Ashworth propelled himself up the grand staircase, the harsh sound of his breathing echoing off the walls. Somehow, Scanlan had fooled him into thinking he was a decent man. Helen’s bruised face was vivid in his mind, igniting a fresh surge of rage. He hadn’t been there to protect her.

Couldn’t protect her because she wasn’t his to protect. Only if she were his countess, his wife, would she have the shelter of his power and title. Only if it were possible for him to claim her as his own, would there be no doubt of his exacting a swift revenge against anyone who dared touch her.

Ashworth’s stomach lurched. The distress of seeing her, battered and bewildered belowstairs, was causing him actual physical pain. His revulsion at Amelia’s ordeal only amplified the effect. He hurtled down the hallway with a roar. The coward’s door was locked, of course. Ashworth leaned in close to the frame, his lip curled in fury.

“You have one second to open this door!” he bellowed. When no reply was forthcoming, he took a large step backwards and issued a massive kick with his bootheel, sending the door flying inward amidst a spray of splintering wood. Scanlan’s valet, who had been tending to his master’s wound, jumped back with a screech at the violent intrusion.

“What is the meaning of this, my lord?” Mr. Scanlan blustered indignantly, rising from his seat in a chintz armchair.

He did not pause to answer. He did not pause at all until he had locked his fingers around the man’s throat and slammed him forcibly up against the wall, sending a nearby painting tumbling to the carpet below.

“You tell me,” Ashworth seethed darkly, tightening his grip until Scanlan’s face turned crimson.

The tradesman affected a raspy laugh as best he could under the circumstances. “Is this about . . . the maids?” he grunted incredulously, scrabbling to pry away the earl’s fingers. “You ought to be apologizing for . . . their misbehavior . . .”

Ashworth, still gripping Scanlan by the neck, silenced him immediately by jerking him forward then slamming him back hard against the wall. Matthew and Charles appeared in the doorway, out of breath.

“My lord—” said Matthew, wide-eyed at the scene before him.

The earl ventured a quick glance in their direction before returning his focus to Scanlan.

“Stay back,” he growled.

Despite his command, the two footmen ventured into the crowded room to stand within arm’s reach of the earl. The valet was ineffectually cowering in the corner.

“We can’t do that, my lord,” said Charles. Matthew stepped closer, but his eyes were full of fire as he gazed at Scanlan.

“Let’s talk about this, man to man,” choked out the tradesman, eyes darting frantically to the angry faces surrounding him. “There’s been some misunderstanding . . .”

The earl slid his hands down to grab Scanlan’s shirt and flung him across the room, where he collided clumsily with the wall.

“Misunderstanding?” Ashworth uttered a harsh, humorless laugh. “The only misunderstanding, here, is your belief that it is acceptable to enter my house and attack women under my employ.” He stalked towards Scanlan. “And you want to speak man to man? A man doesn’t force himself upon an unwilling partner. A man doesn’t hit a woman, ever.”

Scanlan had the audacity to look outraged. “She attacked me! That dark-haired whore got what she—”

With a gasp Matthew stepped forward, but Ashworth was quicker. He and Scanlan crashed into a bedside table, smashing it to pieces, then rolled along the carpet, the earl pummeling Scanlan all the while. Scanlan, by no means of small stature, was simply no match for Ashworth’s muscular agility. William was lost in the jostling motion of their bodies as they wrestled each other . . . the pounding of fists . . . the pained grunts . . .

The loud crack as the wheel splintered and snapped off . . . the violent heave of the carriage . . . the groaning and creaking of twisting metal . . .

In horror, William tore himself off of Scanlan to land heavily on the floor, his lungs seizing inside his chest. Grasping desperately at the memory of their meeting on the staircase, Helen’s advice came back to him.

Breathe . . .

By the time Matthew and Charles managed to help him to his feet, the tradesman was bruised, battered, and gasping for breath himself. He pointed a trembling finger in their direction.

“How dare you,” he cried, wiping his bloody mouth on his shirtsleeve. “I will call for the local magistrate! You cannot assault me this way . . .”

Now mostly recovered, Ashworth leaned in Scanlan’s direction while his footmen struggled to keep him at bay. “I am the magistrate, and I will defend my estate and its people in any way I like.”

Scanlan’s eyes grew large and he glanced fearfully at his manservant.

“Pack my things, Rupert.”

“If Rupert can pack your things in less time than it takes for me to throw you down the staircase, then by all means, proceed,” snarled the earl.

