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And she could marry some young whelp who didn’t appreciate her and have babies and be happy and he wouldn’t ever have to think about her again.

He slammed his fist against the walnut paneling and then swore.

“You all right, Rafferty?” Jane asked.

“Fine,” he barked back. “Can either of you cook?”

“’Course we can. Eggs and toast and the like.”

“Then one of you make dinner for Miss Georgiana. See if she needs anything.”

“Don’t you usually look after her?” Janie asked.

“I’m too busy,” he snapped. He’d broken the skin on his hand—he was going to have to bandage it. At least he hadn’t broken any bones against the iron-hard wood.

But half an hour later, Jane informed him that Miss Georgiana didn’t want any food, and she was, in fact, just sitting in a chair in her bedroom, staring at the fire, and he swore.

“Go home,” he told the two girls. “We can finish this up tomorrow.”

Neither one was about to put up any objection, and by nine o’clock, the house was deserted.

He went to the kitchen, sliced fresh bread and covered it with jam, made a pot of tea, and headed up to Georgie’s bedroom.

If she was sulking, so much the better—he just needed to make sure she had enough to eat and that she truly hated him, and his work for the day would be done.

He didn’t bother knocking at her door, simply pushed it open and strode in carrying the tray. Jane was right—Georgie was sitting in a chair staring into the fire, no expression on her face.

“If you’ve finished sulking, it’s time to eat something,” he said, not the most promising beginning of a conversation.

She turned her head to look at him with awful majesty. “Go away.”

“I’m the butler. It’s my job to look after you,” he said stubbornly.

“You did that last night,” she said bitterly.

That stopped him for a brief moment. And his own uncertain temper rose. “I did what you asked me to do.”

Her face was stony. “Always the perfect butler. Go away, then.”

“Not until you eat something.” He brought the tray over to her and before he realized what she’d intended she flipped it out of his hands, the tea pot flying.

“You’re behaving like a child,” he said.

“You always tell me I’m a child,” she snapped. Damn, she was furious! Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. “I’ll behave like one if I feel like it.”

He decided to try a different tactic. “Listen to me, Georgie. I’m sorry about last night—I should never have touched you....”

“Don’t you dare apologize!” She sprang up from her chair and he took a hasty step back. “I...I...” And then to his horror, she burst into tears, sinking back into the chair again, and all his cool determination vanished.

“Georgie,” he said, and like an absolute fool, he pulled her up and into his arms, wrapping himself around her.

He could feel her momentary struggle, and then she sank against him, crying like some heartbroken child, and he wanted to beat whomever had made her so unhappy. But that was himself.

“You need to forget last night,” he said in a low, soothing voice.

“It was a terrible mistake—forget it ever happened. I was a bastard to touch you, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life, but it’s over.

It’ll never happen again, and you can go on to a happy life with some nice young man who’ll adore you as you deserve to be adored. ”

He felt her stiffen in his arms for a moment, and then relax as she pulled free of his embrace.

He didn’t want to let her go, but he knew it was the best thing.Tears were streaked down her pale cheeks, but she raised her head and smiled a bright, false smile.

“I’ve already forgotten,” she said, moving to the chair and sinking back down again, seemingly in control of herself once more.

“I’m sorry I tossed the tray. I would have liked tea and toast.”

He couldn’t believe her. She was entirely calm, in control, smiling at him with her usual smile—no, it wasn’t her usual smile. That was loving, besotted, adoring. This smile was merely polite.

But he believed her. “Then we won’t speak of this again?” he said tentatively.

“There’s no need to. Good night, Rafferty.”

It was a goddamned dismissal, worthy of his grandmother the dowager duchess, and some unruly part of him rebelled at her perfect manners. He didn’t want her calm and in control. He wanted...he wanted...

He had no choice. Channeling his grandmother’s august sangfroid, he backed from the room without another word.

She watched him go, waiting for those wrenching tears to return, but something had dried them. A terrible mistake. He never should have touched her. He would regret it for the rest of his life.

She must have been truly awful in bed. There was a knack to it, she’d figured that much, but she’d known and done nothing but lie there. No wonder he was disgusted with her.

He’d made her feel such things, such glorious, terrifying things, and he must have hated it.

Hated her. Because otherwise he would have taken her back to bed tonight, and let her feel all those wild and petrifying emotions again.

She’d sat in her chair waiting for him to come to her, and instead, he’d been full of excuses and self-recrimination.

He was lost to her, she knew it when he’d held her in his arms like she was a broken doll, and he wasn’t coming back.

She could survive. What choice did she have?

He was going to leave—she knew now that he’d entered their household only to find some hidden cache of money.

It had nothing to do with her. It had nothing to do with the clothes and the shoes he’d found for her, nothing to do with her feckless family.

He’d been using them all, and now he was done.

He might even be gone the next morning when she woke up. She wouldn’t be surprised if she was alone in the house, waiting for her family’s return. Even Martina would disappear somewhere, and they’d be back where they were. And it was all because she’d made such a botch of things.

The French novels were woefully short on detail when it came to the mechanics of making love, but she knew that men didn’t pay women to just lie there.

There had to be more to it, but the very thought made her tremble in anticipation.

If doing nothing had led to such a cataclysmic reaction, then what would happen if she.

..if she did what he did? Touched him, kissed him, licked him. Put her mouth on him?

She could go to bed and weep. She could bewail her mistakes and accept her fate—married to a man she didn’t love who couldn’t begin to make her feel the things Rafferty did.

Or she could find out more. She wasn’t a coward, and she wasn’t one to accept defeat so easily.

So she’d lost the battle. There was still a war to be won, and she intended to do it.

She suspected she couldn’t ask Bertha for details, but Martina had been uncommonly frank.

Surely she would tell her what she needed to know?

She would have to bide her time, and hope and pray that Rafferty stayed where he was. That horrid man Styles didn’t strike her as the kind of man who gave up easily. Rafferty wouldn’t leave them, leave her, if there was still danger. For now, all she could do was sleep. And plan.

If he punched another wall he would break his fist, Rafferty thought as he stared at the wood paneling that covered the dining room.

He was sorely tempted anyway. Upstairs lay a girl.

..no, a woman...that he wanted so much he ached with it, a woman he absolutely must not touch again.

He’d been a bastard and a half for touching her the first time, and he wasn’t about to do it again.

She wasn’t for the likes of him, and he wasn’t the kind of man who had room for a woman in his life.

He’d always comforted himself with the thought that she’d forget all about him once she was married, but a woman never forgot her first lover.

And he wondered how he could fight Billy Stiles with a broken hand.

Catholic priests had the right of it—didn’t they whip themselves as an act of contrition? He needed someone to take a horsewhip to him. At least that would get her off his mind.

She looked so small and sad up there in the room, staring at the fire, and he couldn’t tell whether she was still horrified by the things he’d done to her or wanting more. He’d bet on horrified. She’d been a total innocent, and he’d given in to impossible temptation. And he was still tempted.

Beyond tempted. The house was empty. She was upstairs, alone. She thought she loved him. If he were totally without conscience, he’d be up there right now, taking her to bed.

But he wouldn’t. He...cared about her. The only thing he could do for her now was leave her strictly alone.

He punched the wall.