“It’s the same in the back. We cannot leave the house until this dies down, Daisy.”

Theo considered snarling at him for not using her chosen name, but she managed to stop herself. She couldn’t relinquish all civility simply because a foolish journalist had compared her to a jay. Jay, duckling, swan . . . no difference.

For a moment they merely stood there, James’s body warm behind hers as they peeked through the curtain at the crowd excitedly milling about.

“I just don’t see what’s so interesting about our situation,” she stated, watching as a group of young boys rounded the corner and joined the throng.

“Let’s give the scribblers something to write about,” James said.

Before she could answer, he jerked open the curtain, pulled her into his arms, and slammed his mouth down onto hers. Dimly, she heard a rising storm of voices, but she wasn’t listening.

She had missed kissing. Not the bedding, but kissing.

He was hot and possessive and—

Protective. She jerked her head away. Pushing against him was like trying to move a block of marble. “I don’t need you to defend me,” she hissed.

James glanced at the window. Out in the street, people were jumping up and down, trying to see better. He raised his hand and waved at them.

“Oh God,” Theo groaned.

Then he raised her chin with one hand and dropped another kiss on her lips, while with the other he jerked the curtains closed.

They stared at each other for a moment. The urbane sophistication of last night? Peeled away. That was lust starkly written on his face.

Pure, shameless lust.

A wave of panic hit Theo, and she stepped back.

“Daisy,” James said sharply. “Daisy, you’re not afraid of me, are you?”

She couldn’t tell him the truth. Of course she wasn’t afraid of him.

She was afraid of herself.

So she ran for the safety of her bedchamber.

Twenty-eight

For years, Theo’s life had been beautifully organized. She knew each book on her bookshelves, each ribbon in her drawer, each gown in her wardrobe. She surrounded herself with beauty. Not one of her possessions was less than exquisite.

James used to have that glowing perfection.

But now—notwithstanding his extraordinary costume the night before—he was more brutal than beautiful. All his edgy energy was still there, but the excess had been converted into physical power. There was no question in her mind but that he would want to resume the undisciplined erotic relations they had briefly shared.

She would never do that with him again. Never.

Still, other than royalty, there was no more powerful man in England than a duke. If James wanted to keep her, he would keep her. And he would make sure she was in his bed.

Her heart started beating in her throat again in a desperate rhythm, and she suddenly felt as if the room was as hot as the inside of an oven. James would probably walk straight into her chamber this very night and demand his marital rights. The way he had walked into the bathing room.

He had the right. He had the right under English law.

She stood up jerkily and pulled her morning gown over her head, followed by her chemise. She’d wear sackcloth to dinner. She crawled into bed wearing no more than her drawers, curling into a ball as small and tight as she could.

Perhaps if she napped, she would wake to find that this day had never happened. Perhaps she was in a fever dream.

After all, the fairy story was supposed to end when the Ugly Duckling became a swan. Everyone knew that swans got everything they wanted. Beautiful people always did.

She fell asleep thinking about beauty and dreamed that she was circling a ballroom on the arm of a man who was, quite literally, radiant. She squinted, trying to see whether his skin was actually incandescent.

“Yes,” he said to her, his voice gentle. “I am one of the blessed.”

The old, familiar sense of being a lesser being descended on her like a blanket. It didn’t matter how she dressed, she would never be able to glow, for goodness’ sake.

He whirled her faster and faster . . . and she woke with a tear sliding down her cheek. Theo had never been good at lying to herself. She didn’t feel like a swan. She felt like one of those china shepherdesses that the old duke prized at such a low rate.

She felt like an empty vase, a useless woman whose husband ignored her existence for seven years. The kind of woman stupid enough to marry a man who had inherited a capacity for criminality.

The first tear was followed by another, and another.

She was just getting control of the heaving sobs when she heard the door to the room open. “Amélie,” she called, her voice scratchy. “Bring me a handkerchief, if you would.”

There was no use trying to hide a fit of sobbing from one’s maid. Amélie knew everything about Theo’s life, and she always would.

So she remained curled up, as tight as a dormouse, and when she heard footsteps, she held out her hand. Sure enough, a soft handkerchief was pushed into her waiting fingers.

“I find myself rather demoralized,” she said, wiping up a last tear. She’d cried so hard that her hair was wet under her cheek. Her eyes and throat burned. “Would you be so kind as to have a pot of tea sent up, please?”

But instead of Amélie’s soft footsteps stealing away, the bed swayed as someone sat down beside her. Someone who weighed a good nine or ten stone more than Amélie.

“Oh bollocks,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“Is that your strongest oath?” James asked curiously.

“I have a better one,” she said between gritted teeth. “I’m reserving it for direct address. Would you please go away?”

There was a moment of silence, almost as if he was pretending to think about her request. “No.”

She should sit up, confront him. But she was too miserable, too beaten down, too sorry for herself, if the truth be told. So she pulled the sheet higher around her ears and shut her eyes a little tighter.

“Did I tell you what pirates do after a hard day’s work?”

“Other than walk spare personnel down the plank?” she snapped.

“After that,” he said, agreeably enough. “A pirate captain can’t afford to lower his guard. So Griffin and I never joined the crew’s celebrations.”

Theo was trying to breathe quietly, but a shuddering hiccup surprised her.

“I wash in hot water. Then I wrap myself in a blanket and go to sleep.” He stood up, and his footsteps receded into the bathing room. A moment later she heard the squeak of the pump, and the rush of water into the bathtub. Grief and exhaustion seemed to have slowed her thoughts to treacle.

She even fell back asleep for a moment or two, listening to the rush of water. But she woke the moment she felt herself being plucked from the bed. She held onto the sheet as tightly as she could—which meant it came with her. “Stop,” she said, clearing her throat when her voice emerged in a thread of a whisper. “Put me down!”

“In a moment.”

From her position in James’s arms, she could clearly see the scar that traversed his neck. It made her feel quite odd. She rather hoped that he had managed to kill the pirate who had done that to him.

But then he set her on her feet and towered over her, huge and male. Air played over her skin—and she was suddenly aware that her sheet had disappeared, leaving her naked but for her drawers.