Scanlan’s valet managed to escape with just one of his master’s trunks, laboring beneath its weight as he raced to the carriage waiting on the drive. Ashworth shook off his footmen and followed their exit, passing a concerned Mrs. Malone on his way.

Foolishly, Scanlan turned to deliver a parting retort as he reached the vehicle.

“You’ll never gain a hold in Manchester. I know people!”

The earl knocked Scanlan backwards into his carriage.

“I know more people,” he countered. “I will bury your mill. And I will bury you if you ever return here again.”

Upon receiving the earl’s summons, Dr. Chapman arrived from the village without delay. Both women were examined and treated in Mrs. Malone’s office, while Ashworth waited anxiously in the servants’ hall, seated at the worn wooden table.

Life carried on around him, with servants moving busily down from the hallway to the kitchen and back, continuing on with their duties for that evening’s upcoming dinner. Their first task had been to straighten Eliza’s room. He would not have her come home to that ugly spectacle, though he knew he’d have to inform her of the day’s events.

Ashworth couldn’t think about that right now, though. He was too busy trying to subdue his growing concern for Helen. Amelia had been treated already, and insisted on returning to work, saying she would rather be around people than left alone upstairs in her room to rest. Helen, however, was still in the office. She’d been there for the past half hour at least.

The creak of an opening door caused his back to straighten in anticipation. Dr. Chapman entered the hall, setting his heavy black satchel on the floor before rising again to address the earl. The physician’s bespectacled eyes darted down to the earl’s swollen, scraped knuckles. His eyebrows lifted.

“My lord, would you allow me to look at your hand?” he asked.

Ashworth jerked his hand off the table to conceal it from view. “It’s fine,” he stated flatly. “What news of the maids?”

Chapman nodded and removed his glasses, polished them with a cloth until the lenses gleamed, then replaced them on his face.

“Amelia had some bruising and scrapes on her extremities, but nothing more severe. She was fortunate given the circumstances. I gave her some salve and sent her on her way. Helen, however . . .”

Lord Ashworth leaned forward in his chair.

“Yes?”

The physician crossed to the opposite side of the table, pulled a chair out with a loud scrape, and seated himself with a sigh.

“I think time and rest will be the most effective remedies for her. She does appear to have received some brain injury, a concussion, from the blow to her head.” Dr. Chapman tipped his head quizzically. “Do you know if Helen has any acquaintance with Clara Mayfield?”

For the second time that day, a tremor tripped up his spine at the utterance of that name. The earl censored his facial expressions before replying to the doctor.

“It is my understanding that she has a friend who works for the Mayfields.” He paused. “She also observed my sister discussing Miss Mayfield the other day.”

“I see,” answered Dr. Chapman, steepling his hands beneath his chin and leaning thoughtfully back in his chair. “I am aware of the controversy in the papers surrounding Clara Mayfield right now, and it seems that, for a brief time upon regaining consciousness, Helen had grown attached to the idea that she was this woman.”

Ashworth stared at the physician, deep in thought. “Clara Mayfield has been missing for three months. Helen came to Lawton Park three months ago.” He felt the blood drain from his face. “You don’t think—”

“The idea is preposterous, of course,” Dr. Chapman said with a chortle, and dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “She is simply a housemaid who took a knock to the head and fancied herself a wealthy runaway bride when she woke. No, rest assured, my lord. Throughout my inspection she grew less certain of being Miss Mayfield, and more distressed at my repeated questions.”

The earl was cautiously optimistic, although if he were being honest, something still seemed amiss. “You’re saying she improved during your examination?”

“Yes, I’d say so. But an additional three days’ rest would do her good, if you can spare the staff.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Ashworth, standing to shake the man’s hand. The physician returned the handshake gingerly, clearly not wanting to aggravate his wounds. After a moment’s hesitation, he popped open his satchel and handed the earl a small container of salve.

He leaned forward conspiratorially, and in a hushed tone said, “If you’re going to mete out your own justice, my lord, you’d do well to apply this afterwards.”

Ashworth returned to Lawton Park after an unproductive excursion to the village, every bit as frustrated and discontented as he’d been since the attack. He hurled his coat over the back of the nearest chair as he entered his bedchambers and began pacing like a madman, pausing only every now and then to massage his aching hand. He would have gladly broken every knuckle to kill that man, although he supposed he was grateful to his footmen for stopping him.

A day had passed, and he longed to go to Helen. She was still badly bruised and confused, not to mention by herself. Only now he realized she’d mentioned her father once before, but never spoken of visiting him. She could be truly alone, and after the doctor’s visit, Mrs. Malone had swiftly bundled her upstairs to rest. He hadn’t even been able to see her for himself first.

