"Is swearing thrice more effective than swearing once?" she asked.

He chuckled low in his throat. "Hardly. But it brings me some satisfaction. Now, tell me...about this man who's following you."

"Only if you'll close your eyes and allow me to do what I can to ease your pain. My father suffered horrendous headaches. Applying pressure at his temples helped."

She was near enough to see that Claybourne was no stranger to hurt-his body bore the evidence with small scars here and there on what was otherwise an immensely attractive chest. She hated the thought of him enduring any sort of discomfort. What had he ever done to deserve such a harsh life? That even now, when he had almost everything, he still suffered.

"Close your eyes," she ordered.

To her immense surprise, he complied without arguing.

"Shouldn't-"

"Shh," she interrupted. "Just relax. Shh. I'm going to turn down the lamp just a bit."

She moved away to turn down the flame in the lamp on the table beside his bed. He groaned as though the pain had spiked. Returning her hands to his face, she began circling her fingers over his temples.

"Your hand."

"It's not bothering me," she lied, not certain why she felt this great need to ease his suffering even at the expense of her own comfort. Perhaps the scuffle last night had formed a bond between them. They'd fought the same battle and survived. "Did you send a missive to Frannie?"

He moved his head slightly from side to side. "They'll know."

Then this was something he'd suffered before, no doubt suffered alone. Why wasn't Frannie here to ease his hurt?

"What did Dr. Graves recommend?"

"He gave me a powder. Didn't help."

His breathing became less labored. "Now, tell me about this man."

Even now when he was in pain, he was concerned about her. And even though she was alone in his bedchamber-in his bed for that matter-he was being a perfect gentleman. She'd always thought of Lucian Langdon as a rogue, a scamp, and far more unflattering terms, but she was discovering the legend of Lucian Langdon was far removed from the reality. The legend was a man to be despised; the reality was one that she thought she could very easily come to care for a great deal. She wanted to end his discomfort and bring him what comfort she could.

"I don't know. I'm probably being silly, but I keep seeing a gentleman. I think it's the same gentleman. It's difficult to tell, because I've only been able to catch glimpses of his face. He always turns away, and it would be entirely improper for me to approach him."

"Then perhaps it's nothing."

"That's what I tried to tell myself, but it's his not trying to garner attention that captures my attention. Yesterday I went into various shops, made unnecessary purchases, and he always seemed to be waiting when I came out. When I looked away to see if anyone else was about, and then looked back to where he'd been, he'd disappeared."

"Perhaps he's one of your many admirers."

She scoffed. "I have no admirers."

"I find that difficult to believe."

He sounded as though he was on the verge of drifting into sleep, and she couldn't help but believe her ministrations were causing his pain to recede. She tried to squelch the spark of envy that flared with the thought of Frannie being here and ministering to his needs. She liked Frannie. She truly did. She was sweet, and kind, and so unpretentious. Catherine understood why the young woman feared moving about in aristocratic circles, where ladies were so much more confident.

"This fellow...is there a reason for him to follow you," Claybourne asked.

"None that I can think of. You don't suppose he's responsible for last night's attack, do you?"

His eyes flew open, concern furrowed his brow. "Why would you think that?"

"It just seems too coincidental. I can't think of a reason for anyone to follow me."

"I'm certain the attack last night had more to do with me than you. A description of the fellow would be helpful."

"Helpful for what?"

"For determining who he is."

"Oh, you know all the ruffians in London, do you?"

"I know a good many. So what does he look like?"

"He wears a large floppy hat pulled low so I'm not certain of his hair color. Dark I think. His features are very rough-looking, difficult to describe because there's nothing distinctive about them."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Possibly, but you shouldn't worry about it right now," she said softly. "You need your pains to go away."

He barely nodded before closing his eyes again.

"Keep talking," he ordered, so gently that it was more of a plea.

"About what?"

"Tell me...how it goes with Frannie."

She sighed. She should have expected that he'd want to speak of his love.

"It goes very well. She is bright as you said. But I think we need to expand the lessons beyond her workplace. I think it might be better to have them here. For example, there is no tea service at Dodger's. No drawing room. It is not a lady's world."

