Upon learning that the private dining rooms in the tavern would be occupied for some time, Leo requested a tray to be sent up to their room, as well as a hot bath.

Catherine fell asleep beneath the quilt while waiting. She stirred and blinked as she heard the door opening, chairs being moved, the clinking of plates and flatware, the thump of a large tin washtub.

There was a warm, furry weight next to her. Dodger had crawled beneath the quilt and was snoozing beside her shoulder. As Catherine looked at him, she saw the gleam of his bright eyes and heard a tiny yawn before he resettled.

Recalling that she was wearing only Leo’s discarded shirt, Catherine hid beneath the quilt and peeked over the edge as a pair of chambermaids set out the bath. Would they suspect what had occurred between her and Leo earlier? She braced herself for a sly or accusing glance, perhaps a contemptuous giggle, but it seemed the chambermaids were too busy to care. They were nothing but businesslike as they tipped two steaming pails into the washtub, and returned with another two pails full. One of the girls set out a three-legged stool piled with folded toweling.

The chambermaids would have left the room without incident, except that Dodger, attracted by the scent of food, emerged from beneath the quilt. He stood tall on the bed and regarded the dinner tray on the small table, his whiskers twitching. Oh, lovely, I was getting hungry! his expression seemed to say.

As one of the maids saw Dodger, her face contorted in terror. “Eeeek!” She pointed a plump, trembling finger at the ferret. “It’s a rat, or a mouse, or—”

“No, it’s a ferret,” Leo explained, his tone reasonable and soothing. “A harmless and highly civilized creature—the favored pet of royalty, actually. Queen Elizabeth had a pet ferret, and—really, there’s no need for violence—”

The chambermaid had picked up a fireplace poker and was raising it in anticipation of an attack.

“Dodger,” Catherine said shortly. “Come here.”

Dodger slithered up to her. Before she could push him away, he licked her on the cheek in a nuzzling ferret kiss.

One of the chambermaids looked horror-struck, while the other appeared ill.

Fighting to keep a straight face, Leo gave a half-crown to each chambermaid and ushered them from the room. When the door was closed and locked, Catherine lifted the affectionate ferret from her chest and regarded him with a scowl. “You are the most troublesome creature in the world, and not at all civilized.”

“Here, Dodger.” Leo set out a saucer of beef and parsnips, and the ferret streaked over to it.

While the ferret was busy devouring his meal, Leo came to Catherine and took her face in gentle hands. He lowered his mouth to hers in a brief, warm kiss. “Dinner or bath first?”

She was mortified to hear her stomach tighten with an audible kworr.

Leo grinned. “Dinner, it seems.”

The meal consisted of beef rounds and mashed parsnips, and a bottle of strong red wine. Catherine ate ravenously, even swabbing the plate with a crust of bread.

Leo was an entertaining companion, telling amusing stories, gently winnowing out confidences, refilling her wine glass. In the light of the single candle that had been set on the table, his face was severely handsome, with thick lashes shadowing incandescent blue eyes.

It occurred to Catherine that this was the first meal she’d ever shared alone with him. Once she would have dreaded the prospect, knowing she would have to be on her guard every second. But there was no conflict in this easy conversation. How remarkable. She almost wished that one of the Hathaway sisters were somewhere nearby, so that she could share this discovery … Your brother and I just spent an entire meal together without arguing!

It had begun to rain outside, the sky darkening steadily, sprinkles thickening into a steady rush that obliterated the sounds of people and horses and the activity in the carriage yard. Even dressed in the heavy robe that Leo had given her to wear, Catherine shivered and felt gooseflesh rise all over.

“Time for your bath,” Leo said, coming to pull her chair back.

Wondering if he intended to stay in the room, Catherine ventured, “Perhaps you might allow me some privacy.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “You may need assistance.”

“I can bathe myself. And I would prefer not to be watched.”

