cloud over her head, thick and noxious as a London fog. But instead of a putrid yellow, hers was likely a depraved scarlet. Perhaps it was formed in the shape of an A.
Sniff. This time the sharp inhale was to hold back the sting of tears.
The door to the adjoining rooms opened a crack, admitting a flicker of candlelight. “Miss Kate?”
“Yes.” She tried to sound composed, but barely recognized her own voice.
Her maid took a long look, her knowing eyes slowly moving up from the bedraggled skirts to the skewed bodice to the tangle of snarled hair hanging limply over one shoulder.
“I must look like a tupenny whore,” said Kate, essaying a note of humor. Only a slight tremor at the last word ruined the effect.
Alice set down the light and enfolded her in a wordless hug.
Kate bit at her lip, only to wince. The kiss-swollen flesh was still tender to the touch.
“I shall order up a hot bath,” murmured her maid. “And a steaming pot of tea.”
“It’s four in the morning,” pointed out Kate.
“Your grandfather employs an army of servants. I won’t have any trouble enlisting a few to do my bidding.”
Kate didn’t argue. The idea of a soothing soak suddenly seemed heavenly. “Bless you, Alice,” she murmured.
“It’s not me that’s in need of divine intervention,” said Alice with a wry grimace. “But barring the appearance of a guardian angel, you’ll have to make do with your maid.”
Working with her usual quiet efficiency, Alice marshaled her forces and soon had a tub set up behind the lacquered bathing screen.
Stripping off her chilled garments, Kate lowered herself into the lavender-scented water with a blissful sigh.
“I’ll see about the tea,” said Alice, tactfully withdrawing from the room.
Taking up a bar of soap, Kate set to scrubbing away the mud, intent on submerging all thoughts about Marco and their lovemaking, at least for the moment.
Hell, she was immersed in enough problems without worrying about that.
Despite her resolve, her chin slipped down into the suds and a watery sigh escaped from her lips. Drawing her knees up, she hugged them to her chest. The water stirred, and for an instant she caught a reflection of her face.
In the eyes of Polite Society, she had sunk beneath reproach, not that she gave a fig for the opinion of such pompous prigs. Yet for some reason, she felt tears welling up, and wasn’t quite sure why.
How silly, really. Kate blinked. She was an experienced woman of the world. There was nothing shameful about admitting that she enjoyed the act of physical intimacy with a man. To put it bluntly, she found sex a pleasurable experience.
Did that make her evil or depraved?
Marco didn’t seem too disgusted by her wanton behavior. In truth, he was awfully open-minded on the subject. Most men were hypocrites, refusing to extend their libertine notions to the opposite sex. Marco, on the other hand, cheerfully conceded his own shortcomings…
Not that ‘short’ or ‘small’ was in any way a fitting description of his person. He was, in a word, magnificent. An ethereally beautiful man, oozing with a rampant masculinity.
Closing her eyes, Kate blew out another bubbly sigh and let the heat soak into her. Broad shoulders. Lean waist. Corded thighs. Long legs. And all those intriguing textures and contours of male muscles. Thinking of the touch and feel of him, she felt a lurch in her belly that slowly spiraled down and became an ache between her legs. She was a little sore, but strangely enough, the overpowering sensation was one of emptiness. As if something essential was missing from her core.
Tendrils of steam rose up from the water, curling against her damp cheeks. What would it be like to share his bed every night?
Kate shook off the fantasy with a rueful grimace. Assuming Marco had a home—and a bed—to call his own, it was doubtful that he spent any time there. He was too restless, too bored with convention to live a predictable life. A man of his nature would never be satisfied with settling down.
What did he want? she wondered. She considered herself adept at reading men, but Marco was impossible to decipher. His expression was impenetrable, his eyes enigmatic. Sometimes she thought she saw a quicksilver flash of longing, but maybe she was just looking through her own prism of experience.
Perhaps she should ask Alessandra about his past life. His past loves. Had he suffered some crushing disappointment in his youth?
No, decided Kate, running the soft sponge back and forth