"Dear… child…" The dowager's head lolled to one side.

As she tucked the comforter more securely around the dowager, Kit's brow puckered in a frown. What had Her Grace been so insistent about? She rubbed her temples. It didn't matter now; the dowager could tell everyone when next she awoke.

Several light taps on the chamber door distracted her. Motioning the maid to stay with the dowager duchess, Kit rose and answered the summons. Lord Bainbridge's drawn face greeted her when she opened the door.

"How is she?" he inquired in low tones.

Kit opened the door a little wider. "Dr. Knowles said she suffered a concussive injury to the head, but he believes she should recover well, given time."

"Thank God. May I see her?"

She glanced back toward the bed. "Yes, but she's sleeping. Laudanum."

"Did she say anything about what happened?"

"No," she replied, then bit her lip to prevent herself from mentioning the dowager's strange request.

The duke came up to join them, his eyes still glinting with the same cold, hard light Kit had noticed earlier. "Mrs. Mallory."

She curtsied. "Your Grace. I fear your grandmother is indisposed; Dr. Knowles administered laudanum."

His arctic gaze flicked over her shoulder to the darkened bedchamber beyond, then back to her. "That is just as well, for it is you with whom I wish to speak, Mrs. Mallory."

Kit exchanged a cautious glance with Lord Bainbridge. "I, Your Grace?"

"Wexcombe, this is really not-" the marquess began, his face taut.

The duke cut him off. "Cousin, will you be so kind as to look after my grandmother in our absence?"

Bainbridge stiffened. The two men stared at each other for a moment.

The duke cocked an eyebrow. "Surely you will not disoblige this rather modest request."

Bainbridge relented with a curt nod. A tic began in his temple. "I will stay, if you wish."

"I do." The duke motioned to Kit. "This way, Mrs. Mallory."

As Kit moved past him, the marquess seized her elbow.

"Be careful," he whispered in her ear.

Kit nodded. "I will."

"Coming, Mrs. Mallory?" inquired the duke, in a tone that brooked no opposition.

"Yes, Your Grace," she replied.

As she began to follow the duke down the hall, she shot another glance over her shoulder at Lord Bainbridge, who stared after her, a strange expression on his face. Anxiety added another loop to the knot in Kit's stomach. The tension between the two men had been all but palpable. What was going on? And after having ignored her for all this time, why did the duke suddenly wish to speak with her in private? If he was going to attempt to buy her off again, he would find her as resolute as when he made his first insulting offer.

She squared her shoulders. Whatever it was, it certainly could not be any worse than what she had already faced this week.

The duke led Kit down to the first floor, to the wood and leather-bound realm of his study. Late-afternoon sunshine streamed through the windows in a bright flood; dust motes danced in the hot, slanting beams. The stale odor of books collected but never read, mixed with the smells of fireplace ash, lemon oil, and beeswax pressed heavily against her nostrils. On the ornate stone mantelpiece a large ebony and gilt clock intoned the hour to the otherwise silent room.

"Come in, Mrs. Mallory." The duke gestured for her to precede him into the room, then closed the door behind them.

The sharp click of the latch made Kit jump. "Is this quite necessary, Your Grace?" she asked, fighting to calm her frantic heartbeat.

The duke clasped his hands behind his back as he strode across the Persian carpet. "It is. I also hope you understand that what I have to tell you must be held in the strictest confidence."

"I fail to see the need for such secrecy, sir."

He motioned to a chair. "You will. Please sit down."

Kit perched on the edge of a Chippendale chair, her fingers laced tightly on her lap, one heel tapping a nervous rhythm on the floor.

The duke crossed to his desk, picked up a sheaf of papers, glanced through them, then set them down again. His attire-a jacket of dove gray superfine, intricate cravat, biscuit-colored breeches, and polished Hessians-exuded fashionable indolence, but the hard lines of his face and the almost military set of his shoulders, not to mention his cold, haughty gray eyes, spoiled the effect.

"I am certain you are wondering why I asked to speak to you," he began. "After all, the two of us have not been on the best of terms."

"The thought had occurred to me, Your Grace," she replied, her chin tilted in defiance.

"I assure you that I would not discomfit you thus if the matter were not of vital importance." He stood at his window for a moment, his back to her, before turning around and settling into the chair behind his desk, looking for all the world like a foreign potentate holding court. "Since you seem to favor plain speaking, Mrs. Mallory, I, too, shall be blunt. I am concerned about the growing connection between you and my cousin, the Marquess of Bainbridge."

Heat blazed across Kit's cheeks. "That is none of your business, Your Grace."

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the mahogany desk, one cool blond brow arched at an inquiring angle. "Has he asked you to marry him?"

Kit rose slowly to her feet, breathing hard. "If you have brought me here merely to importune me with impertinent questions, then I must beg Your Grace's leave to retire."

"Sit down, Mrs. Malloy," ordered the duke in an exasperated tone. "By your reaction, I take it he has not."

Kit remained standing. "No."

"Are you certain?"

She glared at him. "If you know your cousin half as well as you claim, Your Grace, then you realize he will make no such offer."

He relaxed back into his chair. "I must say I am relieved to hear it, but not for the reason you might suspect."

Kit's brow furrowed. "What do you mean by that, Your Grace?"

"Will you sit down, or must I crane my neck to look up at you?"

Her jaw set, Kit complied.

"Better," said the duke. "Now, I must beg your indulgence, for to give you a proper explanation will take some time; I ask only that you bear with me."

"What is this all about, Your Grace?"

He steepled his fingers in front of him. "First, and I do not seek to be impertinent, Mrs. Mallory, but have you never wondered why a man like Bainbridge, a Corinthian who moves in the first circles in London, would show an interest in you, a Cit's widow?"

His patronizing tone raised the hairs on the back of Kit's neck. What the deuce was this arrogant man trying to say? She bit back a rather rude reply; she must not let the duke prick her into a display of temper. "He is a rake, my lord. Any woman can guess his intentions."

"Any woman, indeed," he murmured. "So you agree that his attentions to you seem rather… unusual?"

She shifted in her seat. "I do not deny that, Your Grace."

"Then allow me to enlighten you. He pays his attentions to you at my request."

Kit's mouth rounded in shock. "W-what?"

"Just as I said, Mrs. Mallory."

"But-why? You have made your disdain for me perfectly clear, Your Grace. What does Lord Bainbridge have to do with any of this?"

"When my grandmother returned from India, she could talk of nothing else but you. Even now, she spends more time with you than she does with her own great-grandchildren. I ask you-what was I to think? The dowager duchess is getting on in years, and less scrupulous individuals might seek to curry favor with her in the hope of obtaining an inheritance."

"And you thought that I-? That is despicable, sir," she hissed.

He shrugged. "I had no idea who you were, Mrs. Mallory, but I did know of your father, and his reputation was cause enough for alarm."