The moment the front door slid shut behind them, an older woman rushed into the long wood-paneled hallway, clucking like an angry hen. “What have you got there, my lord? The girl’s shivering like a leaf, she is. What’s happened to her? Mr. Teague feared she were a thief, but she don’t look like no thief to me. I’ve no room prepared for a guest, as you well know.”

“Put me down,” Tavia whispered, wriggling against the Duke of Strathmoor’s chest. “Let me walk on my own.”

“You’re injured.” He cast her a single cool gray glance as he proceeded toward the staircase ahead. “Let me take you upstairs where Mrs. Teague,” he spoke the woman’s name with extra volume, as if to cover the sound of her chatter, “can wrap your ankle and see to those scratches on your wrist.” With his head tipped toward the woman Tavia guessed to be the housekeeper, he added, “Warm water and some cloth to bandage her wounds, if you would, Mrs. Teague. An extra blanket and a pot of tea would do quite nicely too.”

Tavia closed her eyes, submitting to the mortification of being carried like a helpless damsel in the man’s arms. A drenched damsel, who was dripping all over the hall’s checked marble floor. At least her teeth had stopped chattering. In fact, the major’s warm, hard body created so much heat between them, she was surprised her clothes weren’t steaming.

“And Mrs. Teague?” he called as they started up the stairs. “Ensure that your husband carries everything I’ve requested upstairs. He can fetch Doctor Evans here tomorrow.”

“I don’t need a doctor for a few scratches and a twisted ankle,” Tavia hissed under her breath. For a man who refused to do his duty, he was overdoing the heroic role a bit.

“The doctor is for Mrs. Teague.” Finally, he cast her a long look. Too long, and far too intense. “I meant to fetch him today but was waylaid by a damnably tenacious”—his gaze skimmed her body, down to where her skirt hiked up above her ankles—“and accident-prone woman.”

“Agree to return to London, and you’ll never have to see me again as long as you live.”

Her mouth seemed to interest him a good deal. He stared until Tavia’s cheeks began to flush, as feverish as the parts of her that were pressed against him.

“I’m not going to London,” he insisted. “You can stay at Finsbury Hall tonight and return tomorrow.”

“Not without you.” Tavia was suddenly aware of how odd the words sounded. As if he was all that mattered to her. As if she refused to go on until he returned to the city with her. As if she had every intention of remaining under his roof indefinitely. Which she most assuredly did not.

Yet, as a burgeoning investigator, she’d never failed to solve a case. Of course, all of them had been mundane matters. Lost jewels. Unpaid bills. A wayward suitor. But this gentleman’s return to the capital mattered to the queen. Tavia refused to fail at the most important assignment she’d ever been given in her life.

After proceeding down a long hall, Strathmoor stopped before a half-open door. He kicked the panel aside to reveal an equally massive room with high ceilings, a long drape-covered window, and a fireplace so tall, she could have lodged inside.

“You can have my room for the night.” With infinite care, he deposited her on the enormous carved oak bed that dominated the other furnishings in the room. “The Teagues will be up to tend to you soon.” After a swift retreat, he turned back. “If your ankle pains you, there’s a flask of whisky in the top bedside drawer. I find it extremely useful.”

Tavia had to admit the bed was soft, and being off her feet felt heavenly. She slid her satchel strap from her shoulder and began kneading her sore muscles.

The major started for the door without another word. Not even a goodbye or rest well. The man was simply going to leave her to languish in his drafty bedchamber where everything was fashioned for giants and soot stained the ceiling and walls.

“Wait.” Scooting forward on the bed, Tavia tested her ankle and tried to stand.

“Stubborn woman.” He was at her side in an instant, a steadying hand braced under her arm.

Yet when she looked up into his eyes, she felt anything but steady. The edge of his mouth tipped up into the semblance of a grin, and she found herself studying the shape of his lips. Remembering the taste of his kiss. Her body pulsed as if he was touching his tongue to hers again.

Before that moment, she’d thought herself a woman who’d kissed a man. Her long-ago suitor had once pressed his mouth to hers, and she’d felt guilty and giddy and told herself a milestone of womanhood had been passed.

Killian Graves taught her differently.

He’d shown her what a kiss could be. Should be. As a working woman, she never planned to marry. Kisses, love, marriage—she’d decided after being rejected that they would not be her fate. Now she was certain no other kiss would ever compare to that one heated moment of need and desire she’d shared with him.

“Octavia?” He’d been speaking to her, and she hadn’t caught a word. “Can you put weight on your ankle? Does it hurt?” Sliding a hand around her waist, he added, “Don’t you dare faint on me.”

“Why did you kiss me?”

He reared back as if she’d struck him, but he didn’t let go of her arm. Or her waist. Recovering quickly, he responded with an arrogant broad-shouldered shrug. “Because I wished to.” He pulled her an inch closer, stroking his hand up her back. “And because you seemed to want me to.”

Tavia couldn’t deny it. In that moment, she had wanted his kiss. Desperately. Some wild mix of curiosity and loneliness had obliterated every proper impulse. For a fleeting second, before his mouth had come down on hers, she’d convinced herself that kissing him was a way to get close enough to be sure. To discern whether he was the man she’d come to find.

But kissing him had only deepened her uncertainty. Was he the scoundrel described in Lord Cecil’s dossier, or the volatile army major suspected of another man’s murder?