"Here...is not a lady's world."

"But it will be, once you marry. We'll discuss it when you're better."

A corner of his mouth quirked up. "You don't like losing arguments."

"I didn't realize we were arguing, but honestly, does anyone want to lose?" She leaned up and whispered near his ear, "Go to sleep now. You'll awaken to no pain."

Her arms were growing tired. She moved up so she could rest her elbows on the bed. She'd hardly given any thought to the notion that her change in position would place her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest. But he was too far gone to notice, while she was acutely aware of her nipples tightening. Almost painfully so. Perhaps they'd both be in pain before the night was done.

Yet she couldn't deny she was content to remain where she was.

She continued to rub his temples. With her thumbs she began to stroke his cheeks.

All the while taking note of the fine lines etched in his face. He was not much older than thirty, and yet strife had chiseled at his features. That first night in the library, she'd studied the portrait of the man who should have been earl before him. It wasn't difficult to see the similarities. Even though Claybourne claimed she'd find none, she almost imagined that she had. How different the portrait might have looked if the man had lived a life as rough as the man she now comforted.

She didn't like acknowledging how worried she'd been, how much she was coming to care for him. As a friend. One friend for another. There would never be anything more between them than that.

He was in love with Frannie, and Catherine, well, Catherine had yet to meet anyone who could claim her heart. Although she couldn't deny that something about Claybourne did stir her. His odd honesty. His willingness to defend her. The depth of love he held for another woman and the lengths he would go to in order to have her in his life.

Catherine couldn't imagine having a man's devotion to that extent. Having met Claybourne, she didn't know if she could settle for less in her own husband-if she were ever to meet a man she thought she could be content to marry.

She felt the tension slowly easing out of Claybourne, was aware of him drifting off to sleep. She could probably leave now, and yet she had no desire to go. Against her better judgment she laid her head on his chest, listened to the steady pounding of his heart.

He'd been in intense agony and yet he'd still been considerate enough to send her a missive.

Considerate. She'd not expected that of him.

Kind. Honest. Courageous. Gentle. Caring.

She'd thought she'd be dealing with the devil. And he was very slowly, in her eyes at least, beginning to resemble an angel.

A dark angel, to be sure, but an angel nonetheless.

"Mummy!"

"Shh, darling, shh, we have to be quiet. We're playing a game. We're going to hide from Papa."

"Scared."

"Shh. Don't be frightened, darling. Shh. Mummy will never let anything bad happen-"

Luke awoke with a start, a weight pressing down on his chest. The dream was bringing back the headache that he'd been fighting all day, ever since leaving Marcus Langdon's. But it wasn't Langdon he kept thinking about. It was being in the alley-the knives, the clubs, the viciousness of the attack. Luke kept seeing Catherine, as he had last night, out of the corner of his eye, defending him, raising her arm to take the blow meant for him.

He usually had his coachman take a circuitous route home, because on more than one occasion they'd been set upon. But ever since he'd begun his a.s.sociation with Catherine, he'd become reckless. He wanted to get her home as quickly as possible. He didn't want to spend any more time than necessary in the coach inhaling her sweet fragrance, carrying on conversations, coming to know her, to see her as more than the spoiled daughter of a duke.

He'd avoided the aristocracy because he didn't want to see the similarities. He didn't want to see them as people he could respect. Through Catherine, he was beginning to understand that they had fears, dreams, hopes, and burdens. They had troubles like everyone else and they faced them head on-like everyone else.

If he saw them as they truly were, the actions he'd taken to become one of them would shame him more than they already did. He'd been brought up to take what wasn't rightfully his in order to survive. If he declared that he wasn't the Earl of Claybourne, would they forgive him his sins? Or would he find himself dancing in the wind?

When he'd rather dance with Catherine.

He jerked out of the lethargic place where he'd been drifting. Why was he thinking of Catherine, dreaming of Catherine...why was her scent so strong?

Opening his eyes, he looked at the weight upon his chest.

