Julia’s breath settled into a deep, even rhythm. Her shivering stopped. Slowly, color returned to her cheeks. By morning, she would be more herself, if still a little weak and bruised.
Yet Rayne could not stophisracing heart.
Impossible to make sense of the last few hours—the pieces did not fit. He’d assumed his “footman” had been, at worst, a vagrant, or, at best, someone Farring had hired.
His breath had stopped when he’d crushed her flailing self to his chest and realized the truth. He hadn’t words for the caustic combination of fear and rage that had followed.
By some miracle, reason had overruled his visceral desire to give Julia the kind of tanning that would have impressed his switch-happy Latin tutor. But he rarely used his fists on other men, and he’d never hit a woman.
Not in anger, anyway.
Switches, he reserved for pleasure. Or at least he had—until, along with his former life, he’d purged all aberrant desires.
Then again, apparently not.
When he’d backed Julia against the stairs and finally—finally looked into her eyes, his whole body had thrilled.Thrilled. As in sparked with involuntary tremors.
As in quickened with purpose.
As in knew, in that moment, Julia trussed and open and all his own was exactly the outcome he’d been too stubborn to admit was his only true desire.
And then she’d spoken.
Are you going to hit me?
Either she thought him completely brutish, or she could sense his prurient desires.
He gritted his teeth, murmuring words—half oaths, half prayers for patience.
He’d thought unspoken condemnation piercing, had he? He snorted. A libertine, she’d called him. And why shouldn’t she see him as a man who indulged without morals? A man incapable of controlling lust…or rage.
Why? Because that was the man he’d proven himself to be.
He’d nearly left then.
He’d nearly placed her into Mrs. White’s care and sent word for Markham—planned wedding trip or not.
But he hadn’t been able to leave her alone. Cold. Wet. Far out of her element.
His only thought was—what if Mrs. White failed to take proper care of her? Although Mrs. White probably would have done a better job than he was doing.
Blue. He’d waited until she turned blue. And she’d been shaking.
He tightened his hold.
Anyone who’d witnessed his downfall could have attested he was incapable of care. And yet, here he was, all at once responsible for Julia’s health, her person, her reputation.
She, who was so loved—she hadn’t proper fear. So sheltered, she thought anything was possible.
Like riding off into the night on the back of a moving carriage so that she could meet and elope with some gentleman who was probably everything Rayne was not—kind, understanding,gentle.
He closed his aching eyes.
Somehow, he’d managed to set things straight…so far. Her iced-over muscles had become soft and pliant once again.
He prayed in full—thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
She was safe. Right where she—no. She was most certainly not where she belonged. She belonged in London. With her family. Or, if she had her way, in the arms of one Edmund Alistair—whatever she’d called him.
