they opened. Assorted gasps reached Becky's ears. Panic surged, a cacophony in her head. Still in bed beside her, his torso bare but the sheet pulled up over his waist, Jack turned to the doorway.

She clutched the bedcovers to her neck.

"Rebecca!"

Oh, God. It was her brother's voice.

Chapter Four.

Four years ago, Garrett might have yanked out a gun and shot Jack on the spot. But Becky's brother was a changed man, a calmer, happier one, less likely to jump into action without thought. His wife had come far in taming him.

Nevertheless, a powerful undercurrent of violence resonated in his voice.

Becky turned to the door and gasped at what-or rather who-she discovered standing there. Not only her brother. As if that wouldn't have been horrible enough. No, it seemed half the population of London crowded the door.

Becky's cousin Tristan stood behind Garrett, fury darkening his features. His wife, Sophie, was at his side. A large group of people Becky didn't recognize stood behind them.

"What is it? Let me see!" Lady Borrill thrust aside a slender young man and burst into the room. Others closed in behind her.

Becky had been in a life-or-death situation before. She'd combated overwhelming panic and remained strong. But at this moment, she wanted nothing more than to shrink until she was pea-sized and disappear beneath the covers, or better, vanish entirely and never show her face to any of these people again. She stared dumbly at them, unable to move, to speak. Her hands clutched the bedclothes so tightly, her nails dug into her palms and broke the skin.

For a long, charged moment, silence ruled. Then, all at once, noise erupted. Some murmured, others shouted, their words tumbling together. Garrett strode toward Becky and Jack, his face white, his lips tight, his fists bunched, looking for all the world as if he meant to murder Jack Fulton with his bare hands.

Sophie lunged forward and grabbed his arm, trying to hold him back. She spoke, but Becky could not discern her words in the din.

She could discern Garrett's words, however, as he shook Sophie off as easily as a horse might flick its ear to rid itself of a fly.

"You bastard," he snarled, raising his fists. "That's my sister you're defiling."

"What the devil are you doing?" Jack demanded. "Leave this room. Now!"

Garrett surged toward the bed. "I'll kill you."

Sophie had turned to see the crowd gathered behind them, and Becky heard her groan of dismay. "Oh, dear."

Garrett froze, his features a tight mask. Then he sucked in a breath and whirled around. When he spoke, his voice was a low, menacing command. "Get the hell out of here."

Nobody moved.

"Now!" he bellowed.

People leapt into action, and within seconds, the crowd cleared and the door closed, leaving only Sophie, Tristan, and Garrett in the room with Becky and Jack.

Again, Garrett advanced on Jack.

Jack surged up, raising his hands. "I'm happy to fight you, duke, but is this the time and place?"

"Yes."

Tension radiated from Jack. "Let's do this in a civilized fashion. Will this constitute a formal challenge? Pistols at dawn?"

"Fists," Garrett snapped. "Now."

Perhaps Kate hadn't tamed her brother as much as Becky had thought. Fear for Jack finally gave her back her voice. "No, Garrett," she breathed. "Leave him be."

Garrett's light blue eyes flicked to her and then away. His stance didn't change, nor did his demeanor. As usual, she hadn't affected him at all. Kate was the one person who could cool him, who could defuse his fury, but she wasn't present.

Tristan moved to stand beside her brother. He grasped Garrett's shoulder, keeping him-only temporarily, Becky knew-a safe distance from Jack.

Garrett's icy blue eyes flicked again to Becky, and a muscle jerked in his jaw. He looked at Jack. "Get off the damn bed."

Jack obligingly slid off, holding one of the pillows to his groin. The sides of his buttocks hollowed and flexed as he stepped away from the bed. Becky was helpless against the tiny flash of arousal at the sight.

Garrett pointed imperiously through the doorway leading to the sitting room. "Go in there and get dressed," he said to Jack.

Jack retrieved his trousers and glanced at Becky, who offered a quick nod. "As you wish." He strode out of the room.

Garrett bent and picked something up off the floor. It was the nearly transparent gown that Becky had worn. "Get some clothes on her."

