Those eyes. Gemma walked slowly down the hall, trailing her fingertips lightly on the wall in the dimness. Had she ever seen brown eyes so dark they seemed black? And his fine, well-cut features held Gemma's interest even as they turned her thoughts to wandering. He looked fierce and dark, the very opposite of Edmund, who had been fair and blue-eyed and ruddy from the weather.

Fallen angel.

What a silly notion! Why had that thought popped into her mind?

In her bedchamber, Gemma did without the candle, nipping out the flame with quick fingers. She preferred the privacy of darkness for some very unusual thoughts. As she struggled one-handed with her gown and her underthings, she let her mind drift to the way the stranger's muscles moved under the borrowed nightshirt.

Gemma had never been immune to noticing a handsome man, for all that the people of Farby thought her aloof. It was only that taking a lover from the dale meant taking a husband or son, brother or cousin of at least a dozen other people who looked to her for help. People who took pride in their decorous and dignified Lady of the Dale.

In the dark privacy of her little room, however, Gemma allowed herself to imagine having a lover. Someone from far away. Someone who would stay and be only hers.

Someone dark and tall, with a shadowed gaze, who would not prattle of gambling or gossip. Someone who had seen the world, who had seen what Gemma had seen.

Her uninjured hand stroked down her neck and skimmed over her breasts and belly. She was too thin, she knew. Hard times had eaten away her curves and left behind some rather unbecoming muscle. She thought she was looking downright boyish these days.

But her breasts were still high and she had good teeth, so she supposed she hadn't entirely lost her looks.

Her hand trailed lower still and she was astonished to find herself damp and ready.

I blame his voice. Although his speech was brief, his voice was so deep that it seemed to rumble right through to her bones, vibrating in places that she'd long ago put away as useless to her.

Heavens, what a stunner.

She realized then that she had not gotten his name. And she really, really wanted to know.

CHAPTER 8

Chapter 8

MEANWHILE, BACK IN LONDON…

IN WORTHINGTON HOUSE, IRIS'S room was only dimly lit by a small candle in a glass chimney on the side table. The draperies were shut tight, leaving nothing but shadows. It turned the sickroom mysterious and far, far too peaceful.

Iris was never peaceful. Attie stepped stealthily into the sickroom. Her father snored in the chair by the bed with his head tipped back. Archie hadn't bothered with a cravat and Attie looked away from the wrinkled vulnerability of his throat.