From his kiss, she could only deduce he was a master seducer.

Stuff and nonsense. Kisses had nothing to do with why she’d come to Yorkshire. Only one goal mattered—convincing the man to return to London. Unless, of course, kisses were the best way to convince him. The thought infused her cheeks with heat.

Some wielder of wiles she was.

The bedroom door creaked open, and the major took one long step away from her, though he still lent her his arm for support.

Her grizzled captor glared at them from the threshold. “The wife says I must deliver these up to the lass.” Mr. Teague’s arms had been piled high with blankets and bandages. A tea tray balanced precariously on top. “Didn’t ’spect to find you here, Major Graves.”

“No,” he agreed, as if he was as surprised as the old man to find himself at her side.

“Have you not poured the young miss her tea yet?” The clucking housekeeper nudged her husband into the room and laid a pile of clothing on a table near the fireplace.

Her husband grumbled as he proceeded to a larger desk in the corner and deposited his load, the tea tray rattling precariously as he removed it from the top and approached the bedside.

“Leave it there, Niall,” his wife instructed. “I’ll see to her tea.”

Mr. Teague put down the tray and busied himself stoking a fire in the cavernous hearth. Then, after one more suspicious glance at Tavia, he stomped from the room.

“You must go too, sir,” Mrs. Teague informed the duke. “Unless you plan to help me undress the young lady and get her into warm, dry clothes.”

Tavia felt his gaze on her as he considered the housekeeper’s jest.

“Tempting,” he said quietly, only for Tavia’s ears. Then, to Mrs. Teague, “I trust you’ll take good care of her.”

“Considering she’s the first guest we’ve had in years, I shall treat her like a queen.”

“How apropos.” He cast Tavia an amused grin. The first she’d seen from him. A devastating tip of his full mouth. “Good night, Miss… You never told me your surname.”

“Fowler.” The word slipped out before she could decide whether to withhold the detail. He’d found the photograph, knew the queen had sent her, and she’d revealed her given name. There seemed little point in hiding her surname.

Or perhaps there was.

He stilled, and that haunted look of pain and regret he’d worn in the photograph darkened his expression. “I see it now.”

“You see what?” Her belly began to twist into knots as his gray eyes darkened like the gathering of storm clouds.

“The resemblance.” He dipped his head and stared at the floor before meeting her gaze again. “You’re Octavius Fowler’s daughter.”

“I am.”

“Then my sins truly have caught up with me.” With those ominous words, he turned his back on her and stalked through the door.

Tavia’s throat burned with the urge to call him back. If she hadn’t twisted her ankle, she would have chased him through the length of the immense house.

“Best to let him alone when he’s in a dark temper,” Mrs. Teague advised softly. “Come, let’s get you into dry clothes and restore you with a cup of my beef tea.” She lifted the pile of clothes she’d left by the fire.

Tavia unbuttoned her shirtwaist, slipped out of her damp skirt, and peeled off her sodden corset and underclothes. The chemise and gown Mrs. Teague provided were far too large, but they were gloriously warm. “Thank you.” She couldn’t hold back a sigh of pleasure as the soft cotton slid over her skin.

“Must say I am surprised to learn you’re not acquainted with the major.” The older woman presented Tavia with a cup of savory tea and helped her settle back onto the bed before folding herself onto a straight-back chair nearby. “He doesn’t take to strangers as a rule.”

“He hasn’t taken to me at all.” Never mind the kiss. She’d given in to impulse. A flare of carnal need. That moment signified nothing. “I twisted my ankle, and he felt obliged to bring me inside.”

“Is that so?” The older woman arched a brow and flattened her mouth as if attempting to hide a grin. “Aside from his duty as a soldier, does Major Graves strike you as a man who acts out of obligation?”

Tavia sipped her beef tea and avoided the woman’s persistent gaze. Based on everything she knew about him, Killian Graves, whose staff seemed unaware he was a duke, had spent years avoiding obligations.

But why? What plagued the man so that he’d hide away in this charred ruin of a house?

“He has no visitors at all, Mrs. Teague?”

“A few have called, but he insists we turn them away.”

“Do you remember their names?”

Mrs. Teague seemed to sense Tavia’s eagerness to uncover his secrets and rose slowly from her chair, all the while rubbing the small of her back. She retrieved a roll of bandaging cloth. “If you’ve finished with your tea, Miss Fowler, I’ll see to your ankle.”

There would be no revealing of the major’s visitors, it seemed. Tavia set her teacup aside and lifted the hem of her borrowed gown. Her ankle was still swollen, but pain no longer shot up her leg. She leaned back against the pillows as Mrs. Teague wrapped the bandage. She meant to ask more questions. To develop a rapport with the older woman, as she’d done on other investigations, and tease out more details about Killian Graves.

But the crackling fire, tea warming her body, and Mrs. Teague’s gentle ministrations conspired to remind her how exhausting the day had been. She tipped her head back and stared at the smoke-darkened ceiling, her eyes fluttering closed when the house keper tucked a blanket around her body.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would start again and find a way to convince Killian Graves, Duke of Strathmoor, to return with her to London. Some means of persuasion. Preferably one that didn’t involve kissing him again. Though as sleep drew her down, she fancied she could still taste him on her lips, feel his hands on her body.

What if kissing the man was the only way to get close to him? To convince him. Perhaps kisses were her most effective weapon of all.