Tossing the dress to Sophie, he marched into the sitting room. Tristan followed, shutting the doors behind them. Becky shuddered. At least she could be moderately hopeful that Tristan would prevent her brother from eviscerating Jack.

Lady Borrill had told them. She must have recognized Becky and then gone to Tristan and Sophie, who had been at a dinner with Garrett. Heavily pregnant, Kate hadn't been feeling up to going out tonight and had decided not to attend. But Garrett, Sophie, and Tristan had all gone to dinner in the same carriage. Somehow, Lady Borrill had communicated that Becky was here, involved in something not quite respectable, and of course Garrett had rushed to the scene, dragging along everyone else, without thought of the consequences.

Becky's brother was heartily indifferent to propriety. If he believed his sister was in danger, he'd charge into the fray without considering the consequences.

Becky swallowed down a choking sob.

Pressing her hand against the stylishly loose blonde knot of hair at her nape, Sophie hurried to the edge of the bed, the coffee-colored skirts of her evening gown swishing and her brow lined with concern. "Oh, Becky."

Becky knew she didn't mean to have that tone of censure in her voice. Still, Sophie never failed to make her feel like a naughty child. "Just give me my dress, if you please, Sophie."

Silently, Sophie handed it over, her lips pursing when she saw the sheer quality of the fabric as it fell over Becky's breasts. She looked around the room, evidently on the hunt for something for Becky to wear that would more adequately cover her.

Finally, she sighed. "Well, we'll have to drape the blanket over you before we take you in to see the gentlemen."

Becky wrapped her arms over her chest, trying to contain her shudders. "No. I've no intention of seeing the gentlemen. I've had enough of gentlemen tonight." Across from the bed stood a paneled door, presumably leading to the outside corridor, and she intended to use it. She had no desire to face Tristan or Garrett, and when it came to Jack, her mind was a confused jumble of emotion.

The most pressing thing to do now was prevent Garrett from killing Jack, and while Tristan could be counted on as a temporary measure, the only person in the world who could talk sense into Garrett was his wife. Becky would speak to Kate, and Kate would find a way to prevent a duel.

"What do you mean? Of course you must go-"

"No," she said. "Please, Sophie, just take me home. I want to see Kate."

Jack pulled his shirt over his head, and he rubbed the back of his neck as the other two men came into view. Hostile energy buzzed through the elegant sitting room.

The duke stared at him, eyes narrowed, jaw set. A blond behemoth of a man, he had a deep red scar the size of a shilling above his left eyebrow. If Jack hadn't faced men like this before, he might have been intimidated. But he'd been a sailor for too long. Men like this, while not a common sight in an opulent London hotel, were ordinary enough at sea.

The duke's cousin, Tristan, Viscount Westcliff stared at him from behind the duke's shoulder. This man looked far more at home in these surroundings than his counterpart did. He was taller but slighter than the duke. While the duke's shirt and cravat were rumpled beneath his dinner coat, Westcliff was impeccably dressed in a black satin-lined tailcoat with an immaculate white cravat held at his neck by a gold pin. His hair was dark brown, and his face was long and aristocratic. Just now, that face was expressionless, but there was a telling set to his jaw. Every movement the man made appeared to be calculated for precision, and his intelligent dark eyes seemed to miss nothing.

The Duke of Calton was far more expressive than his cousin. The man wanted to kill him, but something was preventing him. Dispassionately, Jack wondered what held him back.

After a long moment of silence, Jack released a sigh. He was ready for this, and he'd expected it. Ultimately, he loathed that he must manipulate these people-people who, despite their eccentricity, by all accounts and observations seemed of a very good sort.

"What the hell do you think you were doing with my sister? Do you know who she is?" Calton fumed.

"I know who she is." How well I know, he thought bitterly.

The duke stepped forward, Lord Westcliff at his heels. "If so, then you know I'd kill anyone who touched her, much less debauched and ruined her."

Inwardly, Jack cringed. He'd made himself look like a scoundrel of the first order this night.

He was a scoundrel, after all. If he wasn't, he wouldn't have lived the life he had. He wouldn't be doing what he was doing to these people right now. His gut curdled in self-loathing. Such a slick villain he was.

And for what? For his own skin. For goddamned Tom Wortingham-curse the bastard.

