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He didn’t bother with his coat or shoes—if anyone in the household saw them, he’d be out on his bum before he could utter a word of protest. They were safer going up the servants’ stairs, and he led the way, determined not to think about the soft loveliness of her. Damn it.

They saw no one, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he opened her bedroom door and gestured her inside. “Can you light my lamp?” she asked in a chastened voice.

Sighing, he set his own lamp down on the dressing table and started toward hers, lighting it quickly and efficiently.

She was still standing by the door, and he had to be a glutton for punishment, because he said, “Get in bed,” when he knew that vision was going to haunt him almost as much as seeing her on his bed would.

“I will,” she said. “After you go.”

He nodded coldly, heading for the door, but she didn’t move out of the way, and he knew he was going to brush by that fiendish nightgown.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?” she asked as he moved past her.

He froze, looking down at her. She had that mischievous expression on her face again, and he wondered how he could have underestimated her. “You’re playing with fire, little girl,” he said softly.

“You kissed me once already,” she teased him.

Something snapped. “You’re about to get burned.” And before he could think twice, he put his hands on her arms and dragged her slight body against his damned hard one, setting his mouth against hers.

She was so shocked her mouth was open, and he deepened the kiss, pushing her up against the wall of her bedroom and pressing against her.

She made a sound, probably of distress, but he ignored it, using his tongue, kissing her so thoroughly that she felt weak in his arms, and he wanted to lift her up and carry her to the bed, to rip away that flimsy nightgown and place his mouth everywhere, on her breasts, between her legs.

He wanted her so badly it weakened him as well, but he just kept kissing her until he had to stop for breath.

He pushed her away from him, and she fell back against the wall, staring up at him with shock and something else which he told himself was horror. He’d done what he set out to do—scared her half to death with her first taste of a real man.

“That’s what happens when I kiss you,” he growled, furious at himself, at her, at everything. “So keep your distance.”

Grabbing the lamp, he closed the door behind him with a decided click, leaving her alone to recover as best she could.

She would hate him now. He’d treated her like a whore—well, no he hadn’t, because he didn’t kiss whores.

But he’d given her a taste of what she should never have to discover.

She would marry another man, one who would kiss her gently and worship her, and she would be safe and protected from the harsh realities of life.

Maybe his kiss would add to her nightmares—if so, he’d done his job.

He’d crushed her, and he’d meant to. It was past time she had a taste of real life.

He gave in to temptation and slammed his bedroom door behind him, then caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He looked like a devil, and he felt like one as well. Extinguishing the lamp, he stripped off the rest of his clothes and climbed into bed.

The sheets were soft, rumpled, and they smelled like flowers. They smelled like Georgie, who’d looked so right curled up there. He flung his arms over his eyes, realizing he was out of breath. Realizing his mistake too late.

He may have terrified Georgie, taught her the brutal facts about love and sex among the working classes. But in doing so, he trapped himself, until his very bones ached for her. It was nothing he’d ever felt before, nothing he wanted to feel.

But the deed was done. He needed Georgie like he needed air to breathe. And she would never be his.

Her knees wouldn’t hold her up. Georgie sank to the floor, trembling all over, collapsing in a little puddle of her old nightdress. Dazedly she put a hand to her mouth, her lips.

What had he done to her? She knew what happened between men and women—Bertha had explained it to her in frank, sensible terms, and ever since she’d been both horrified and fascinated by the thought.

That was what that kiss was. Not a gentle wooing, a courtship, a sign of affection. It had been a demand; terrifying, demoralizing.

Electrifying. He wanted her. She no longer had any trace of doubt left, she had felt the desire throughout his body as he’d held her against him, felt the pounding of his heart, the tension in his muscles, the raw hunger in his mouth.

He might call her a little girl, but that wasn’t what he thought of her.

She rolled onto her back on the thick Persian carpet, stretching. She wanted to cry, she wanted to sing. He wanted her, he wanted her like a man wants a woman. His kiss had left no doubt of that. He wanted to take her to his bed and do things to her.

The kind of things that went on between a husband and a wife. If she had any doubts as to whether he loved her, they were now banished. He loved her and wanted her, and she felt the same way. The answer was simple.

She was going to marry him.

Martina staggered a bit under Neddy’s weight as she levered him in his doorway and got him as far as his bed.

He collapsed onto it, snoring loudly, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

She was perfectly willing to clean up after the boy if he spewed, but she could think of things she’d much rather do.

He hadn’t drunk as much as usual, even though he’d passed out at the dining room table.

Martina suspected he’d done so simply to avoid the chaos his family so often indulged in, but for whatever reason, he was merely very drunk, not sick with it.

She stripped him with efficient expertise, then pulled the nightshirt over his head, covering his body.

He would be a good-looking man if he lost the puffiness of the alcohol, the weight that circled his midsection.

He was still young—in his early twenties, perhaps, but a child in terms of experience.

Something had led him to disappear into a bottle and he hadn’t emerged, so that his maturity was curiously stunted.

But beneath all that was a sweet young man with some burden too hard to bear. And Martina wondered what she could possibly do to help him.

“Who’re you?” His slurred voice startled her as she pulled the snowy white covers around him.

“Your mother’s maid,” she replied in her deep voice.

“How’d you manage to get me upstairs? Did someone carry me?”

“I helped you. I’m very strong.”

He looked at her out of muzzy eyes, then closed them. “Go away,” he muttered. “I don’t need any help.”

“Not anymore,” Martina said caustically, but Neddy had already sunk back into a drunken sleep.

She shook her head. “You’re a mess, laddie,” she whispered. “I just wish I could save you.”

Neddy answered with a loud snore. Martina looked down at him, at the elegant lines of his face, softened now with dissipation, and on impulse she leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on his lips.

And then she was gone, before she could see his slack mouth curve in a sleepy smile.

She was a fool, she berated herself as she made her way to the small closet that served as her sleeping quarters, near enough to the women of the house to be on constant call.

Pretty young men with broken dreams weren’t for the likes of her.

There were no happy endings for people like her, no dreamy kisses and sunset rides and all that romantic claptrap, even though deep down she longed for it.

Master Edward Manning would either drink himself to death or drag himself out of the morass he’d climbed into.

Either way, it would have nothing to do with her.

His lips had been soft and sweet.

But not for the likes of her.