Her company? Good God, get him a gun. He needed to shoot himself before he started writing poetry praising the arch of the wench's eyebrow.

He trailed her inside and set the pails on the bare floorboards. The air was redolent of Antonia's scent, reminding him of holding her in his arms. The room was tiny, with one mean little window high over the bed. Compared to her luxurious London bedchamber, this was a hovel. Small and stuffy. Shabby and spartan.

Mess was everywhere. But of course she'd had her hands full the last five days nursing Cassie. This disorder was mute testament to how frantic she'd been.

She'd tossed clothes willy-nilly across the narrow bed. He noticed a virginal white night rail among the browns, grays, and rusty blacks. Ridiculous really, but the sight of her nightwear made his heart beat faster.

He'd sworn to show no hesitation when he got her to himself. He had her to himself now, but grimly recognized this was neither time nor place. Even in a house turned upside down, if he was caught in Antonia's bedroom, there would be hell to pay.

And she, given the world they lived in, would pay it.

"Thank you," she said in a low voice, staring at him with a blankness he found discomfiting.

Hell, don't let her cry. He couldn't bear it if she cried.

"Oh, for God's sake, sit down," he growled, folding his arms and glaring at her. He kept his voice low, aware they could be overheard. "You're safe enough."

She was too dispirited to argue. Instead she slumped onto the bed amid the drab chaos of what looked like her complete wardrobe.

Frustration swirled in his belly, along with the desire and curiosity and unwelcome admiration that Antonia always aroused. He guessed she meant to race in to check on Cassie the minute he left. He wanted to demand she seize a moment's respite, but he couldn't find the heart to say it. The misery and anxiety in her expression were indications that she loved the girl. A woman of her stubborn nature would fight to the death to save anyone she loved.

Lucky Cassie.

He smothered the thought before it stuck its claws into him. Love was a tiresome emotion. He wanted none of it. He never had. His experience indicated that any profession of love masked a million selfish demands. But even so, Antonia's unstinting devotion to her charge touched something deep inside him.

The moment extended. Became uncomfortable.

"I should go." He turned toward the door but didn't take the two steps across the room.

"Yes." She bent her head and stared down at the hands she twined in her lap.

Chapter Ten.

Ranelaw had every intention of leaving. This was no place for a heartless devil like him. With Cassie next door, he couldn't seduce Antonia. Anyway, even desperate as he was, he rebelled at taking her for the first time on that narrow cot.

His feet seemed nailed to the floor.

Antonia looked fragile. A word he'd never before associated with the gallant Miss Smith. His eyes dwelled on the graceful droop of her slender neck under what seemed an impossible weight of silvery hair. She'd caught it up in a loose style Miss Smith would usually disdain but which was infernally becoming. Her shoulders rounded and the graceful hands twisting in her lap were distressingly thin.

Clearly she hadn't been eating. Clearly she'd hardly slept. Even before Cassie fell ill, Ranelaw had tormented her nights. Cur that he was, he'd been proud of his ability to disturb her peace. He didn't feel proud now.

He should go. She was tired and distracted. She wanted to be alone.

He shifted. And ended up sitting beside her.

"Ranelaw?" she whispered, shooting him a nervous glance.

She seemed so young, not at all the dragon chaperone from Millicent Wreston's ballroom. Ridiculous now to think her disguise had fooled him even briefly.

"Shh," he said softly, feeling awkward himself.

He wasn't used to entering a lady's bedroom with any purpose other than fornication. Right now, he had no intention of dragging her under him, much as he desired her.

He'd be dead before he stopped desiring her.

She tensed at his nearness. She probably suspected him of some wicked purpose. Who could blame her?

Hesitantly, and he hadn't been hesitant with a woman since his earliest youth, he extended one arm and curled it around her shoulders. Her muscles tightened and wariness shadowed her expression.

"What do you want?" Her sharpness lacked its usual bite.

Oh, Antonia, you're so strong. Too strong. Bend a little or you'll break.

"We're in my bedroom, Cassie's only a few feet away. She's sick, not deaf," she said in a dark tone. "If you think I'll let you have your way here, you're a fool."

"Miss Smith, your suspicions wound me," he said with a smile. He drew her, stiff and unwilling, against his side. Immediately her warmth seeped into his veins. He'd known he'd missed her, but only now did he realize how much. "I mean no harm."

"You lie."

"Often," he agreed amiably, feeling the resistance leaching from her. "Not this time."

"I'm in no fit state to fight you," she muttered, curving into him as if created to fit his body.

"I know," he acknowledged ruefully, wondering why of all the women in the world, she was the only one who ignited any glimmer of chivalry in his soul. "But it's no fun when you just give in. I'll wait until you're up for another bout."

She hid her face in his shoulder. She inhaled on a shudder, as if she hadn't taken a full breath in days. "You're an evil devil, Ranelaw."

"Absolutely," he said softly, firming his hold as she shifted, not away as she should, but closer.

He waited for her to continue her excoriations on his character but she remained quiet. Nor did she attempt to break free.

The room had no fireplace, but the day was mild for early May. Antonia was soft and warm in his hold. She smelled of fields of flowers and a trace of sweat. The combination was unaccountably evocative.

He turned his head and rested his chin on the soft cushion of hair. He'd never touched a woman intending only to comfort her. Unless he counted Eloise when he was a child.

"Are you crying?" he whispered after a long, surprisingly peaceful interval.

"No," she said in a choked voice, burying her face deeper into his shirt. One arm snaked around his waist almost like she expected him to pull away. As if he would.

Women's tears never affected him. He'd witnessed too many, going back to his mother, who used emotional blackmail more effectively than any female he'd known since. And he'd encountered virtuosi at the art.

