He repeated the demented chant until it was seared onto his brain.

Unavoidable. Unforgettable. And unbreakable.

Come to bed, Lottie…

Alec’s dark voice called to her, pulling her down into the deepest recesses of her mind.

In that shadowy space, Lottie couldn’t see his face, but it was Alec all the same. His rough, wide palms slid over her skin, knowing just how to touch, how to stroke, how to tease. She twisted under his hands, trying to move out of his reach, unable to take any more of this torturous pleasure, but he only held her harder, moved faster. No one could make her body feel like this, like a fire scorching her from the inside.

Only Alec.

It had only ever been Alec.

“Lottie.”

Lottie’s eyes shot open. Her heart pounded nearly as hard as the pulse between her legs. Alec stood at the foot of her bed, already dressed for the day in a fresh white shirt. Sunlight streamed through the balcony, casting him in a rosy glow.

He looked concerned. “You still have nightmares?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You were tossing back and forth. I thought…” His voice trailed off as he studied her face.

Oh God. Her dream.

Lottie pressed a hand to her cheek. She was flush and damp. Their eyes met and his widened slightly. Then her heart stopped. He knew. Alec knew what she had been dreaming of.

Lottie turned away, wishing the bed would open up and swallow her whole. “I need to dress.” Her voice trembled ever so slightly. “I’ll be ready shortly.”

Alec stood there for an agonizing moment. She could feel his eyes still on her, feel his hesitation, but she didn’t look back. “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

She waited until he shut the door behind him, then let out a breath.

It took her longer than usual, as her hands stumbled over the buttons. Lottie had chosen another mostly practical ensemble for traveling: a dark skirt, a white blouse, and sturdy walking boots. But there was a decided streak of whimsy in some of her pieces. Such as the fitted scarlet jacket trimmed in velvet she now donned, which saved her from looking like a rather dowdy missionary.

Back in London Mrs. Wetherby had decried the jacket as highly unsuitable and urged Lottie to choose a different fabric in dull tan, sober black, or perhaps navy blue. But Lottie had absolutely no regrets about her purchase and was now doubly grateful that she had asked the tailor to nip it in closer at the waist. For much of her youth she had a thin, almost boyish figure, and even now her curves weren’t anything close to voluptuous. She knew she would never be considered a great beauty. Knew she possessed too many traits deemed undesirable by the fashionable crowd. And she had made her peace with it. Lottie enjoyed dressing for herself and tried not to linger on the things she had absolutely no control over, like other people’s opinions. But as she wound her braided hair into a loose knot aided by the dressing table mirror, those old insecurities suddenly gripped her. It felt as if she were entering a London ballroom for the first time all over again. Preparing to be judged and ranked by a hundred pairs of eyes—and found incredibly lacking.