"I can do that."

Her hands were on his shoulders, and she caressed them down, stroking in slow circles. Very quickly, she stopped and frowned. His skin was coarse and ragged as if there were slash marks all over it.

"What is it?" he asked.

"The skin on your back. It's so rough."

He held himself very still, then he slid away. "I'll get a shirt and cover it."

"You don't have to," she was stunned to hear herself say.

"I'll put one on. You asked earlier if I would, and I should have."

She rose up on an elbow, watching as he went to the dressing room. In a minute, he returned, and he was stuffing his arms in the sleeves, but he didn't button it so his chest was visible.

There was only a single candle burning so there wasn't much light, but as he'd scooted away, she became certain the rough marks were scars. It dawned on her that he must have been viciously flogged-and more than once too.

Her heart sank. She hated to imagine the adversity he must have suffered. It would make her like him, and she didn't intend to like him. She intended to simply force herself through the liaison, hoping she'd emerge from it with a modicum of her dignity intact.

He came back to the bed and rested a hip on the mattress. His face was a blank mask, and she couldn't guess what he was thinking.

"What happened to you?" she asked, even though she suspected he'd never confide in her.

"Nothing," he claimed.

"Were you flogged?"

He dithered, then admitted, "Yes."

"When? Where? Why? Tell me about it."

"I'd rather not."

"Do the scars hurt?"

"Not usually. I have a salve I rub on them if they're bothering me."

"Were you a sailor?"

"No."

"A prisoner?"

"No."

"Then who beat you?"

"Someone who regretted it afterward."

His expression was stony, and a frisson of fear slithered down her spine. She could almost picture him committing murder. Would he have?

By all accounts, a terrible injustice had been inflicted on him at Kirkwood, and he'd wound up alone in London. What had occurred after that? Clearly it was horrendous.

"I want to look at them," she said.

"There's no reason to."

"Let me."

"You should probably go."

"I won't." She couldn't believe she added, "We have a deal, remember?"

"Yes, I remember, but I wasn't serious. I don't wish to have an affair with you."

"You said I could save my aunt and cousin. You said you'd give me a chance."

It seemed the oddest predicament. When she'd initially visited him, it had been with an enormous amount of dread and trepidation. Now he was refusing to proceed, and she was upset and begging him to continue.

What was wrong with her? She should be relieved that he'd told her no, that he wouldn't ruin her.

She stared at him, her probing gaze digging deep, and she realized that-with her seeing his wounded condition-he'd allowed her to peek into a portion of his world others never witnessed. Obviously he was troubled by it and likely wondering what else she'd discover if she got too close. But getting close was exactly what she needed to do. If a woman played her cards right, she could manipulate a man. That's what Augusta had counseled.

Was he lonely? Georgina supposed he was. From the stories she'd heard about him, his grandfather had been his only family so he had no one to call his own. If she could ingratiate herself, if she could convince him to like her, what benefits might she obtain?

Feeling very brazen, she slipped a hand inside his shirt and laid it on the bare skin of his waist. For several torturous seconds, he hesitated then he leaned forward and kissed her again.

With slight pressure, he eased her down, and he wedged his torso between her thighs. It was a scandalously intimate placement, and suddenly his private parts were flattened to her own. She reveled in the naughty position as if her anatomy recognized it and had been waiting for it to occur.

He hadn't ceased kissing her, but there was a difference now, a distinct tenderness as if he was glad she was with him, as if he was glad she'd come. Might he be?

The passion escalated. His tongue was in her mouth, his hands in her hair. Down below, his hips flexed so he was rubbing his loins against hers in a steady rhythm. Her own hips responded, and it was extremely arousing, like nothing she'd ever experienced prior.

His fingers went to her breasts, and vaguely she recollected she shouldn't be gleefully enjoying his ministrations, but her body had its own plan, and it wasn't listening to any warnings. How could that be? How could her body identify what it wanted when she couldn't have described or explained what it was seeking?

He broke off to nibble a trail down her neck and chest. He rooted under the bodice of her gown, and before she understood what he intended, he sucked on her nipple.

The move was so decadent and unexpected that she gasped aloud. He nuzzled, licked, and played until she was on fire and might simply burst into flames. Was it all right for a man's caresses to feel so riveting? Was it normal? Or was this her mother's unruly blood surging to the fore?

Unfortunately she had no way to judge. She knew so little about amour, and she had no one to ask. There was only Sophia, and her cousin was even more unschooled than Georgina.