Jack held up his hand to stop Lord Westcliff from adding to what the duke had said. His voice was mild. "I'd hardly say she's been ruined. She is a widow."

The two men stared at him in a silence charged with animosity.

Jack took a moment to assess his main adversary. The key to men prone to fits of righteous violence involved a combination of appeasement and logic. Certainly not provocation, something which Jack by nature was far more inclined to.

Jack sighed. No more beating about the bush. Might as well get to the point. He dropped his hands at his sides and faced the two men head-on.

"I understand your anger." He made an effort to speak in a humble tone-and succeeded somewhat, a true testament to how important this moment was. "I have no wish to see this ordeal cause Lady Rebecca any pain."

It was God's honest truth. He'd have been disconcerted by that if he wasn't so determined to achieve his goal.

"Did you see who witnessed this spectacle tonight?" Lord Westcliff asked. "Do you understand what this will do to her reputation?"

"I don't want Lady Rebecca embarrassed," Jack continued. "To see her as the subject of ridicule or to have her honor besmirched in any way would grieve me." He straightened, firming his stance and his voice. "I'm willing to go to whatever lengths necessary to prevent it."

"You should have thought about all of that before you brought her here," the duke growled.

"Sometimes in such matters the heart speaks louder than good judgment."

"The heart?" Calton sneered. "Do you take me for an idiot? What I saw here was the speaking of flesh. Hearts had nothing to do with it."

"You're wrong about that," Jack said softly.

Westcliff leveled a hard gaze at him, as if trying to dive beneath the surface of his words. But long ago, Jack had encased himself within a steel barrier no one could cross. Nobody could dig into him. No one could see his true motivation. He wouldn't allow it.

He met Westcliff's dark gaze evenly. "I intend to make this right."

"Oh, Kate," Becky cried, falling into her best friend's arms.

Her sister-in-law's protruding belly prevented Becky from sinking too deeply into her embrace. The duchess was eight months pregnant with her second child. The first, two-year-old Jessica, was asleep in the nursery along with Kate and Garrett's adopted children. Jessica had been born in London and Garrett trusted the doctor who had delivered her, so he intended to keep the family here until this child was born. Sophie and Tristan had remained as well to lend their support-though if truth be told, they preferred London over the country.

Kate's dark braid hung down to her waist and she wore a soft flannel robe over her shoulders, but she'd been wide awake awaiting Garrett's return home when Becky had arrived.

"Shh." Kate's arms tightened around Becky's shoulder blades.

"I wish you'd been there. You could have talked some sense into him-"

"Shh. Everything will be all right."

"How can you know that?"

The child leveled a firm kick against its mother's stomach, and Becky loosened her hold. Kate smiled. "You see? He agrees. He's trying to make you see sense. Whatever it is, it cannot be that bad."

Becky plunked her body onto one of the palm-print sofas, gripped her knees, and tried to calm her panic.

"What happened?"

Becky closed her eyes. "I was in bed. In a state of undress. With a gentleman. Engaging in... in..."

Kate raised her hand to stop Becky from stuttering. "I see." She sounded mildly surprised but not disappointed.

"I... Lady Borrill saw me at the hotel, and I'm certain she went straight to Sophie and Tristan. And Garrett was with them tonight, and they all rushed in and saw..."

"Oh, dear Becky." Kate settled onto the sofa beside her and slipped an arm over her shoulders. "Garrett and Tristan will be angry at the gentleman, but that is to be expected. It is undoubtedly a wretchedly embarrassing thing to have your brother and cousin witness such a personal, private moment. But once their anger diminishes, all will return to normalcy. Never fear, when Garrett returns home, I will calm him down, and I am certain Sophie will do the same with Tristan."

"No doubt you will, if it isn't too late. Jack-the gentleman I was with-suggested a duel."

Kate stiffened. "Well. If they do plan to duel, it won't happen until tomorrow, at the very earliest. I shall remind Garrett that his child would like to know his father."

Tears pricked at Becky's eyes, and Kate's hand tightened on her shoulder. Kate would understand. Kate always understood her.

"Who is this gentleman, Becky?" Kate's voice was soothing, low.