“My interest is purely aesthetic. I’ll imagine you as Rembrandt’s Hendrickje Bathina, wading in the waters of innocence.”

“Purely?” she asked doubtfully.

“Oh, I have a very pure soul. It’s only my private parts that have gotten me into trouble.”

Catherine couldn’t help laughing. “You may stay in the room, as long as you turn your back.”

“Agreed.” He went to stand by the window.

Catherine glanced at the tub with keen anticipation. She didn’t think she had ever looked forward to a bath so much. After securing her hair to the top of her head, she shed the robe, the shirt, and her spectacles, placed them on the bed, and glanced cautiously at Leo, who seemed to have taken a great interest in the view of the carriage yard. He had opened the window a few inches, letting rain-scented air into the room.

“Don’t look,” she said anxiously.

“I won’t. Although you really should discard your inhibitions,” he said. “They could get in the way of yielding to temptation.”

She sank gingerly into the battered tub. “I would say that I’ve yielded quite thoroughly today.” She sighed in relief as the water soothed all her intimate stings and aches.

“And I was delighted to be of assistance.”

“You didn’t assist,” she said. “You are the temptation.” She heard him chuckle.

Leo kept his distance as Catherine bathed, looking out at the rain. After she had washed and rinsed herself, she was so tired that she doubted her own ability to climb out of the bath. Rising on shaking legs, she fumbled to retrieve the folded toweling from the stool next to the tub.

As Catherine stepped out of the water, Leo came to her quickly and held up the toweling, wrapping it around her. Swathing her in a temporary cocoon, he held her for a moment. “Let me sleep with you tonight,” he said against her hair, a question in his voice.

Catherine looked up at him quizzically. “What would you do if I refused? Arrange for another room?”

He shook his head. “I would worry about your safety if I were in a different room. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No, we’ll share the bed.” She pressed her cheek to his chest, relaxing fully in his hold. How comfortable this was, she thought in wonder. How calm and safe she felt with him. “Why wasn’t it like this before?” she asked dreamily. “If you’d been the way you are now, I would never have argued with you about anything.”

“I tried being nice to you, once or twice. It didn’t go well.”

“Did you? I never noticed.” Her skin, already pink from the bath, turned a deeper shade. “I was suspicious. Mistrustful. And you … were everything I feared.”

Leo’s arms tightened at the admission. He looked down at her with a pensive gaze, as if he were untangling something in his mind, approaching a new realization. The blue eyes were warmer than she had ever seen them. “Let’s make a bargain, Marks. From now on, instead of assuming the worst of each other, we’ll try to assume the best. Agreed?”

Catherine nodded, transfixed by his gentleness. Somehow those few simple sentences seemed to have wrought a greater change between them than everything that had gone before.

Leo released her carefully. She went to bed while he washed awkwardly in a tub that couldn’t begin to accommodate a man his size. She lay and watched him drowsily, the warmth of her body gathering between the sheets of the clean, dry bed. And in spite of all the problems that awaited her, she sank into a deep sleep.

In her dreams, she went back to the day she had turned fifteen. She had been parentless for five years, living with her grandmother and Aunt Althea. Her mother had died during that time. She had never known exactly when this event occurred, having been informed well after the fact. She had asked Althea if she might visit her ailing mother, and Althea had replied that she had already died.

Even knowing that her mother had suffered a fatal wasting disease, knowing there was no hope, the news had come as a shock. Catherine had started to weep, but Althea had grown impatient and snapped, “There’s no use crying. It happened long before now, and she’s been in the ground since high summer.” Which had left Catherine with a bewildering sense of lateness, of off-timing, like a theatergoer who had applauded at the wrong moment. She couldn’t grieve properly because she had missed the appropriate opportunity for grieving.

They had lived in a small house in Marylebone, a shabby but respectable dwelling lodged between a dental surgeon’s office with a replica of a set of teeth hanging from its sign, and a subscription library supported by private funds. The library was owned and run by her grandmother, who had gone there every day to work.