Antonia's reluctant tears made him want to punch something.

He tried to reawaken his cynical self. Remind himself that before he finished with her, Antonia Smith would be crying in earnest.

His cynical self scorned to enter this untidy room.

He placed a hand beneath her chin. She resisted as he tilted her face. "Now who's lying?"

"It's . it's just tiredness," she said unsteadily. "I'm fine. Truly."

Still she kept fighting. He couldn't help but respect her for it. Although she must recognize she neared the limit of her endurance. He felt it in her boneless weight. He read it in her drawn, pale face drenched in tears.

"I can see that." He frowned. "Is Cassie really so sick?"

"Yes." She dashed the tears from her cheeks. More fell to take their place.

He didn't want to feel sorry for Miss Demarest. He'd rather she stayed a stranger, for all that he meant to bed her. If he started to think of Cassie as more than just an instrument of revenge, his ruthlessness mightn't hold.

But it was impossible to remain unmoved by Antonia's suffering. He didn't bother spouting platitudes about Cassie being young and healthy and surviving this crisis. Antonia was too smart for such drivel.

"I'm sorry."

"I'll get her through this, I will." Her fist clenched in his shirt. "She's not going to die."

He'd been right about her determination to save the people she loved. He wondered with a sudden pang he couldn't identify how it would feel having someone like Antonia on his side.

He bent and placed a gentle, chaste kiss on the corner of her mouth. She tasted salty, she tasted like tears. "If anyone can get her through, you can. Rest for a moment. Then go in and win the battle."

He smoothed loose tendrils of hair away from her hot face. She looked an absolute fright with red eyes and a pink nose. Yet another revelation-he, the connoisseur of diamonds of the first water, hardly cared.

"She's like my sister," Antonia said thickly. "I couldn't bear to lose her. I've lost . I've lost too many people."

It was almost a confidence. Somewhere in the distant reaches of his brain, a voice insisted this was the time to pry open her secrets. The voice urged him to seduce her now, when her defenses crumbled, the rest of the household be damned. Nobody had seen him come in, and silence from the next room indicated interruptions were unlikely.

He ignored the voice. With more ease than he expected.

He was a rotter through and through. Even the world's worst rotter wouldn't take advantage of a woman in this state.

"She's lucky to have you." He meant it.

"Why are you being kind to me?" Familiar, watchful Antonia returned.

"Haven't a clue," he replied with perfect honesty. Sincerity felt like a luxury, which spoke reams for his relationships.

Her choked laugh ended on a broken sob. "That makes two of us."

He kept stroking her hair back from her sticky face. Tears clumped her eyelashes together and her mouth was full and swollen. He resisted the urge to kiss her.

Something inside him shifted as he looked at her. The sensation was astonishing enough to check his usual rakish impulses. And to stir the need to restore the light in her eyes. He struggled for words to cheer her.

"Cassie will be leading you a grand chase through the ballrooms of London before you know it," he said, with absolutely no basis for his claim.

Antonia's lush mouth quirked as if she too recognized the flimsy logic behind his assertion. "With your encouragement." Her face crumpled and she drew a quavering breath. "I hope you're right, Nicholas. I hope to heaven you're right."

Shock held him motionless as she crushed her face into his chest, clutching his shirt in shaking hands. She'd only once before used his Christian name without his prompting, when it slipped out after she thought she'd killed him. Hard to equate that avenging angel of chastity with this broken woman.

Except the inner core of strength remained. Even as she lay in his arms, crying her heart out, he recognized her essential valor. He suspected she hadn't permitted herself the relief of a good cry since Cassie fell ill.

He felt hot moisture against his skin. Some instinct made him place his hand behind her head and press her closer. The same instinct that made him murmur foolish reassurance.

He had no idea if he helped. He had no idea if his words penetrated her fog of misery. She just huddled against him, weeping with a heartbroken desperation that made him want to hit someone.

Eventually she calmed.

He'd always loved how she fought him. He loved the crackle and spark of her wit. Now he discovered he also loved the way she lay against him in what felt like perfect trust.

He knew there was no such thing and like most people, she'd betray him eventually. If only by disappointing him after she incited such anticipation.

Right now he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

Antonia was a tall, vital woman, no shrinking miss. Now she felt brittle and vulnerable. He tightened his hold and told himself the surge of protectiveness meant nothing.

Again he couldn't quite believe it.

He brushed his cheek against her disheveled hair. He was surprised she remained in his arms. After all, she knew exactly what he was. She'd always known. It was a sign of the tribulations of these last days that her usual spiky barriers were absent.

Take advantage, the voice insisted.

Next time, he assured the voice, wondering why he delayed.

It couldn't be consideration for Antonia. The only person he considered when he wanted something was himself.

Still he held her without forcing the encounter. Still his embrace offered comfort and nothing else.

When she sat up, he recognized how reluctantly he released her. With unsteady hands, she brushed the last tears from her cheeks. The action was childish, charming.

"Thank you. You've been so kind."

He drew away and scowled. "I'm not a kind man."

"Nevertheless, that's what you were today." Her lips twitched into one of her wry smiles. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. I doubt anyone would credit it anyway. The rakish Lord Ranelaw in a lady's bedroom for an entire hour without undoing a single button? Incredible."

"You're in better spirits," he said dryly.

"I am." She sounded surprised, although whether at his circumspection or at the fact that tears had done her good, he couldn't say. She definitely seemed less wound up than when he'd met her downstairs.

He must be losing his touch. With the Marquess of Ranelaw in her bedroom, she should be as nervous as a cat in a shooting gallery.

But she'd only rarely been frightened of him, even before she'd stirred his rusty protective instincts. She'd never reacted with the proper trepidation when he expressed an interest in her.

Foolish woman.