Kit blanched and suddenly felt like retching. He shook off the feeling-a result of the blow to the head, he told himself. He swayed and gazed bleary-eyed at the viscount.

"Well, Brevard," he muttered. "Looks like you won this round."

Chapter Fourteen.

For once Eliza did not have any fixed afternoon engagements. Tonight she would be attending the Fitzmarions' musicale, where assembled guests would listen to the soaring soprano voice of opera's currently reigning queen. Until then Eliza was free to do as she chose, and what she chose to do was read a book.

After sharing a late-morning visit with Violet and the children, she detoured to her bedchamber to retrieve the novel she was reading from the nightstand. About to step inside, she turned at the muffled sound of footfalls, to find Kit making his way up the hall.

"Good day," she said.

His step slowed, and he raised a hand in greeting. "Eliza."

He winced, at least she thought he winced, failing to directly meet her gaze. In fact, he seemed to be holding his head at a rather strange angle, as if there was something he did not wish her to see. When he drew close enough to pass, she got a better look at him.

"Kit!" she gasped. "Oh, good Lord, what has happened to you?"

Despite his obvious reluctance, he stopped and exhaled a deep gust of breath. Wincing anew, he straightened and met her gaze. "It's nothing," he mumbled.

Reaching out, she caught his chin in her hand and angled his face so she could inspect the wound. Purple as a blackberry pie and clearly painful, a livid bruise rode his right cheekbone, a small, blood-encrusted cut curled at its outer tip.

"It certainly is something!" she declared in anxious tones. "What on earth has befallen you?"

"Just sport, nothing serious. I dropped my guard when I ought to have kept it up."

"Fisticuffs, do you mean?"

She knew Kit enjoyed athletic pursuits, frequenting Angelo's Fencing Academy and the boxing establishment next door, the one owned by the famous Mr. Jackson.

"Exactly so," he confirmed.

Her eyebrows crinkled. "Well, it must not have been a fair fight, if this is the result."

"It was fair. Don't worry yourself over it."

"How can I not, when you are so obviously injured? You need medical attention. I'll send for the physician."

He shook his head, grimacing at the movement. "You'll do nothing of the kind. I appreciate your concern, but I won't have some quack poking and prodding me. He'll only make things worse."

She wanted to argue further, but she knew Kit well enough to realize her entreaties would prove useless. "If you won't see the doctor, then at least let me do what I can. A fomentation should help to relieve the bruise before the worst of it sets. I have a book of herbal remedies here in my room. Come in and sit down while I find the recipe."

Too concerned to worry over the proprieties of inviting Kit into her bedchamber, she caught his wide palm inside hers and drew him into her room.

"You needn't fuss," he said. "I've suffered much worse than this over the years."

She responded with a delicate snort. "If you have, then I am glad I did not have occasion to see the results. Now, sit." She pointed him toward an armchair not far from her bed.

With an obedient shrug, Kit crossed and sank onto the seat.

Hard as he might pretend his wound didn't trouble him, his face throbbed like the very devil. Restraining the urge to groan, he watched Eliza as she bustled across the serenely feminine room, which was painted in soothing shades of eggshell and blue, her destination a bookshelf that stood in one corner.

Count on Eliza Hammond, he mused, to have what amounted to a small, private library at her disposal. He smiled and instantly regretted the movement.

Silently, he observed her as she pulled out one book after another, muttering under her breath as she flipped through the pages, searching for the promised herbal potion. After a pair of minutes, she turned. "I've found a couple decoctions I believe will help but not the one I really wanted. I don't know why, but I cannot find the right book." She tapped a fingernail against a shelf and sighed.

"Maybe you left the volume out," he suggested.

Her brows furrowed in consternation. "I do have a few titles scattered around, as you can see."

And so she did, he realized, noticing a foot-high tower of books stacked on a chair near the window, and another set of volumes arranged between the legs of her nightstand.

"Mayhap it's one of these." He motioned toward the titles on the floor.

She shook her head. "Those are mostly for pleasure reading. It wouldn't be one of those."

"What about in here? Sometimes I stash notes and such in my night-table drawers, thinking I'll remember precisely where I've put them, only to have to cudgel my brain later in search. Maybe you're like me and have only forgotten." He slid open the drawer.