It had been the most tantalizing place in the world, this heavily frequented building with its vast and hidden collection of books. Catherine had stared at the place from her window, imagining how lovely it would be to browse among rooms of old volumes. Undoubtedly the air had smelled like vellum and leather and book dust, a literary perfume that filled the quiet rooms. She had told Althea that she wanted to work there one day, a declaration that had earned an odd smile from her aunt, and a promise that she undoubtedly would.

However, despite the sign that clearly proclaimed its purpose as a library for the use of distinguished gentlemen, Catherine had gradually realized there was something wrong about the place. No one ever left with any books.

Whenever Catherine mentioned this incongruity, Althea and her grandmother became cross, the same reaction they had displayed when she asked if her father would ever return for her.

On Catherine’s fifteenth birthday, she had been given two new dresses. One was blue and one white, with long skirts that had reached all the way to the floor, and waists that had fitted at her own natural waist, instead of childishly high. From now on, Aunt Althea had told her, she would put her hair up and behave as a woman. She was no longer a child. Catherine had absorbed this promotion with pride and anxiety, wondering what would be expected of her now that she had become a woman.

Althea had proceeded to explain, her long, lean face looking harder than usual, her gaze not quite able to meet Catherine’s. The establishment next door, as suspected, was not a lending library. It was a house of prostitution, for which she had worked since the age of twelve. It was an easy enough occupation, she assured Catherine … let the man do as he pleased, turn your mind elsewhere, and take his money. No matter what his desires or how he used your body, there was relatively little discomfort as long as you didn’t resist.

“I don’t want to do that,” Catherine had said, turning ashen as she realized why the advice was being given.

Althea had raised her plucked, arched brows. “What else do you think you’re fit for?”

“Anything but that.”

“Mutton-headed girl, do you know how much we’ve spent on your upkeep? Do you have any idea what a sacrifice it was to take you on? Of course not—you think it was owed to you. But now it’s time to repay. You’re not being asked to do anything that I haven’t done. Do you think you’re better than me?”

“No,” Catherine said, shamed tears slipping from her eyes. “But I’m not a prostitute.”

“Each one of us is born for a purpose, my dear.” Althea’s voice was calm, even kind. “Some people are born into privilege, some are blessed with artistic talent or natural intelligence. You, unfortunately, are average in every regard … average intellect, average wit, and no distinguishable talent. You have inherited beauty, however, and a whore’s nature. Therefore, we know what your purpose is, don’t we?”

Catherine flinched. She tried to sound composed, but her voice shook. “Being average in most regards doesn’t mean I have the makings of a prostitute.”

“You’re deceiving yourself, child. You are the product of two families of faithless women. Your mother was incapable of being constant to anyone. Men found her irresistible, and she could never resist being wanted. And as for our side … your great-grandmother was a procuress, and she trained her daughter in the business. Then it was my turn, and now it is yours. Of all the girls who work for us, you will be the most fortunate. You won’t be hired out to any man who comes off the street. You’ll be the luminary of our little business. One man at a time, for a negotiated period. You’ll last much longer that way.”

No matter how Catherine resisted, she had soon found herself being sold to Guy, Lord Latimer. He had been as alien to her as all men were, with his sour breath and scratchy face and crawling hands. Trying to kiss her, forcing his hands into the openings of her clothes, tearing at her like a gamekeeper plucking a dead grouse. He had been amused by her struggles, grunting in her ear about what he was going to do to her, and she had loathed him, loathed all men.

“I won’t hurt you … if you don’t fight me…” Latimer had said, grabbing her hands, forcing them down to his groin. “You’ll like it. Your little quim knows what’s what, I’ll show you…”

“No, don’t touch me, don’t—”

She woke up sobbing, straining pitifully against a hard chest. “No—”

“Cat. It’s me. Hush, it’s me.” A warm hand moved over her back.