Fury welled up inside him. He needed to do something to release the insufferable tightness in his chest. For the thousandth time, he reflected on the blatant stupidity of the situation. What could possibly prevent him from climbing his own set of stairs and visiting a member of his staff in her room? Was it so taboo simply to check on her condition? It seemed simple, but of course, it wasn’t.

Besides the obvious impropriety assigned to visiting a female in her room, especially given the nature of Scanlan’s assault, this situation was rendered even more improper by their difference in station. As it stood already, he knew that tales of his attack on Scanlan in would make him infamous, and most likely a target of derision, back in London and perhaps even in country society. Not that he was in their good graces right now, as it was.

The question was, did he care? He thought back to his willful shunning of the ton following his family’s losses. Ashworth was not one of them, and there had never really been a doubt about that. He was invited to balls and soirées because he was a high-ranking, well-heeled bachelor from an old and noble family, not because he catered to the desires and demands of the aristocracy. His family tragedy had only served to make him a commodity, like some exotic creature from a far-off land to be admired simply for its strangeness. So why did he give a damn about them now?

William knew he was attempting to rationalize why a visit to Helen’s room, alone, was somehow permissible. It never truly would be. Yet the need still remained.

He silently opened the door and strode to the end of the hall where a secret portal was concealed behind ornate wooden paneling. Stepping lightly, he made his way up the winding staircase to the attic level where the servants’ quarters were located.

Ashworth emerged into the dimly lit hallway lined by doors on each side. He was thankful it was close to dinnertime for the staff, so he could go about this task without fear of interruption. Quickly, he thought back to one of their conversations in the study. She’d said her room was cold at night, so he supposed it must be one of the farthest rooms from the center of the house. His eyes fell upon a door to his right that seemed to fit the criteria, and he stepped forward to turn the knob.

As quiet as he could, he pushed the door open to see a room that was tidy and stark in its furnishings. The afternoon light was waning, but he was able to discern Helen’s shape in the bed on the opposite side of the small room. Her hair, appearing black in the gloom, curled around her shoulders in long, thick waves.

His eyes slipped further down to the feminine curve of her hip, partially obscured beneath the blanket that covered her. A primal satisfaction filled him at the sight of the fabric wrapped so neatly around her body.

Ashworth took a deep breath, trying to clear his head before he made a mistake. He needed to think. Think about what in the world he was going to say to her if she woke up, shocked to find him in her doorway, which was likely to happen if he continued standing here. Now he questioned whether he should wake her at all. What right did he have to be here? Plans were being made to find him a proper bride, a woman who would not be Helen. He could make no offer for her. He hadn’t been able to protect her from Scanlan. In fact, he’d unknowingly put her in harm’s way by inviting the reprobate into his house.

Helen turned to face the door with a sleepy sigh, and his breath caught in his throat as he gazed upon her, taking in both her unmatched beauty and the disproportionately raised flesh of her blackened eye. She shifted beneath her covers again, moving languidly, as if starting to wake. He felt the abrupt and overwhelming urge to leave before she discovered him. He’d had no business coming here.

William started to inch the door closed, when a loud creak of the hinges gave him away. His heart plummeted as her drowsy motions ceased and she froze in place. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright, wild eyes scanning the room. He took one hurried step forward so she could see him, cursing himself for frightening her.

“Helen, it’s me,” he said softly, waiting for some recognition, any recognition, to pass over her frozen features. A few seconds later, Ashworth could hear her rapid breathing slow slightly.

“My lord?”

He sighed in relief. “Yes. Helen, I’m so sorry to have scared you. I wanted to make sure you were all right, to see for myself . . .” He trailed off, unsure what else to say. I just wanted to see you.

Her eyes shimmered and her posture relaxed slightly. “You should step inside, before you’re discovered.”

Deciding she was right, he closed the door behind him and approached the bed. He paused for only a second, before sinking down and reaching out his hand. Despite their most recent, acrimonious parting, she took his hand, allowing him to pull her into a loose embrace. He did his best to ignore the fact she was clad only in her chemise.

She rested her head on his shoulder, settling into his arms. “You should not be here, my lord.”

“Yes, well, I’ve not really been one to observe the proprieties, it seems,” he replied against her hair, and heard her amused chuckle. She leaned back to gaze earnestly at him.

“Where is Mr. Scanlan?”

He was taken aback. “They didn’t tell you?”

“Well, they might have . . . I don’t remember.”

His hands curled tightly. “I . . . sent him away yesterday, shortly after I arrived home.”