Inside he found a slender volume bound in scuffed green leather. "Here's something," he said, lifting out the book. "Is this the one?"

A horrified gasp rent the air. "No! Put that back."

He cast a quizzical glance her way, surprised by the alarmed expression on her face, her eyes as big and round as shooting marbles. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing." She raced forward, hands outstretched. "That's not the right book."

"You're sure?" He thumbed open the title page. "Albanino's Postures. Could be a medical work."

"It's not, it's...please give it to me." Her words quavered, sounding oddly desperate.

"Why? What is it?"

Instinctively deciding to play keep-away, he lifted the volume up and out of her reach, then flipped to the center of the book. Seconds later, his mouth dropped open, his eyes widening as he stared in utter stupefaction at the illustration before him.

"Bloody Christ!"

He stared for another long minute before turning the page, only to discover another picture so lasciviously remarkable that he had to spin the book around to take in the tableau from a different angle.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded, shooting Eliza an incredulous glance.

Lobster red all the way to her hairline, Eliza parted her lips to speak, but no sound emerged. Squeezing her eyes closed, she swallowed and shook her head.

He turned another pair of pages, pausing to read one of the poems. His lips twitched. "I guess one could say this is an educational text, just not the sort I was expecting to find in your possession."

Her eyes popped open.

"So, how does a gently bred girl like you come to have bawdy books in her nightstand?"

"Book. There's only the one," she croaked.

"And where did you get the one?" He closed the book, then waggled it in her direction.

Her cheeks flashed hotter. "I...um..."

"Yes?" he drawled encouragingly.

"I'd rather not say."

"I suspect you wouldn't, but being as I'm the curious type, I won't be able to rest until I have a full confession from you. So confess."

Just where had Eliza come across the prurient collection? he mused. Had some friend given the book to her? And if so, what sorts of friends did she have these days? This was the kind of book men generally passed around-he'd seen its like in his days at Oxford-handed secretly from one lustfully inquisitive fellow to the next. Surely one of her suitors hadn't loaned the volume to her?

At the thought, his brows bunched into a fearsome knot.

Eliza heaved an audible sigh. "Very well, but you can't tell her I have it."

Her. Relief surged through him. At least the mystery person was female. "Tell whom?"

She hesitated for another long moment. "Violet."

Surprise jolted him like a thunderbolt. "What! You mean this book belongs to Violet?"

"Well, it does now, though it originally came from Jeannette. She gave it to Violet as a gift."

"Good God."

"Jeannette thought Violet and Adrian might enjoy-" Eliza broke off, her face flushing again, crimson as a vine-ripened tomato. "Well, never mind what she thought. Violet refused the book, so Jeannette put it in a drawer in the drawing room and...well...um..."

"You took it?"

At her nod, he burst out laughing, groaning moments later at the jab of pain that slashed through his abused cheek.

Her look of embarrassment turned instantly to concern. "Oh, you're hurting, aren't you? You need that poultice and here we are jabbering away about incidentals."

He raised the thin, green volume. "I would hardly call this book incidental."

"Nevertheless, you need something on your poor battered face," she said, obviously eager to change the subject. "Your cheek looks even more swollen now than it was when I first saw you. L-let me go down to the kitchen to put something together."

"I told you before, I'll do fine on my own."

"N-no, sit. Wait. Please." She raced across to the bookshelf and gathered up one of the books on herbs. Looking in a great hurry to be gone, she moved toward the door. As she passed him, her gaze flickered uneasily toward the slender volume he still held in his hands.

"You won't tell her, will you?"

He shook his head. "No. It'll be our secret."

"Then would you please put that back in the drawer?" she asked.

"What I should do is confiscate it, but I suppose that would be a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has galloped off." Giving her one last amused look, he set the book inside the night-table drawer, then slid it closed.

The tension in her shoulders eased slightly. "I'll be right back."

"Take your time," he called, but she was already gone, scurrying out the door as if a pack of tiny dogs was nipping at her heels. Shaking his head in continued amazement at his unprecedented discovery, he sank into the chair once more, and crossed his booted feet at the ankle.