She went still, her wet cheek pressed to a soft mat of hair. The sound of his voice was deep and familiar. “My lord?”

“Yes. It was just a nightmare. It’s over. Let me hold you.”

Her head was pounding. She felt shaky and ill, and ice-cold with shame. Leo cuddled her against his chest. As he felt the way she trembled, he smoothed her hair repeatedly. “What were you dreaming of?”

She shook her head with a shuddery sound.

“It had to do with Latimer, didn’t it?”

After a long hesitation, she cleared her throat and replied, “Partly.”

He caressed her shrinking back in soothing circles, and his lips moved to her damp cheeks. “You’re afraid he’ll come after you?”

She shook her head. “Something worse.”

Very gently he asked, “Can’t you tell me?”

Pulling away from him, Catherine curled into a ball, facing the opposite direction. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry for waking you.”

Leo fit himself against her spoon fashion. She quivered at the sensation of warmth applied all along her back, long hairy legs tucked up beneath hers, a muscular arm thrown across her. All the textures and scents and pulses of him were wrapped around her, his breath falling on her neck. What an extraordinary creature a man was.

It was wrong to take such pleasure in this. Everything Althea had said about her was probably true. She had a whore’s nature, a craving for masculine attention … she was indeed her mother’s daughter. She had repressed and ignored that side of herself for years. But now it was being shown to her, as surely as a reflection in a looking glass. “I don’t want to be like her,” she whispered without thinking.

“Like who?”

“My mother.”

His hand settled on her hip. “Your brother gave me the strong impression that you were definitely not like her.” He paused. “In what way are you afraid of being similar?”

Catherine was silent, her breath wavering as she tried not to choke on a new surge of tears. He was undoing her with this newfound tenderness. She would have much preferred the old mocking Leo. It seemed she had no defenses against this one.

He pressed a kiss into the hollow behind her ear. “My dear girl,” he whispered, “don’t tell me you feel guilty for having enjoyed sexual relations?”

It unnerved her further that he had reached an accurate conclusion so quickly. “Perhaps a little,” she said, her voice catching.

“Good God, I’m in bed with a puritan.” Leo uncoiled her stiff body and spread her out beneath him, ignoring her protest. “Why is it wrong for a woman to enjoy it?”

“I don’t think it’s wrong for other women.”

“Just you, then?” His voice was gently sardonic. “Why?”

“Because I’m the fourth generation of a family of prostitutes. And my aunt said I had a natural proclivity for it.”

“Everyone does, love. It’s how the world is populated.”

“No, not for that. For prostitution.”

He snorted derisively. “There is no such thing as a natural proclivity for selling oneself. Prostitution is forced on women by a society that allows them damned few options to support themselves. And as for you … I’ve never met a woman less equipped for it.” He played with the tangled runners of her hair. “I’m afraid I don’t follow your logic. It’s no sin to enjoy a man’s touch, nor does that have anything to do with prostitution. Anything your aunt told you was pure manipulation—for obvious reasons.” His mouth lowered to her neck, pressing kisses along the taut surface. “We can’t have you feeling guilty,” he said. “Especially when it’s so misguided.”

She sniffled. “Morality isn’t misguided.”

“Ah. There’s the problem. You have morality, guilt, and pleasure all mixed together.” His hand went to her breast, cupping tenderly. The sensation shot to the pit of her stomach. “There’s nothing moral about denying pleasure, and nothing wrong about wanting it.” She felt him smile against her skin. “What you need is to indulge in several long nights of uncivilized lust with me. It would drive all the guilt out of you. And if that didn’t work, at least I would be happy.” His hand swept down her body, his thumb brushing the top edge of intimate curls. Her belly tightened beneath his palm. His fingers trailed deeper.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Helping you with your problem. No, don’t thank me, it’s no trouble at all.” His smiling mouth brushed against hers, and he moved over her in the darkness. “What word do you use for this, love?”

