Quite unlike the simpering fops she’d known before the fall, and the lords she’d met since she’d come to London to serve as companion to her friend Violet, men meekly sipping tea in garish drawing rooms or creaking through the steps of a reel at a soiree, reeking of sweat. The Duke of Moncrieff looked like he belonged on the moors, standing atop a craggy tor with his hands fisted on his hips, hair rippling out in the harsh wind as he glared down upon a fierce battle.
But she was probably being fanciful.
She was certainly being idiotic. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the Dark Duke. Aye, even in Scotland his exploits were legend. The man would seduce a goat if it so much as fluttered an eyelash.
Still, the fact that he had tried to seduce her sent a thrill straight through to her womb.
It really shouldn’t. She knew better, or hoped she did.
Men like him seduced women for fun. They enjoyed the hunt, the chase, the conquest. The bragging rights. And the women were left with nothing but tatters of a life.
She would do well to avoid him in future.
She snorted with exasperation. Damn and blast him for being in that study. And why hadn’t she thought to find a book at a decent hour? When there were people around? Like footmen? And maids?
And why on earth had she told him of her shame? He’d called her an innocent and she’d opened her mouth and the truth had just fallen out.
That was probably why he’d tried to kiss her. No other reason. But then, men needed no other reason. Simply the knowledge that a woman was no longer chaste.
Experience had taught her that.
Damn Dougal McDonald. Damn him to hell.
And herself with him.
As they said, it took two.
It was astounding how quickly one could ruin a reputation. And how impossible it was to earn back. And how aggravating the consequences—
She turned the corner and stopped short. Growled under her breath. A profanity, perhaps.
Malcolm Wyeth lounged against the wall by her door. When he saw her, he straightened. Sent her a libidinous smile. At least, she supposed he was trying forlibidinous.
He often did.
At sixteen, Violet’s younger brother was lean and lanky. He was a handsome lad—had much the aspect of his cousin, the Dark Duke, about him—but he was a boy. The disparity between the two was as vast as the difference between the sun and the moon.
Also, Malcolm was a pest.
“There you are, Kate.”
“What are you doing here, Malcolm?”
He put out a lip. “What do you mean, darling? I came to see you.”
She quirked a brow. “In the middle of the night?”
“I was lonely. Where were you?”
She didn’t answer. It was none of his business. She was none of his business.
He glanced at the book. “Ah. To the library. I should have checked there first. You always were a bit of a bluestocking.”
She wasn’t. Not hardly. But she did like to read. That didn’t make her a drudge as his tone implied.
“Did you want something, Malcolm?” Blast. An unfortunate choice of words. She knew exactly what he wanted. He wasn’t going to get it. Not if she had anything to say about it.
His expression shifted. He stepped closer. Far too close. “As a matter of fact, I did.” His arm snaked around her waist and he tugged her against him, crushing her arm holding the book against his chest. Thank God for small barriers. He was hard and warm, but not in the way she liked. Bony and clammy was closer to the truth. “Give us a kiss, Kate,” he burbled. Whiskey wafted on his breath.
Blast. He was foxed.
Someone had been in the duke’s decanters. Deep in the duke’s decanters.
She hated to do it. Twice in one night. But his approaching lips, his hot breath and far too avid grip on her hips forced her to. She slipped her free hand into her pocket and pulled out her dirk.
He blanched as she prodded him with the blade. “Not again, Kate,” he whined. “Do you always carry that damned thing with you?”
“Always.” She gave him a nudge. “Now back away.”
“Kate…”
“Don’t call me that. Go on. Back away.” He did, but slowly. His muscles were tense, as though he would spring at any moment should she lower her defenses. She would not.
Holding him off with the slender knife, she edged to her door, opened it and slipped inside. Before he could lunge forward, she turned the lock. And just in time.
Wood shook as he slammed against it. She stepped back, praying it would hold.
Saints preserve her from drunk lads with horns.
They seemed to be everywhere.
As it was, Malcolm banged on her door and warbled at her to let him in until he woke Violet, whose suite was down the hall. Originally, Kaitlin had been housed in the servants’ quarters to keep up their pretense, but the late-night visits from Malcolm—and the occasional footman—began to annoy the staff. So Violet had moved her to this floor.