Chapter Seven

I f he was nothing else, Anthony Maltravers was a man of action, a man who wasted no time in any of his activities: not seductions, not card games, and not rescuing beautiful women. Within five minutes he had instructed his coachman to meet him at the back of the house and retrieved Cecilia's cloak from the cloakroom.

When he met her outside she was huddled in the same position in which he'd left her, her hands pressed against her leg where the man had assaulted her. He held her cloak, offering to put it on her, and she stood, bracing herself against the wall as she straightened her legs, her hands still clutching the off-white silk around her thighs. She turned her back to him and he wrapped the black velvet material around her shoulders, his hands lingering on her chest a bit longer than was appropriate. She shrugged him off and with shaking fingers tried to tie the cloak closed at her throat. He reached out again to help her, but she shied away from him. He frowned. What was so abhorrent in accepting help freely given? But he wouldn't risk insulting her, pushing her away now by forcing more help then she asked for. Not when they were about to be enclosed in a carriage together and he might at last get a chance to employ his full charm. Finally, she pulled her gloves off in frustration and managed to tie a lopsided bow with naked fingers. Then she pulled the hood over her face and gathered the cloak tightly around herself.

He offered her his arm. "Shall we go to the carriage?"

After a moment's hesitation, she accepted the aid. "Thank you," she said, her voice stiff and strained.

As they made their way through the garden to the back of the house, she leaned on him, and when he held her around the waist, supporting her with his other arm, she did not protest. He could feel through the cloak the tightness of her abdomen as she struggled to remain upright, and wondered at the lack of softness around her waist, a softness which he had come to expect in a woman. She was hard. Not the hardness of bone, but the hardness of muscle flexing beneath skin. It was a curious feeling against the palm of his hand, as if he were supporting one of his friends after a night of heavy drinking.

Only when they had reached the carriage did she look up from the ground. "That is not my carriage," she said, her expression unreadable, her lips pursed in stoic stubbornness as they had been when he first laid eyes on her.

"No, It is mine," he answered.

She stood looking at him, clearly attempting to gauge his intent. When she made no move towards the open door of the carriage but merely narrowed her eyes distrustfully, he stepped forward and put his hand at the small of her back, pushing her gently to it. "I cannot allow you to return home alone in your present condition. I have no sinister intent regarding your person," he assured her. She didn't respond, but inclined her head in acquiescence and climbed unaided into the carriage, whispering "Sixteen Wickham Circle" to the driver.

As she did so, he thought he saw it again, the little limp she'd had when she'd escaped from him on the dance floor. Escaped? Is that how it had been? She'd escaped from one rake only to end up in the clutches of a far more violent man?

He avoided her eyes as he climbed into the coach after her, unsure what he would see and how he would react to it. Any look other than fear or pain in her eyes, and he feared he would… What? Force her there, in the carriage? The image of her pressed against the wall, defiant, stoic, not in the least bit vulnerable until that man had touched her – touched her where I would have touched her , Anthony thought with a shudder of guilt. I would have been as rough with her. It was my intention tonight to be rough with her . And though he told himself he was, if not a gentle man, at least better than the oaf Cecilia was tangled with, the arousal he felt betrayed him as he pictured himself holding her against her will against that wall, stealing the look of bravery from her eyes with a demanding grasp of her breasts, between her thighs.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. She sat almost motionless, her hands still shaking as they clutched the velvet cloak around her legs. Her eyes were wide and haunted, like those of a fox who know the hounds have it cornered. He quelled a sudden impulse to pull her into his lap, let her rest her cheek against his cheek, run his fingers softly through her hair.

Damn this woman! She had the same breathless, confusing effect on him whether she was kissing him or ignoring him entirely.

In the seat across from him, Cecilia took a deep breath and exhaled it against the carriage window. "How much did you see?" she asked, her voice level and guarded.

"Enough to suspect that I am not the greatest threat you face," He replied just as evenly. He had wished to make his tone comforting, but instead the words rang haughty and judgmental in his ears. Cecilia's lips twisted in a grimace of a smile before she looked away from him again.

They rode the rest of the way to her house in silence.