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T hough he knew he would hear a reprimand or two from Duncan on the morrow, Richard had claimed the room across from his former quarters—the suite now occupied by Lady Emma Donoghue.

He told himself he wanted to be close to her if she called out in the night.

He also told himself she would be well if he were near.

His mind raced with the possibility of Lady Emma’s brief memory of the color red, which had him wondering if the man with the red inside his cape was her attacker.

The idea was tenuous at best, but Richard had nothing else upon which to base his conjectures.

Obviously, at least to Richard, the man in the black cape appeared to have recognized him and hurried away.

The question was, had the man hurried away because he was escaping what happened to Lady Emma or because he was late for another engagement or simply not wishing to be recognized in Covent Garden?

Richard had left the door to his quarters open a few inches, as well as setting Emma’s door ajar. “Emma,” he mouthed her name. When the hell had she become “Emma” in his mind? Richard suspected it had been long before this evening’s events.

Despite his supposed dislike of her person, privately he held a bit of sympathy for her.

Like his parents had done, Lady Emma’s parents had missed much of her childhood.

Despite how often he had despised Lord Macdonald Duncan’s many rules, Richard knew he was a better man and a better earl because of them, for Duncan’s rules were based in love and respect, not in malice.

However, to whom had Emma answered when she placed herself in danger?

Had there ever been expectations? Rules to break?

He propped his hands behind his head and stared up at the bed drape. “How will I ever be able to sleep in that bed again with the memory of her stretched out on my side of the bed forever filling my thoughts?”

God, it had been hard for him to ignore the smoothness of her hip and the press of her full breasts against his chest as he carried her in his arms, as well as how difficult it would surely be to drive the idea of her from his mind.

He had repeatedly filled his lungs with the scent of lavender in her hair.

Like it or not, and Richard did not like it, her body fit along his perfectly.

Even with her memory scrambled by the unthinkable, Emma Donoghue had proven herself both clever and brave by somehow escaping her attacker.

Richard’s fingers craved to touch her—to prove to her that he was the type of man upon which she could depend.

Determined not to imagine what he could or should do about the woman, with a sigh of resignation, Richard grabbed one of his two pillows, cuddled it close to his chest, and closed his eyes.

He still had much to do to protect Lady Emma, and he was also obligated to attend a tea being given in honor of Sir Hunter and Miss David.

Previously, he had asked Lady Theodora Duncan to accompany him; Theodora was always willing to serve as companion to any of her father’s men for such social engagements; though, in truth, Dora would prefer to spend all her time with Alexander Dutton.

In Richard’s opinion, Alexander preferred Theodora equally as well, but his friend was more committed to finding his missing mother and younger sister than he was in claiming a wife and settling down.

Perhaps Richard could find time during tomorrow’s festivities to seek Dora’s advice about Lady Emma.

He could trust Lord Duncan’s daughter and his unofficial sister to keep his secret regarding the woman who was never far from his fantasies.

He and Theodora had been brother and sister for well over a year until Duncan brought Lord Aaran Graham to live with them.

Later, they were joined by Navan Beaufort, followed shortly by Alexander Dutton, and, finally, Benjamin Thompson.

Five sons and one daughter was a full house, even before when Lady Elsbeth passed in childbirth a year after Graham had come to stay with them.

Dora was always their baby sister, though she did not wish to be referred to in those terms. Theodora was a brave as any of her brothers and well-skilled with a bow staff, a sword, and archery.

“Good morning, my lady,” Mrs. Chester said as she opened the drapes in the room where Emma had slept or, more accurately, not slept.

She could not discover a comfortable position, and her body ached all over.

She had told herself the pain meant she had fought her attacker valiantly and, hopefully, executed some damage of her own on him.

She painfully lifted her weight higher in the bed. “What time is on the clock?”

“It is nearly nine, my lady,” Mrs. Chester said.

“Lord Duncan’s nurse said his lordship would have breakfast at half past nine this morning, for his lordship was up for some time after Lord Orson’s sudden appearance in the overnight hours.

Lord Duncan hoped you would be well enough to join him in breaking your fast.”

