“His lordship will see you in the library.” The butler guided them down the hall to a set of closed doors.

Maggie raised a self-conscious hand to her hair, smoothing any stray locks back into the simple chignon in which Bessie had arranged it before they left Green Street.

The butler opened the door for her, and Maggie preceded him into the library, Bessie not far behind her. The room was lit by only a few candles and the crackling fire in the hearth. Its dancing flames cast the bookshelves and furnishings in an ever-shifting pattern of shadows.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stood in front of the fire, his back to the room. Lord St. Clare, Maggie presumed.

“Mrs. Ives, your lordship,” the butler said.

“Thank you, Jessup.” St. Clare’s voice was a deep, rich baritone. “You may leave us.”

As the butler withdrew, St. Clare turned and approached his visitors. He was a big man, standing well over six feet, and had the sort of lean, well-muscled build that set off the current fashion for skintight pantaloons and close-fitting coats to magnificent effect. Unlike Fred, whose bulky frame had made him look oddly uncomfortable in his snug garments, the viscount seemed perfectly at ease, moving with a languorous, masculine grace that put Maggie in mind of a great, predatory cat.

A rake, Jane had said. A libertine. A vile seducer of women.

He emerged from the shadows to stand in front of her, promptly executing a slight bow. “Mrs. Ives. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

Maggie stared up at him, her wide eyes meeting his stormy gray ones.

Her breath caught. “Oh,” she said weakly.

And then, she fainted.

Strong arms caught Maggie before she fell to the ground, effortlessly sweeping her up and carrying her to the leather library sofa. A pillow was arranged behind her head, and long masculine fingers untied the ribbons at the neck of her cloak, revealing the modest kerseymere gown she’d worn beneath it.

“Fair exhausted, she is,” Maggie heard Bessie saying as she slowly came around. “Only arrived in London this afternoon and refused to rest, no matter how much the master and Miss Trumble prevailed upon her.”

“She’s ill,” St. Clare said.

“A nip of brandy will set her to rights. If you could spare a glass, your lordship?”

Maggie felt St. Clare rise. She heard the clink of crystal as a decanter was unstopped and a glass was filled. Then, before she knew it, a powerful arm was sliding beneath her shoulders, carefully raising her up. She smelled the familiar fragrance of horses and leather combined with a seductive, purely masculine scent that might have been the viscount’s shaving soap. “Steady now, Mrs. Ives,” he said, placing the edge of the glass to her lips.

“You mustn’t trouble yourself, my lord,” Bessie said. “If you’ll allow me. I was her nurse long before I was her maid.”

“Her nurse?”