George took the smudged glass handed to him by his host. He drank, his eyes for the moment turned inward on his vengeance. He was a man in the grip of madness. The Duke of Redmayne had unleashed demons when he'd set out to subdue Sir George Ridge.

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The duke reined in his horses outside the house on Albermarle Street. Ted appeared as if by a wizard's conjuring, running down the steps lightly for such a big man. He'd heard the coachman's story, as had the rest of the household, and now glared at Juliana, as if personally insulted by her grim adventure.

"Take the horses, Ted." Tarquin sprang down, reaching up a hand to assist Juliana, then Lilly. He took Rosamund from Quentin so that his brother could alight unencumbered, then handed the still-limp figure back to Quentin and strode ahead of the party into the house.

"Catlett, summon the housekeeper and have these two young women escorted to a bedchamber. Send a maid to attend them. And ask Henny to come to Lady Edgecombe's apartment immediately."

"Oh, no!" Juliana exclaimed. "No… I have no need of Henny. She must look to Rosamund. Truly I can look after myself but Rosamund has need of expert care."

He took her hands, turning them palm up. "You can do nothing for yourself with your hands in this condition. If you won't have Henny, then / will attend to you."

"There's no need for you to trouble yourself, sir." Her voice was stiff. "I have no need of a nurse."

Impatience flared in his eyes. He drew a sharp breath and said. "You will have either Henny or myself to attend to you. Take your pick."

"You, then," she replied dully, seeing no option. Rosamund needed all Henny's skills.

"Very well." He nodded briefly, then turned back to Catlett. "I want a bath, hot water, salve, bandages, and lye soap taken up to Lady Edgecombe's apartment immediately… Quentin, you'll see the other two installed?"

"Of course."

"Come, Juliana." The duke took her wrist in a firm encircling grip and set foot on the stairs. Juliana followed him up willy-nilly.

Her bedchamber was filled with sunlight; the bowls of roses were replenished daily, and the air was heavy with their scent. The sight of the bed with its crisp, lavender-fragrant sheets, the downy invitation of the feather bed and plump pillows, drew her toward it as the nightmare images of Bridewell became smudged by the familiar comforts of home.

Home. This was home? It felt like home. Her own place. The duke's voice broke into her train of thought.

"Bed will have to wait, Juliana. There's no knowing what you might have picked up in that filthy hole. Vermin, infection…"

"Vermin?" Her hands flew to her tangled hair, her eyes widening in disgust. That was why he'd ordered lye.

"Stand still. I don't want to touch your clothes any more than I must, so I'm going to cut them off you." He went to the dresser for the pair of scissors Henny kept to make minor repairs or adjustments to Juliana's wardrobe.

Juliana stood rigid, shuddering with disgust. She remembered the woman Maggie touching her dress, tearing Rosamund's fichu, her gnarled, filthy, bleeding hands sullying as they clawed and fondled. A wave of nausea rose violent and abrupt in her throat. With an inarticulate mutter she pushed Tarquin aside as he approached with the scissors, and dived for the commode.

Tarquin put down the scissors and went over to her. His hand was warm on her neck, soothing as he rubbed her back. Distantly he realized that if anyone had told him a few weeks ago that he wouldn't think twice about ministering to a vomiting woman, he'd have laughed. But that was before Juliana had swept into his life.

"I beg your pardon," she gasped as the spasms ceased. "I don't know what came over me." She envied Rosamund Henny's calm, attentive presence. Vomiting in front of a man, even one's lover-especially one's lover-was a wretched mortification, and she cringed at the thought of what he must be thinking. But his hand on her back just then had been ineffably comforting.

"There's no need for pardon," Tarquin said gently, dampening a washcloth with water from the ewer. He wiped her mouth and brow, attentively matter-of-fact, and when she searched his face, she could see no inkling of his earlier rage. There was a rather puzzled frown in his eyes, but his mouth was relaxed. He tossed aside the cloth, picked up the scissors, and swiftly cut the laces of her bodice.

She was naked in a very few minutes, his hands moving with deft efficiency, cutting away her petticoats, her chemise, slicing through her garters. She rolled down her stockings herself, tossing them onto the heap of discarded clothing. Then she stood, awkward and uncertain, wishing for Henny, not knowing where to put her hands, wanting absurdly to cover herself with her hands, as if she'd never shared glorious intimacies with this man; as if he hadn't touched and probed every inch of her skin, every orifice of her body; as if his tongue hadn't tasted her essence; as if his hard, pursuing flesh hadn't taken and possessed her fragility; as if she hadn't, in yielding the ultimate secrets of her body, possessed his.

His gaze was not in the least desirous; in fact, he seemed to be going out of his way to be matter-of-fact about the whole business. But that made things all the more confusing. How she wanted Henny. A woman; a nursemaid. Someone whose attentions would be straightforward and uncomplicated, and she could receive them in the same way.

A bang at the door yanked her out of her reverie. She looked in panic at Tarquin, who merely handed her a wrapper and gestured toward the shadows of the bed curtains at the head of the bed. Juliana retreated, drawing the folds of the muslin wrapper tightly around her, listening as two footmen labored with a porcelain hip bath, copper jugs of steaming water; a maid followed with bandages, salve, the pungent lye soap, a heap of thick towels.

No one spoke. No one glanced toward Juliana's retreat. The duke remained perched on the windowsill, arms folded, watching the preparations. Then the entourage withdrew, the door was closed. Juliana stepped forward.

"I'll bandage your hands first." He poured hot water into the basin on the dresser.

"How can I wash myself with bandaged hands?" Juliana objected.

"You aren't going to, mignonne. I am doing the washing." A flickering smile played over his mouth, reminding her vividly of the last time they'd made love, when he'd looked down at her, looked into her very soul, with so much wonder and warmth. Where had his anger gone? Juliana was plunged anew into the chaos of bewilderment. What was he feeling?

He gestured to the dresser stool. "Sit down and give me your hands." As deft and gentle as an expert nurse, he bathed the raw strips of flesh, smoothed on salve, then wrapped around bandages, tearing the material at the ends to make a knot. He was as surprised as Juliana at this newfound skill, and his smile deepened with an unlooked for pleasure and satisfaction.

Juliana nibbled her bottom lip. "Were you concerned for me when you heard where I was?" The question was tentative, and it was only as she asked it that she realized she hadn't intended to.

"Sit in the tub," he responded. "Keep your hands well clear of the water."

"But were you?" she persisted, one foot raised to step into the hip bath. Suddenly the question was more important than any she'd ever asked.

"I wouldn't leave my worst enemy in such a place," he said flippantly. "Are you going to sit down of your own accord?"

Juliana hastily slipped into the water. It was not a satisfactory answer. She stared down at the water.

Tarquin caught her chin, bringing her face up. "I have never been more concerned in my life," he stated flatly, both expression and tone now devoid of flippancy. "You frightened the living daylights out of me, Juliana. And if you ever scare me like that again, I can safely promise that you will rue the day you were born."