“Is that where this came from?” she asked, lifting his right fist to examine the lacerations upon it.

Her skin was soft against his. “Yes.”

“You shouldn’t have. People will talk of this.”

“People will talk, regardless,” he rejoined. “I refuse to apologize for beating that man. My only regret is that I did not send him home sooner.” He glanced down at the floor, guilt spreading through his chest in a sickening slide.

She blinked. “What could you have possibly done differently?”

“I should have listened to my instincts. After our discussion at dinner, I wasn’t certain he could be trusted. He showed a lack of concern for the mill workers. That should’ve been an indication he’d have an equal lack of respect for my housemaids.”

“Instincts are not always meant to be followed, my lord,” Helen said with a touch of irony in her voice.

She had a fair point, but he ignored it. “No man will ever hurt you under this roof again.”

“Aside from you?”

It could have been an accusation, except it wasn’t. She was stating a fact. Hearing it still felt like a punch to the gut, though.

“Helen—”

She interrupted him with a hand on his arm. “It’s fine,” she said sadly. “You should go. I wouldn’t want someone to find you here.”

Ashworth wanted to say more, but took his cue and rose from the bed. He trained his eyes on the floor as she swung her shapely legs over the side to join him, tugging the hem of her undergarment down in a belated attempt at modesty. A quick pull of the blanket around her shoulders, and all that remained visible were her feet.

Those feet, though. They were lovely and petite, like the rest of Helen. His mind immediately transported him to his bed, with her, under the sheets with those perfect toes stroking the length of his bare calves.

He needed to leave.

Ashworth reached out to touch her cheek, brushing a trail around the ugly bruise that marred it. “I’ll leave, but how are you feeling, truly? I wanted to ask you myself.”

“I think I will be quite well by tomorrow,” she answered, gazing up at him appreciatively. “Thank you for allowing me some time to rest today.”

He shook his head, his expression serious. “The doctor said you should rest for three days, so I expect you to do so. Clara.”

Helen’s dark eyes grew wide. “M-my lord?”

Ashworth had only meant to tease her and was taken aback by her reaction, but strove to maintain a neutral tone. “In the servants’ hall you told me your name was Clara Mayfield.” He thoughtfully caressed a lock of her thick, wavy hair, then smoothed his fingertips over her ear, tucking it behind.

Helen was still staring at him, a horrified expression on her face. “I did?”

“Yes. You did. It seems Eliza’s conversation at the breakfast table made an indelible impression on you,” Ashworth said solemnly. “So I want to ask you once more,” he said, bending down to her level to meet her eyes. “Do you know who you are?”

Her pretty face was darkened by the shadow of some emotion he couldn’t quite place.

“I know who I am.”

Ashworth’s fingers moved to slide lightly over her jaw, to her mouth, where he stroked the curve of her bottom lip with his thumb.

“And do you know who I am?” he asked softly.

She nodded, clutching the blanket tighter around her.

He leaned down, so close to her now. “Say my name.”

The earl heard Helen’s intake of breath. This was a mistake, he knew. With their gazes locked, he silently repeated his entreaty.

Say my name.

Her jet-black lashes swept down across the pale curve of her cheek.

“William—” she breathed.

It was all she had time to say before he brought his lips crashing down over hers. The intimacy of hearing her speak his name was more powerful than he could have imagined, and he struggled to maintain control, his tongue eagerly thrusting into her mouth to find hers. As before, in the woods, she responded with a hunger that drove him wild.

Ashworth’s hands roamed over her body atop the blanket, down to the round curve of her bottom. Unthinkingly, he gripped her, pulling her up tight against his hips, the extent of his arousal undeniable through the thin fabric of her chemise. Her lips tore away from his and she gasped softly.

You should stop. She had not asked for this intrusion, not when she had been so violently mistreated.

Ashworth shook his head and released her. “Forgive me—” he managed to say.

Helen’s eyes fluttered open, the glassy haze of desire still lingering in their depths. Her fingertips caught at his shirt, and he stopped. She appeared remarkably calm, but the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her nervousness. Her gaze bravely held his, and with a graceful shrug the blanket that had been wrapped around her shoulders fell in a pool around her feet. She stood before him in a state of near total dishabille, and he was lost.

Family. Duty. Obligation.

He clung to these tenets weakly as his gaze absorbed the lush shapes of her breasts through the thin fabric . . . the luminous skin of her thighs below the hem of her chemise . . . and in an instant, Ashworth felt his resistance crumble to dust.

He needed her. Regardless of all the reasons he should stay away, his soul yearned for her. His body burned for her.