Cheeks as hot as if they had been doused with lamp oil and set ablaze, Eliza hurried down the hallway, the herb book clutched tightly to her bosom. She knew if she let herself stop and consider what had just occurred, she would collapse into a puddle of misery.

Oh, the shame! The mortification! How was she ever going to face Kit again? How would she ever look him in the eye without thinking about that scandalous book? Without remembering his expression when he'd found it and opened it to see all the ribald depictions.

Yet she had to admit that once Kit had had a moment to overcome his initial shock, he had not been condemning, not the way she might have expected. Even Violet would have had a difficult time accepting the situation, and she certainly wouldn't have laughed the way Kit had done, at least not so quickly.

But gracious, what must he think of her? That she was a horrible, lascivious person, that's what. Oh, why had she given in to her darker impulses and taken the book? She'd only succumbed to the temptation yesterday when she'd found the volume still inside the drawing room escritoire and been unable to resist. Why, she'd hardly had a chance to look at it again. Stupid to have put it in her night table where anyone might see, she berated herself. But then, she hadn't expected anyone to look inside her nightstand.

Her maid was very good about respecting Eliza's personal papers and belongings. Actually, the girl had little use for books, shaking her head whenever she thought herself unobserved, mumbling about how many there were, and how they littered every spare corner of the room. So if her maid had happened upon the little green book, she wouldn't have thought a thing of it, wouldn't have even had the urge to peek inside.

Kit, on the other hand, was a fount of inquisitiveness, ever eager to peek.

Feeling a little ill, but determined to follow through on her promise to tend Kit's injury, Eliza forced her feet onward toward the kitchen. Perhaps the labor of mixing and heating the herbal fomentation would prove distracting enough to take her mind off her humiliation.

Back in Eliza's bedroom, Kit couldn't help but consider the encounter just passed.

Who would ever have imagined, he mused, that formerly shy, reserved Eliza Hammond had those sorts of hidden cravings churning within her? Who would have considered she would be anything but aghast to view such an explicitly sexual book? But apparently she'd been curious enough to take the volume, and hide it here in her bedroom so she could peruse the concupiscent illustrations at her leisure.

His loins stirred, remembering the kissing lesson they had shared, recalling the delicious fervor of her untutored touches and caresses. Yes, she was passionate. Or would be anyway with the proper instruction.

What a pleasure, he considered, to give her more love lessons. But no, he shouldn't let himself think that way. Hadn't he already warned himself against getting involved in such treacherous tangles? Yet if she was curious to explore that side of her nature, might she not turn to another man?

A memory flashed of her kissing Brevard. His fist tightened, lip curling up in a sneer at the image. Damn, he thought. Was she hoping Brevard might tutor her in the amorous arts? And might the viscount be willing to oblige her, even if his intentions were as honorable as he claimed? If she gave Brevard a little encouragement, why would he resist? She wasn't a girl in her first blush of youth. At twenty-three, Eliza was far more tempting fare, even if she was still an unwed, inexperienced maiden.

He was mulling these thoughts over in his brain when he heard her footfalls in the hallway.

She walked into the room, a plain, blue china bowl in her hands, a towel draped over one arm. He noticed that she was careful not to meet his gaze as she approached, nor as she set the contents of his treatment onto the nightstand.

"Lean your head back, please," she murmured.

Without a sound, he complied, settling his head comfortably against the high padded back of the wing chair.

Efficient as a nurse, she draped the towel beneath his chin and over his shoulder to catch any potential drips, then lifted the poultice from the bowl. "This may feel quite warm for a few minutes, but the heat should ease the ache and relieve a measure of the stiffness. I'm having a fresh slice of beefsteak sent to your room for later to help draw out the worst of the bruising. I want you to keep the meat on your face for half an hour minimum."

"I'd rather have it cooked and served with a hearty glass of port," he quipped.

"It will do your wounds no good in your stomach. Now, close your eyes."

He did, then drew in a sharp breath seconds later as she placed the linen-wrapped pouch against his injured face. A rush of heat flooded over his skin, prickling slightly, the pungent mix of herbs strong in his nostrils.