“For what?”

“For this sweet place … here.”

Her body jerked at his gentle caress. She could hardly speak. “I don’t have a word for that.”

“Then how do you refer to it?”

“I don’t!”

He laughed quietly. “I know several words. But the French, not surprisingly, have the nicest one. Le chat.”

“The cat?” she asked, bewildered.

“Yes, a double meaning for a feline and a woman’s softest part. Puss. Pussy. The sweetest fur … no, don’t be shy. Ask me to pet you.”

The words stole her breath away. “My lord,” she protested faintly.

“Ask and I’ll do it,” he prompted, his fingers withdrawing to play in the sensitive hollow behind her knee.

She swallowed back a moan.

“Ask,” came his coaxing whisper.

“Please.”

Leo kissed her thigh, his mouth soft and hot, his bristle an exciting scrape against the tender skin. “Please what?”

Wicked man. She squirmed and covered her face with her hands, even though they were in complete darkness. Her voice was muffled by the screen of her fingers. “Please pet me there.”

His touch came so lightly she could scarcely feel it at first, fingertips stirring, teasing. “Like this?”

“Yes, oh yes…” Her hips lifted, inviting more. He fingered the folds of her sex, massaging delicately, tracing the softness within. The skillful caresses brought her body to trembling readiness.

“What else should I do?” Leo whispered, moving lower in the darkness. She felt his breath on her, heat against moisture, a soft intermittent blowing. Her hips arched and strained without volition.

“Make love to me.”

He sounded gently regretful. “No, you’re too sore.”

“Leo,” she whimpered.

“Shall I kiss you instead? Here?” His fingertip swirled.

Catherine’s eyes widened in the darkness. Stunned and acutely aroused by the suggestion, she licked her dry lips. “No. I don’t know.” She writhed as she felt him breathe against her, his fingers gently holding her apart. “Yes.”

“Ask me nicely.”

“Ask you to … Oh, I can’t.”

The teasing fingers left her. “Shall we go to sleep, then?”

She caught his head in her hands. “No.”

He was inexorable. “You know how to ask.”

She couldn’t. The shamed syllables stuck in her throat, and she could only moan in frustration.

And Leo, the monstrous cad, smothered a chuckle against her thigh.

“I’m so glad you find this amusing,” she said furiously.

“I do,” he assured her, his voice thick with laughter. “Oh, Marks, we have so far to go with you.”

“Don’t bother,” she snapped, trying to move away, but he pinned her legs in place, holding her easily.

“There’s no need to be stubborn,” he coaxed. “Go on, say it. For me.”

A long silence passed. She swallowed and made herself say, “Kiss me.”

“Where?”

“Down there,” she managed, her voice shaking. “On my pussy. Please.”

Leo fairly purred in approval. “What a naughty girl you are.” His head lowered, and he nuzzled into the damp softness, and she felt his mouth cover the most sensitive part of her in a wet, open kiss, and the world caught fire.

“Is that what you wanted?” she heard him ask.

“More, more,” she cried, gasping.

His tongue traced her in fluid, savoring strokes. Her body drew taut as he began to tug and flick, and the voluptuous expanding pleasure went all through her. She was suffused in wet sensation, each slide of his tongue opening her to greater pleasure. His hands cupped beneath her, making a vessel of her hips, tilting her to meet his mouth. She convulsed in raw shudders, crying out, her nerves dancing with exquisite heat. His mouth lingered softly, as if he were reluctant to stop. For a scalding moment she felt his tongue enter her, teasing out a last few quivers.

She was soon chilled as rain-scented air from the partially open window swept over her skin. She thought Leo would satisfy his own needs then, and she moved toward him in exhausted confusion. But he settled her in the crook of his arm and pulled the quilts over them both. She was replete and enervated, unable to stay awake.

“Sleep,” she heard him whisper. “And if you have any more nightmares … I’ll kiss them all away.”