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He cast an exasperated glance around the chamber, fully aware his presence here was beyond acceptable boundaries. There’d be the devil to pay if he were discovered. Vengeance was one thing, but he stood the risk of irreparably not only ruining Miss Caruthers’ good standing but also his as well. That certainly had never been his intention.

Tossing the cloth onto the marble-topped table behind the divan, he heaved a frustrated breath. She hadn’t stirred a jot but lay still-as-death and every bit as ashen. No, not quite. Her lips were blue-edged and her breathing labored.

Where was the confounded servant?

He needed help.

Miss Caruthers needed help.

God’s blood. What had he been thinking, toting her in here? Pushing a hand through his hair, he cocked his head and firmed his mouth. He dropped to one knee before tugging off her gloves and feeling for a pulse. The rise and fall of her well-endowed chest gave him pause.

What kind of a base lecher was he, ogling an unconscious woman?

His gaze traveled to the door. Should he seek assistance? It would be better for their reputations, but dare he leave her alone in her current condition?

“Miss Caruthers? Can you hear me? Wake up.” He patted her hand then gently shook her shoulders. She remained limp and unresponsive. Shutting his eyes, Ian tried to recall what Lucinda or the servants did when Charlotte keeled over.

Smelling salts.

Searching the tables for a smelling bottle, he found no trace of the salts. He glowered in disbelief as he strode back to her. All these damned fallalls, fripperies, and female whatnots, and not a single vial of smelling salts amongst them?

“Blast it all,” he muttered under his breath. “Come on, man, think. Charlotte’s flopping around like a loose fish half the time. What else is done to help her?”

He raked his fingers through his hair again, pushing it on end. Miss Caruthers’ chest barely rose now, her breaths even shallower. Would her breathing ease if he loosened her stays?

Loosen her stays?

His gaze ricocheted to the door and just as rapidly returned her. Were her lips the merest bit bluer? Did she struggle to breathe?

“Why do women insist on wearing those blasted contraptions?”

There was nothing for it.

His jaw set against the heady scent of her perfume wafting upward, Ian slid her gauzy gown off one shoulder then the other. Bent over, his face inches from her tempting breasts, he shoved the gown to her waist. Behind her, the fabric caught and held. He gave a little jerk, and swearing again, gave a harder yank. The material didn’t budge, and he made an annoyed noise. It was bloody more difficult to undress an insensate woman than one eager to have her clothes removed.

“Of all the damned predicaments.” Not more than a couple of minutes had passed since she’d swooned, but each crept by interminably.

Raising her pliant form partway, he peered over her shoulder. A hook had caught on her stays. Sweat broke out across his brow and beaded his upper lip. It’s the heat of the room—nothing more. Her bountiful breasts crushed to his chest most certainly weren’t the cause.

Her head lolling against his shoulder, Ian shifted Miss Caruthers upright a bit, and with a might more force than was necessary, he jerked the gown again. It finally popped loose, leaving a shred of lace stuck to the stays.

He darted another worried look to the door. All he needed was a dame to enter the retiring room and catch him undressing Miss Caruthers. That unwelcome thought spurred him on. Turning her onto her stomach, he made quick work of unlacing her stays. The moment they loosened, she sucked in a shuddering breath. At once, he rotated her onto her back and seized the gaping bodice, pulling the fabric over her breasts.

In his haste his fingers brushed the smooth mounds. At the involuntary tightening in his breeches, he swore. “Hellfire.”

Head cocked, he surveyed his handwork. She appeared to have been ravished. He attempted to slide her arms back into their sleeves, but the gown, pulled nearly to her neck now, was too tight. Ian unceremoniously hauled the bodice down, slid her arms into the sleeves, and then once again, covered her breasts. He hadn’t accomplished the task with a great deal of finesse, but at least her breathing had eased somewhat.

He wiped his upper lip before standing then grimacing. Her rumpled gown sagged off her shoulders. He adjusted the fabric into some semblance of decency and smoothed her skirts. She still did not rouse, and his concern increased ten-fold. Charlotte never remained unaware for this long.

Miss Caruthers needed a physician.

Now.

Striding to the room’s entrance, he breathed a grateful sigh that he’d not been interrupted in his ministrations. Christ. He could well imagine what the gossipmongers would make of it. Glancing at Miss Caruthers, he smoothed his hair. He’d reached to button his coat once more when a gaggle of twittering women piled into the room. Eyes wide and mouths agape, they pulled up short, stumbling pell-mell into one-another.

Bloody, maggoty hell.