Emma was most assuredly hungry, but she had nothing appropriate to wear. It was scandalous enough that Lord Orson had viewed her wearing a simple nightgown and robe and covered with a blanket to disguise her modesty. “I could not be seen as I am before Lord Duncan,” she said.

“His lordship has asked his daughter to provide you with a day dress to wear. I thought we would have your bath and then dress.”

“His daughter?” she asked. “I do not believe I have ever encountered Lord Duncan’s daughter, though I suppose I might not remember, even if I had.”

“It will all sort itself out,” Mrs. Chester assured. “Time is the best healer. Lord Duncan is discovering that axiom also.”

Before Emma could ask what the woman meant, the same maid from last evening led two footmen into the room—one carrying a hip bath and the other two buckets of hot water.

“Four more buckets,” Mrs. Chester ordered. “That should be enough.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The men disappeared.

“As we wait for the rest of the water, perhaps you wish to relieve yourself. Marjory and I can steady your steps.”

Emma nodded her agreement and tossed the bedding to the side and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Shall Lord Orson be joining us?” She had had a dream that he had stood at the end of her bed last evening.

She thought perhaps she might have screamed, for she had dreamed of a figure, all in black, who meant to strike her.

“Lord Orson did not speak to his early departure, but he did say he would return for breakfast.” The housekeeper braced Emma’s unsure steps to where a chamber pot awaited her behind a screen.

“I imagine he meant to call in at his London home and claim a change of clothing, as he and Lady Theodora are to attend an afternoon tea together.”

“A tea?” Emma asked with as little concern as she could infuse in her tone.

“Yes, Lord Orson’s long-time acquaintance Sir Hunter Wickersham means to marry Miss Elizabeth David this Friday. Our Master Richard is to stand up with Sir Hunter.”

Though the housekeeper did not say Lord Orson would escort Lady Theodora to said wedding, Emma’s mind announced the fact, nevertheless. Naturally, such was why he had brought her to this house. He would not risk ruining his relationship with Lady Theodora by taking Emma to his house.

A single knock on the door announced the return of the footmen.

Emma remained behind the screen until they were gone.

She would bathe and have a simple meal with the man who had extended his hospitality to her.

Then she would send a note around to her house and ask that a carriage be sent for her.

She would reimburse Lord Duncan and the man’s daughter for the kind charity extended for her care.

Unfortunately, she could not presume to know what to expect at her house, but she could obviously not imagine that Lord Orson meant to continue to oversee her care. She had imposed on the man long enough.

Though he had had little sleep, Richard was up early.

He would require several changes of clothes for Duncan Place, and he wished to dash off notes to Alexander Dutton, Navan Beaufort, and Benjamin Thompson to ask each to make an appearance at their leisure at Duncan’s residence, for Richard required their assistance.

Lord Aaran Graham was reportedly worming his way into the Luddites organization to learn of any possible sedition.

He did not know how long he had stood at the end of Lady Emma’s bed.

Her scream sent him scurrying to reach her.

Though he knew it would be nearly impossible for a stranger to enter Duncan Place, when she screamed, he had grabbed his gun and was in her room in the passage of less than a handful of heartbeats, but there was no attacker—only a woman frightened by the shadows in her mind.

Richard’s heart had galloped as fast as if it were inside the Derby winner’s chest.

“No!” she called a second time and held her hands above her head to protect herself from an unknown intruder, and he had set his gun on a side table and circled the bed to ease Lady Emma gently back to a resting position.

“I am here. No one will harm you. I shan’t permit it.

You are in my bed, my lady,” he said with a smile, as he cautiously guided her back to rest against the pillows. “Calm, my girl.”

This morning at Orson Hall, he had retrieved his carriage and returned to Duncan Place with a quarter hour to spare. If he could claim a couple hours of sleep before this afternoon’s tea, he might survive the day.

“I have several small trunks on the top of the carriage,” he had told Duncan’s butler. “Please have someone place them in Marksman’s quarters, Mr. Fields.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Has someone assisted Lady Donoghue?”