Catherine. What is she doing- Then he remembered: her arrival, rubbing his temples, and sending him into a deep slumber. Had he ever slept that soundly?

Until his dream. When he tried to recall it, his head began to pound unmercifully, so he let it go. The headaches weren't nearly as frequent in London, but when he was at his country residence, they were an almost daily occurrence. Something in the air there was disagreeable to him. He was almost certain of it.

He turned his head slightly and saw Catherine's bandaged hand, marred with blood, resting on his pillow where it had no doubt fallen after she'd succ.u.mbed to sleep. It had hurt her to rub his temples, and he should chastise her for it.

But it had felt so comforting not to be alone with his pain. He could think of a thousand reasons why she shouldn't be here. The worst of which was that she tempted him as he'd not been tempted in a good long while.

It was because he'd been so long without a woman. He told himself that. He wanted to believe that-as much as the old gent had wanted to believe that Luke was truly his grandson, Luke wanted to believe that what he was beginning to feel for Catherine was just l.u.s.t, was just his bodily needs, that she called to his desires of the flesh and nothing more.

Because a man couldn't love two women. And his heart was Frannie's. It had always belonged to her. And Catherine was just...brave, strong, determined. Irritating.

Even as he thought about how annoying she was, how she'd never bend to a man's will, he took several loosened strands of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, stroking gently and imagining setting it all free and feeling the silkiness cascading over his chest. How he'd like to bury his face in it. How he'd like to feel more than the silkiness of her hair. How he'd like to feel the velvetiness of her flesh. How he'd like to plunge himself deep inside her, be surrounded by her heat, her scent, her softness.

The groan of desire came unbidden.

Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at him, innocent to the torment raging through his body.

"How's your head?" she asked, as though waking up in a man's bedchamber was as natural as sipping tea at breakfast.

"Much better."

"Good."

She eased up, and he realized with alarm that the tent in the middle of his bed was going to make it impossible for her to miss his reaction to having her so near. Any other unmarried woman might not know what it meant, but hadn't she told Jack that she fantasized about men? And if she fantasized, then she knew...

Reaching up, he cupped her cheek to prevent her from turning her face in a direction that would no doubt cause embarra.s.sment for them both. "Give me a moment."

She furrowed her brow.

"To make certain the headache's not going to return."

She skimmed her fingers over the hair at his temple. "It shouldn't, at least not for a while I shouldn't think."

That wasn't helping at all. If anything it was making the tent rise higher.

"How did you know what to do?" he asked, searching for a distraction, for anything to keep her occupied and to give himself a chance to regain control of his rebellious manhood.

"I told you-my father had headaches."

"I've heard that he's ill."

Nodding, she sat up a little straighter and put her hands in her lap. "Yes, he was struck with apoplexy."

He lowered his arm, so he was no longer touching her. "I'm sorry. That's quite a burden for you to carry. Shouldn't your brother be here?"

"My brother doesn't know. He and Father had a row and Sterling left. I don't know what it was about. I heard only the shouting. I'll wager you didn't know that."

"No, I didn't."

"Everyone thinks Sterling is irresponsible, a cad. I've thought about writing to tell him, but Father gets so agitated whenever I mention it. But of late, I've been thinking about what you said about the previous earl wanting you to be his grandson so badly...what if it's Father's deepest desire to see his son once more before he dies, but he's just too proud to admit it? Will Sterling forgive me if I don't write him, if I don't tell him the truth of the situation? Would you do it?"

Her words took him aback, enough so his body had returned to a more normal state. Thank G.o.d. Thank G.o.d. "You want me to write your brother?"

She smiled sweetly. "No, of course not. But should I-even knowing that Father doesn't want me to? If he was your father, would you want to know?"

"I think you have to seek your own counsel on this matter. Do what your heart tells you to do."

She released a very short burst of laughter, and he sensed that she was amused with herself. Did he know any woman who was as comfortable in her skin as Catherine? When he killed for her, what inside of her would he also murder? How would his actions affect her? He thought doing anything to change her would be a worse crime, an unforgivable sin.