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A risk that had haunted her when she had heard the undeniable sound of a bath being prepared next door. He hadn’t returned to the game of naughty charades or his guests at all. Instead, Whitby had stripped himself bare and lowered himself into the hot water of his tub.

She had paced the floor, trying not to think about how he would look, naked and glistening in the bath.

Oh, how she had attempted to keep herself from imagining how he would use a cloth and soap to lovingly wash each hard masculine angle, every roped ridge of muscle.

And she had failed utterly on all counts.

With his teasing kisses earlier, he had brought her perilously near to abandoning her good intentions and reputation both.

She had been desperate for his mouth on hers.

Instead of doing something incredibly foolish, she had decided to take some air.

Painstakingly, she had removed her dressing gown and dressed again in one of her modest gray gowns, before sweeping her hair into a hasty chignon.

A wrap and a solid pair of walking boots, and she had made her way carefully downstairs.

The raucous laughter and voices echoing from the drawing room had been enough to tell her that most of the house party’s guests were otherwise occupied.

She slipped out a door and into the gardens, alone with her thoughts.

And yet, though she must have been pacing the gravel paths for at least the last hour, and despite the cool nip in the air, she hadn’t been able to outrun the troubling thoughts whirling in her mind. Perhaps it was the full moon at work, beguiling her and bringing devilry upon them all.

As she rounded a bend in the path, the scent of cigar smoke reached her, warning her she was not alone in the moments before the tall figure of a man emerged from the distant shadows.

She froze, heart thudding in her chest as she realized that in her haste to flee her chamber, she had forgotten to don a mask before venturing from the haven of her room.

The bright illumination of the full moon made it appear as though a silver lantern had been hung aloft, brightening the nightscape with unnatural intensity.

If she didn’t hide, the man approaching her would see her face. She attempted to skirt a massive rosebush, but in her haste, she passed too near and the thorns snagged in her silk, catching her there. It was either rip her dress or remain as she was, a hare trapped neatly, awaiting the hound.

“What have we here?” the man asked, moving toward her with purposeful strides.

Frantically, she tugged at her gown, trying to free herself from the clutches of the roses. The sound of silk tearing made her freeze anew.

“It looks as if we’ve a little bird caught in the roses,” the unfamiliar man drawled.

She gave another frantic jerk at her skirts and finally managed to reclaim them.

Too late. The interloper was almost upon her, and there was no denying the damage to her silk.

One less gown in her wardrobe now, unless she could somehow manage to wield a needle and repair the destruction without it being noticeable.

She very much doubted so; Miranda had never been skilled at embroidery.

She hadn’t the patience for it. All thumbs, as her mother had often regretfully said.

“I am freed now,” she managed with far more cheer than she felt, attempting to keep her face averted so that the man wouldn’t see her.

As he approached, she saw that most of his countenance was obscured by a dark mask. She had no notion of who he was or what he might want with her. And foolishly, she had wandered into the gardens without anyone the wiser of her whereabouts.

“So I see.” He stopped and offered a formal bow. “Pity. I do so enjoy rescuing damsels in distress, particularly when the risk is more than worth the reward.”

Miranda kept her head ducked toward the ground as she dipped into a polite curtsy. If she was lucky, the man would think her an errant servant wandering in the gardens where she didn’t belong and simply leave her to return to her room.

“As you can see, there is no need for either rescue or reward, sir,” she offered in a quiet voice, her chin tucked firmly to her chest.

“As I said, it’s a pity. I do think I would have enjoyed taking you into my arms to pull you free,” the man said, before taking a puff of his cigar.

“I fear you’ve mistaken me for one of the revelers,” she began, careful to keep her face in the shadows as best as she was able. “However, I am merely a guest who lost her way and is eager to return to her chamber for the evening.”

“I’ll offer you my escort,” he was quick to say.

“That won’t be necessary. Thank you, but I prefer solitude. I’ll just be going.”

But as she made to skirt round the man, a hand shot out, boldly capturing her elbow.

“Not so quickly, my dear.”

Her heart jolted.

“It would seem I’ve caught my little bird after all,” he crooned, refusing to release her. “What shall I do with her, hmm?”