With a groan, Ashworth buried his face in the dark veil of her hair. He pressed his mouth to the side of her neck, and inhaled deeply as her moan vibrated against his lips.

Nipping at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, he breathed her in. She smelled sublime, not of violets or jasmine like so many of the faceless debutantes he’d met before, but of her own sweet essence, more intoxicating than any perfume. The earl let his hands explore her again, but this time they coasted upwards to discover the roundness of her breasts. God, she was soft. So very soft. Helen arched against him, her quiet gasp urging him on as he kneaded gently, circling his thumbs over the sensitive peaks and squeezing them softly through the linen of her chemise.

“Yes,” she murmured, rearing back briefly to catch her breath. “Oh, yes . . .”

Ashworth reached up to tug at the strap over her left shoulder, and Helen’s breath paused in her throat. He kissed her ravenously, then raised his lips from hers, giving her time to protest if she wished. She said nothing, though, still holding her breath as he gave one last pull, freeing one voluptuous breast from the confinement of her slip.

“Remember to breathe,” he whispered, tracing the heavy curve with his fingertips and brushing his mouth softly across her forehead.

She uttered a tiny, endearing noise of surprise.

“You are the loveliest thing I have ever seen,” he murmured, gazing down at her hungrily, and another slip of his fingers sent the second strap sliding down her other arm, exposing both breasts to the chilly air of her tiny attic room.

Color crept into her cheeks as his gaze raked over her, but she made no move to stop him. She only closed her eyes, unable to keep herself from trembling beneath his touch. Her teeth chattered as she attempted to speak, then speech failed her altogether as he bent over her, the wet heat of his mouth closing over one rosy nipple.

Helen cried out as he tormented her relentlessly, suckling and kissing. Shifting his attentions to the other side, filling his hands with her breasts, he tasted her over and over. Her head fell back, dark hair cascading down her back, insensible to everything but the feel of his hands and lips. She tangled her fingers into his hair and pulled hard to bring him up for another scorching kiss.

Her hands slid from his hair to his waist, snapping him back into reality.

“We need to stop,” he said, breathing harshly as she tugged his shirt up out of his waistband. “Helen—”

Her fingers found the flesh of his abdomen, and he tensed immediately at the feel of her touch. Helen was not in the mood for stopping, and she clearly wanted to feel him. Her hands stroked the muscled surface of his chest and she sighed before shoving the hem of his shirt higher to press her naked flesh against his. Now it was his turn to gasp, and before he could even process what he was doing, he found himself pushing her roughly against the wall.

Her breathing grew quicker when the hardness of his thigh slid between her legs. Helen’s eyes were fever-bright, and she gazed at him with a desperate yearning that matched his own. A glow of color rose on her cheeks at the intimate contact as he brought his leg tighter against her.

William knew this was forbidden. Yet in the moment, with her in his arms, he couldn’t seem to care. Against his better judgment, knowing it would end in disaster, he leaned down to claim her inviting, pink mouth one more time before . . .

The sound of a soft knock at the door interrupted them, and Helen froze in shock. Working to suppress the rising tide of his lust, the earl uttered a quiet groan and tore himself away from her. He stepped quickly into the corner as she frantically straightened her chemise. A voice came through, muffled by the wooden door.

“Helen, it’s Stella. Are you awake? I thought I heard voices.”

Tiptoeing over to perch on her bed, she glanced at him in panic before making a somnolent-sounding reply.

“Stella? I’m fine . . . just want to sleep.”

There was no immediate answer, and Ashworth was beginning to wonder if she’d walked away when he heard her next words.

“I thought I heard a man’s voice.”

Damn.

At this response, Helen rose from the bed. She leaned down to retrieve her discarded blanket from the floor before wrapping it around her and cracking the door open a few inches. She eyed her fellow housemaid.

“In the women’s wing? Are you joking?” she asked sardonically.

Stella chuckled from the other side of the door. “I could have sworn . . .”

Ashworth froze in the corner behind the door as Helen widened the opening, gesturing to the empty bed across the room.

“That’s strange,” said Stella, bewildered. “I suppose I was hearing things. How are you feeling, love? You look awful.”

“How flattering,” teased Helen. But he could see her fingers trembling on the doorknob, the only indication of how nervous she was.

“Sorry, it’s just, your face—”

“I really should rest, Stella,” she answered, allowing a hint of annoyance to seep into her tone.

“Of course, I’m sorry. I’ll be back later to check on you again.”

With a low exhale, Helen closed the door on her friend and leaned against it for support. Her eyes met his.

That was close, she mouthed silently.

She had no idea.