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His lips slanted again. “I’ve just returned to London. My father and brother died recently.”

Her breath caught. “My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

Shouldn’t he be home, in the comforting presence of his family? Perhaps he didn’t have anyone else. At least she had Uncle Gideon, Aunt Adélaid, and Yvette. Had he anyone? “Have you any remaining family?” Faith, now she was blurting her thoughts and prying.

“My stepmother and a sister, Charlotte.” Warmth infused his voice when he spoke of his sister.

What possesses a man in mourning to leave his family and attend a ball? She barely finished the thought. That little niggling headache she’d mentioned earlier throbbed full on now, viciously and unmercifully. Lightheaded, her stomach churning, it took every bit of effort not to trip during the dancing.

Why now?

Her last megrim episode had been many months ago. It must be the excitement—and the corsets of course. She only wore short stays at home. Oh, why had she let Yvette talk her into trying one of her new back-laced French corsets? The garment didn’t fit properly and pressed against Vangie’s ribs, constricting her breathing.

She sucked a meager puff of air into her cramped lungs. She could scarcely inhale, though whether from her ailment or the corset she couldn’t say for certain. She didn’t care what Yvette and Aunt Adélaid said. The blasted corded stays did interfere with her breathing. She detested the thing.

“My lord?” Vangie swallowed against the waves of nausea assailing her as tiny black spots flashed before her eyes. She must leave the dance floor before she disgraced herself in front of everyone. “My lord, I…” Her steps faltered. She swayed, clutching at his hand and shoulder to keep her balance.

Panic scuttled up her spine, and her vision narrowed, the familiar blackness closing in. As the pain throbbing in her temples crescendoed to an excruciating climax, the fuzzy ringing in her ears amplified. She struggled to remain standing, and as if sensing her battle, his lordship tightened his sturdy arm around her.

“Miss Caruthers?” Concerned deepened his voice. “Are you quite well?”

“No.” Not daring to shake her head, she swayed and gulped. “I fear…I need some air. Now.”

Miss Caruther’s faint whisper and sudden pallor alarmed Ian.

The terrace and the fresh air she needed were at the ballroom’s other end. After maneuvering her across the crowded floor, he assisted her through the open French windows then onto the veranda. She started to sag, and he slipped an arm around her slender waist.

Turning her head, her hazy gaze met his. “Forgive me,” she whispered before slumping in his arms.

This wasn’t a fit of the vapors. He’d seen his sister perform that stunt far too many times to be taken in by play-acting. No, Miss Caruthers was truly insensate. Scooping her into his embrace, Ian winced and swore beneath his breath as pain lanced through his shoulder. Should he carry her into the ballroom? Glancing downward, he stood undecided for a moment. A sliver of moonlight illuminated her ashen face.

Her bout of faintness proved most convenient, providential even. She’d played straight into his hands. Only now, holding her slight form, he had second thoughts. Blast and damn, he didn’t want to feel compassion for her. She didn’t deserve any tender emotions, but a weeping or swooning woman had always stirred his protective nature.

Guilt squeezed his chest as he turned in a wide arc. The garden? No doubt there was a bench… No, that wouldn’t do.

A dim light glowed beyond the panes of another French window farther along the veranda. Decision made, Ian strode to the entrance. He discreetly peeked through the glass, glimpsing a retiring room set aside for the ladies.

Empty.

He heaved a frustrated sigh. The room held no primping peeresses to which he could transfer Miss Caruthers’ care. Ah, but luck was on his side. The doors were open, ever-so-slightly.

His injured shoulder objected to her weight, and flinching, he shifted the bundle in his arms. He toed the door farther open then slipped into the deserted room. Lamps burned low on a carved fireplace mantle under which a fire cavorted brightly. A trio of divans formed a cozy u-shape, and across from the center couch sat two plush armchairs, a table between them. Another lamp glowed upon its surface.

“I say, is anyone here?” he said in a low tone.

Where was the servant who ought to be attending the chamber? Hopefully she wasn’t seeing to her personal needs behind one of the elaborately painted screens. Gads, he didn’t even want to think on that. Just in case, he called a bit louder, “Halloo?”

No one answered. It would’ve been most helpful to have a female presence to assist him. His attention sank to her. Even indisposed and unconscious, Miss Caruthers was exquisite, her dark lashes a stark contrast against her porcelain cheeks.

His left shoulder ached bloody awful from cradling her to his chest, and in four long strides, he made the closest divan. Once he’d laid her down, he shoved a tasseled pillow beneath her head and patted her cheek.

Several of her beaded hairpins had slipped loose, and a few lay scattered upon the floor. Ian gathered the pins and, unsure where to put them, stuffed them into his pocket. Studying her, he shook his head and bent his lips into a wry smile. When had he gone from a ruthless rogue, prepared to give her the dressing-down she deserved, to caring for her welfare?

Despite the cracked doorway, the room was stifling hot. He swiftly unbuttoned his coat before yanking off his gloves and wiping the moisture from his brow with the back of his hand. On another long table laden with needles, threads, hair pins, and other toiletries he discovered a stack of soft linen cloths. After dampening one, he bathed Miss Caruthers’ face.

Still no response.