She didn’t like the tone of his voice or the barely veiled suggestion in his words.

Perhaps the man thought she was a seasoned member of the wicked club in attendance and that she was playing some manner of game with him.

However, she decidedly was not. All she wanted to do was get back to her room and hopefully garner some much-needed slumber without the endless temptation of hearing the Duke of Whitby at his bath. Surely he would be finished by now?

She chose to ignore the pang of disappointment deep within her at the realization, trying to keep her mind firmly upon the situation at hand.

“What you shall do is release me, sir,” she said coolly, forgetting herself and tilting up her head to frown at him with displeasure.

“I have already told you that I prefer my own company to that of others and that I’m not a part of your club.

I haven’t come here for the reasons you undoubtedly have. Now, please, let me go.”

“I know you,” the man said, his voice taking on a contemplative air.

Heavens, what was she thinking, exposing her face to this stranger’s scrutiny? She turned her head as fast as a whip, giving him her profile. The brilliant light of the moon rendered remaining in the shadows virtually impossible.

“You do not know me, sir,” she denied, a new sense of dread, heavy and sharp, overtaking her.

What if he did know her? There was something perhaps vaguely familiar about him, though hidden behind his mask, he remained very much a mystery.

“But that is where you’re wrong.” He took another lengthy puff of his cigar, his hand still clamped on her elbow, holding her where she didn’t wish to be.

The garden seemed suddenly colder than an ice cave.

“Please, sir,” she demanded. “Release me at once.”

“I do know you.” Jerking her arm, he took her by surprise with his brute force and spun her to face him, moonlight spilling over her. “You’re the Countess of Ammondale, by God.”

Her blood, seemingly boiling ever since the Duke of Whitby had first trespassed in her school, went cold. Her first instinct was to deny the truth, the shock of hearing her former title and the recognition in the man’s voice overtaking her.

“You must be mistaken, sir.”

“No.” He shook his head, eyes an indistinct shade traveling over her slowly in the moonlight. “I know precisely who you are. What a sweet delight to find you here, m’dear. I don’t recall seeing you at dinner.”

There was no point in continuing to argue the point. The full moon provided sufficient light.

“That is because I wasn’t at dinner,” she informed him, keeping her voice as frosty as possible, even as fear swept over her.

One foolish mistake, and she may have thrown her school and her future into peril.

“Off with a fellow reveler, were you?” he asked, crude insinuation in his tone.

“Can’t say I blame you. Dinner was a deadly dull affair.

No doubt it would have been much more interesting, however, if the Fallen Countess had been there.

Unless… Christ, I should have known. Are the dukes keeping you for themselves, then?

Hiding you away so that the rest of us haven’t a chance to sample your lovely charms? ”

Good heavens, he believed she was dallying with all the dukes, as if she were a Cyprian at their disposal. She didn’t know which she longed to do more, stomp on his foot, punch him in the nose, or box his ears.

Miranda settled for yanking her elbow free of him instead. “No one is keeping me. I keep myself. Now, I must bid you good evening, sir. The hour grows late.”

She moved past him, heart in her throat as she waited for him to waylay her again.

“Countess.”

She paused, casting a wary glance over her shoulder at him, where he calmly smoked his cigar. “Sir?”

“I don’t reckon Ammondale would be pleased to discover you’re a member of the Wicked Dukes Society, even if you aren’t his wife any longer. I confess, I thought you’d disappeared from London after the ignominy of your divorce, that you’d run off with Waring.”

There was an ominous edge to the man’s voice now, a threat-wrapped warning. It was not Ammondale’s ire that concerned her, however. It was the impact such a scandalous on dit as her presence at a wicked house party would make upon her school.

She didn’t dare allow her trepidation to show, however. She recognized the stranger’s sort instantly. If he scented blood, he would only become determined to ruin her or otherwise have the upper hand over her.

“I’m sure I don’t care what Ammondale thinks of anything I do,” she told him coolly.

“I wouldn’t be as certain, m’dear,” he said, silken menace in his tone. “No doubt my silence is worth something. Perhaps we can arrange for a mutually beneficial exchange. I hold my tongue to Ammondale, and you grant me a favor in return.”

Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. “Are you threatening me, sir?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He moved toward her, bringing the scent of tobacco smoke with him. “I was merely suggesting that we may find some way to entertain each other. A way that ensures an equal bargain for the both of us.”

Her stomach lurched. “There will be no such bargain between us.”

The sick sense of fear made the knot of dread deep inside her tighten even more.

Oh, how thoughtless she had been to run from her bedroom and into the night, unprotected by a mask or anything she might use to defend herself.

If the man were to attempt to force his attentions upon her, all she had was her sturdy walking boots to ward him off.

“Why not?” he asked. “I could make it worth your while.”

“I think not, sir.” Miranda grasped her ruined skirts and lifted them, deciding it was time to retreat before the man in the gardens attempted to do more than blackmail her.

She set off at a brisk pace across the gravel path, retracing her steps.

“Come back, Countess,” the man called after her, the crunching of stone behind her a warning that he was in pursuit.

Her heart hammering against her chest, she broke into a run. Miranda raced as fast as she could around the curved, meandering path until she rounded a bend where a boxwood hedge stood and promptly slammed into the unforgiving form of yet another man.

The wind was knocked out of her lungs, and she would have fallen to her rump had it not been for the man’s hands clamping on to her waist, holding her steady. But she had no wish to be caught. Her instincts took control, her palms landing on the man’s chest, pummeling him.

He grunted. “Dash it, Miranda. It’s me.”

“Whitby,” she breathed, instantly stopping the blows, relief washing over her.

She felt inexplicably safe with him.

“What’s wrong, darling?” he demanded, frowning down at her in the moonlight, concern in his voice, etched on his countenance.

“There’s a man,” she managed, breathless from her flight and the fear gripping her. “I came across him in the gardens, and he recognized me. He…he was trying to blackmail me into keeping my presence here a secret. He implied that he wanted…favors from me.”

Whitby stiffened, resembling nothing so much as a guard dog ready to attack.

“Who is he?” he growled. “I’ll beat him to a bloody pulp and then banish him from both the club and Wingfield Hall when I’m finished.”

She shook her head, still struggling to catch her breath. “I don’t know who he is. He’s wearing a mask that covers most of his face.”

“Where is the scoundrel?”

“He was in the gardens with me. He was following me. Just behind me, I think. Round that bend.”

“Stay here,” he ordered, his voice grim.

Before she could protest, he broke away from her, storming around the corner down the path, in search of the man who had recognized her. She remained where she was for a few frantic moments, fretting over Whitby putting himself in danger. What if the man hurt him? It would be all her fault.

Grasping her skirts again, Miranda hastened after him.

The duke’s legs were longer, however, and he had rage on his side.

He had already disappeared from view by the time she rushed down the path.

Gasping for breath, she rounded another curve in the gardens and was greeted by the dull sound of a fist connecting with flesh, followed by a groan of pain, and then another thud.

Two men tussled at the far end of the pathway, and she recognized Whitby’s superior height and strength at once. He shook the other man by his lapels.

“You will tell no one that you saw her here. Do you understand, you arsehole?” Whitby was demanding.

“Forgive me. I was only wanting to?—”

Whitby delivered another sound punch to the man’s jaw, effectively ending his protest prematurely. “I don’t give a damn what you wanted. The rules of this club are clear. Secrecy is paramount, and no one tries to force a woman who doesn’t bloody well want him.”

“I’m sorry,” the man squeaked. “Please, stop. I meant no harm. I won’t tell a soul, I swear it upon my life.”

“Damned right, you will swear it upon your life,” Whitby snarled, giving the man a shake, quite as if he were no more substantial than a child’s doll despite his size. “Because if you do anything to hurt her, I will fucking end you.”

“I’d never hurt her. Please. It was all a misunderstanding, Your Grace.”

“Consider this your first and final warning,” Whitby said, releasing the man.

“Thank you. I won’t need another.”

“Get out of my sight,” the duke roared.

The man didn’t hesitate in fleeing, the sound of his harried footfalls echoing through the sudden stillness of the night as he raced away.

Whitby turned to where Miranda stood and held out his hand. “Come.”