He continued until she truly doubted she could stand it another instant. She was on the verge of a shocking conclusion, as if she might explode, and just when she was about to demand he desist, he drew back. He hovered over her, staring at her bared breast, then he tugged up the fabric to hide what never should have been in plain view.

"Why have we stopped?" she inquired as he sat up.

"I told you, Miss Fogarty. I'm not interested in having an affair with you."

"But...it seems as if you are."

"I was lying. I have no desire to entangle myself in your petty problems."

"What about my aunt and my cousin?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you with them."

"You promised."

"No, I didn't." He shook his head. "I never make promises because I never keep them."

She scowled, pondering their fevered embrace. "Did I do it incorrectly? Is that it?" She couldn't imagine how she could have. For the most part, she'd simply lain there and let him do all the work.

"You were fine, Miss Fogarty."

"What is it then? It was so difficult for me to approach you. I fretted all evening-until I was practically sick with distress. You can't change your mind."

"Of course I can. I'm a cad and a bounder, but I never trifle with innocents, which you definitely are."

"Is it because I saw your back? Is that why?"

"No."

"If it is, I swear I'll never tell a soul."

He scoffed. "I don't care who knows about my back. Tell the whole bloody world if you wish. It's merely more evidence of what I endured due to Miles's perfidy."

She didn't believe he'd like people to be apprised. She suspected he never permitted anyone to see his injuries. He wasn't ashamed of them exactly, but he was very proud and wouldn't like others to learn that a brute had bested him.

She sat up too, and from how they were positioned, they were eye to eye, nose to nose. The worst swell of affection swept through her, for what he'd suffered, for what he'd survived. There were other sentiments too that she hadn't envisioned and couldn't control. She was being roiled by sympathy, by a general sense that she could be his friend, that he needed her to be his friend.

She rested a palm on his cheek and murmured, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For everything that was done to you."

He studied her, and she perceived a thousand replies flitting in his head. The one he picked was, "Well, I'm delighted to hear you're sorry, but it doesn't fix the past and it doesn't erase the scars on my back."

"No, it doesn't, but I'm sorry anyway. Sometimes that's all a person receives in life, the compassion of others."

"Is that what you're offering? Your compassion?"

"Yes."

"I hardly need it, Miss Fogarty."

They were silent, searching each other's gazes. Finally she asked, "What will happen now?"

"I've told Miles he may beg me twice to seek mercy for you three ladies. I'll meet with him once tomorrow afternoon and once the afternoon after that."

"Why make him?"

"Because I want to watch him grovel."

"That sounds cruel, as if you're a bully."

"I'm not being a bully. I'm simply having history repeat itself."

"Meaning what?"

"When Edward Marshall fired my grandfather, he came to the manor for several weeks, pleading with Edward to get his job back. The vicar came. Neighbors came. Shopkeepers came. Everyone begged and begged, but it was pointless."

"I'm sorry," she said again, thinking what a paltry word it was.

"So Miles has the chance to supplicate on your behalf-if he wishes to try. But I doubt he will. He's too arrogant, and he and I both know it would never have an effect on me."

"It's all for show, to give you some satisfaction."

"Yes."

"Will it?"

"I predict I'd garner a tremendous amount of satisfaction, but as I said, he'll never do it. You'll have a full-on example of how little he cares about any of you. He won't lift a finger to help you. In fact, I'm betting he'll sneak off before dawn."

"What will happen then? If he doesn't beg you, what will happen?"

"Then...all of you-you, your aunt, and your cousin-will pack your bags and leave with what you can carry."

"To go where, Mr. Drummond?"

"It matters not to me."

She snuggled herself closer, nestling herself to him so her breasts were pressed to his chest. "After I've been here with you like this, could you really be that spiteful?"

He didn't respond, but stood and pulled her off the bed and onto her feet.

"Goodnight, Miss Fogarty."

"Might I stay a bit longer? Could we talk for a while?"

"It's been a dreadful day, and I'm too weary to listen to you prattling away."

"We don't have to chat. We could have a glass of wine and sit by the fire."

He assessed her as if she was the strangest creature ever, as if no female had ever asked him to share such a simple, ordinary moment.

"Let me show you out." He clasped her arm and led her to the door.

"I'm glad I visited you." Gad, was she? She thought she was sincere. The remark seemed true. "I'm glad I got to know you like this."