"Let me show you," he breathed. He tilted her chin up, then leaned down and kissed her.

Everything about her aroused him-the scent of her skin, the soft curls that framed her face, the taste of her lips, the slender span of her waist beneath his hands. God, he didn't want to kiss her so much as devour her. Her mouth parted beneath his assault; her arms wrapped around him, and her body relaxed into his embrace. Every curve and swell seemed to fit so perfectly against him.

She tipped her head back; his lips strayed down her neck until he found the soft hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse throbbed at a wild, almost frantic tempo. He cupped her breast, and a ragged moan escaped her.

The sound brought Bainbridge back to his senses, however temporarily. Like a man in a dream, he drew back and looked down at her. Kit remained motionless in his arms, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She was his for the taking. Dear God. If he didn't stop himself now, he'd have her propped up against one of the stone urns, her skirts rucked up about her thighs. The very thought sent another dangerous jolt of desire through him. With deliberate care, he released her. She wobbled a bit, then opened her eyes and stared at him.

"Now-never again doubt that I desire you," he said, his voice rough.

"Nicholas, I-"

Achilles's nervous whinny distracted them. Kit sprang back, a guilty look on her face, as a harried footman came pelting across the folly's stone portico.

"Lord Bainbridge?" The man halted in the doorway, gasping for air. "My lord?"

With a frown, the marquess stepped forward. "Yes, what is it, man?"

"His Grace begs you… to come… to the house… at once," the footman panted.

"What is it?" Kit asked, her eyes huge. "What is wrong?"

"The dowager duchess," gulped the footman. "She has taken a terrible fall down the stairs."

A dark pit seemed to open beneath Kit's feet. Her pulse hammered in her chest. The clammy sheen of perspiration dewed her upper lip. "W-what?"

"You must come at once," wheezed the footman.

"Has Wexcombe sent for a physician?" the marquess asked.

"Yes, my lord," the servant gasped. "But she's in a bad way."

Lord Bainbridge muttered an oath beneath his breath, then turned to Kit. "We must get back to the house-"

Kit did not wait for him to finish; she gathered up her skirts and dashed from the folly. Behind her, she heard the marquess bellow to the footman to return his horse to the stables, followed by the sound of his booted strides behind her. Together they raced up the hill and through the French doors at the back of the house.

Kit hurried toward the broad expanse of the marble staircase and started up the stairs two at a time. A small object on the landing drew her attention. She bent down to retrieve it, her hands shaking. The dowager's lace cap. With a cry, she launched herself up the stairs.

In the hall outside the dowager's bedchamber, chaos reigned. The duchess directed an army of servants, their faces creased with worry and anxiety, in and out of the room, carrying pillows, blankets, and trays laden with cloths and basins of water. Lady Elizabeth sat crumpled in a chair in the hallway, weeping, while the duke stood over her with his fists planted on his hips, his face contorted in a snarl.

"I didn't mean to do it!" wailed Lady Elizabeth. Hysteria tinged her voice. "It was an accident, I swear!"

"An accident?" the duke roared. "You have a screaming match with my grandmother, then she just happens to fall down the stairs? Do you take me for a fool, Elizabeth?"

Kit stood in the middle of the hall, paralyzed by what she had just heard. She clasped the dowager's cap to her breast.

Lord Bainbridge pulled up by her side. "What the devil is going on here?"

Lady Elizabeth looked up at him with reddened eyes; tears streamed in long trails down her pallid cheeks. She vaulted from the chair and flung herself against him, clutching at his lapels.

"You must believe me, my lord!" she begged. "It was all an accident!"

The marquess disengaged the young woman's hands from his jacket. His dark eyes narrowed, and something in his expression-something intent and utterly ruthless-made Kit shiver.

"I think you had best tell me what happened," he snapped.

Lady Elizabeth turned pleading eyes to him. "After… after we spoke this morning, she accosted me and began to upbraid me in the most appalling manner. She would not stop, my lord, despite all my protests. She even followed me up the stairs, calling me the most vicious names imaginable-"

"I find that rather difficult to believe," Bainbridge interjected, the hint of a growl rumbling through his words. "What did she really say to you? The truth, Elizabeth. Now."

Lady Elizabeth paled. "She demanded that I stop throwing myself at you, and then… then she called me a brazen hussy who was no better than she should be!"

The marquess did not so much as blink. "And then what did you do?"

"When I reached the top of the stairs, I turned and screamed at her to leave me alone, but she was right behind me, and I think… I think I must have startled her, for she stumbled backward. You must believe me-I didn't mean for her to fall!"

"Good God… what have you done?" Kit whispered, horrified.

Lady Elizabeth shot a fulminating glare in Kit's direction, then turned in desperation back to the marquess. "I have not done anything. It was an accident. You do believe me, don't you?"

Bainbridge's mouth hardened. "Did anyone else see it happen?"

"N-no, but-"

"Then I have only your word on the matter."

"But, Nicholas, you must believe me. You love me-"

A muscle twitched at the corner of the marquess's jaw. "I thought you had more sense than that, madam. I see now that I was mistaken."

The woman paled even further.

The cold, sick feeling in the pit of Kit's stomach expanded upward until it seemed to penetrate her very heart. Nicholas and Lady Elizabeth? She shuddered, then shoved the thought from her mind. "I must see Her Grace; I cannot wait any longer."

Turning her back on the others in the hall, she rushed into the elderly woman's bedchamber. What she saw stopped her dead in the middle of the room. Tears pricked her eyes; a lump welled up in her throat. Lord, the dowager looked so still and ashen in that great bed. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. Kit clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp of horror.

By the dowager's bedside, the duchess turned, recognized her, and was instantly wary.

"Let me sit with her a while," Kit begged.

"I think it best that she be with family," the duchess replied, her mouth set in prim lines.

"Please, Your Grace-just until the physician arrives."

Angry words resounded from the corridor, punctuated by Lady Elizabeth's sobs.

The duchess glanced toward the doorway and hesitated.

"Please," Kit repeated. "She is dearer to me than anyone else in the world."

The duchess hesitated. Another burst of hysterical sobbing from the hallway made her cringe. "Oh… very well. I must see to my sister." She departed in a swish of taffeta and closed the door behind her. Instantly, the voices in the hall dwindled to muted murmurs.

Kit drew a chair to the dowager's bedside and took the lady's hand in hers. Oh, God-her skin felt cool and clammy, and how starkly her veins stood out beneath her wrinkled skin. Ugly bruises marred her jaw and temple. She looked so very frail lying there, dwarfed by the mountain of pillows on which she rested. Tears began to overflow Kit's lashes; she wiped them away with impatient fingers. She must be strong, for the dowager's sake.