LITMIR.BIZ

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and sore, as if she had been rubbing sand in them. What was wrong with her? Pushing herself upright, she opened her eyes, wincing as the room spun sickeningly. The ceiling was ornate, with rococo gilding on the cornicing. The bed hangings were green damask, as were the curtains. Tulip wood, she thought distractedly, running her trembling hands over the bedstead with its gilt carving. A dressing table set by the window was draped in white lace. The walls were painted a pale green and hung with a number of portraits. A white marble mantel upon which a large French clock sat, was carved with cupids.

      It was, or had been, an elegant room. As her senses slowly unscrambled Caro began to notice the shabbiness, the fine layer of dust which covered the furniture, the faded fabric, the musty air of neglect. Where was she?

      Breathing deeply to quell her rising panic, she threw back the sheets and stumbled over to the window, pushing open the casement. Fresh country air flooded in. She was clearly not in London, then. Outside, it was dusk. There was a paddock. Gardens. Woods. And in the distance, the chimney pots of another house. A very familiar house. Oh, dear heavens, an extremely familiar house. Killellan Manor. Which meant that this house was...

      She looked around her in consternation. She pinched her hand, something she’d always thought people did only in novels. It hurt, but she didn’t wake up because she wasn’t asleep. She really was here, in Crag Hall. Appalled, she tottered back to sit on the edge of the bed. How did she get here? Frowning hard, her head aching with the effort to concentrate, she tried to recall. Her memory came back in flashes. Her father shouting, then coldly formal. Her storm of tears followed by an urgent need to forget, to obliterate it all, just for a moment.

      Who had told her of the room in Augustus St John Marne’s house? It didn’t matter. She remembered it now, the sweet smell, the bitter taste, and then the dreams. A great bear with yellow teeth and malevolent eyes. A fish with bleeding scales. An endless corridor with door upon door which led to a sheer drop. She had fallen and fallen and fallen and not once landed. Dreams. Nightmares. Visions. But how had she come to be here?

      A tap on the door made her clutch foolishly at the bedcover, pulling it up over her nightgown. Her nightgown. Had someone then packed her clothes? And who had dressed her? She watched the door open with a heart which beat far too fast and a growing sense of dread.

      ‘You’re awake.’

      Her heart plummeted. Sebastian hovered on the threshold. Caro froze, terrified to move lest her emotions boil over. She mustn’t cry, she must not cry. His frown was deeper than she remembered, and the shadows under his eyes were darker. He looked older. Sadder? No, but not happy either. Which was no concern of hers. She must remember the last time they had spoken, how disillusioned she had been, how hurtful he had been.

      ‘You said you never wanted to see me again,’ she said, opting for attack to cover her mortification and confusion, ‘so what am I doing here?’

      He flinched, and she could not blame him for her voice sounded much more aggressive than she had intended, but she had to keep hold, she had to keep sufficient control of herself to get out of here. ‘The last thing I remember is Augustus St John Marne’s party.’

      Sebastian closed the door and leaned against it. He was wearing riding breeches and top boots, a shirt, open at the neck. He was tanned. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. She had forgotten that way he had, of making her feel as if he could read her mind.

      ‘If I hadn’t stumbled across you there and rescued you, it would most likely have been the last thing you ever remembered. Or perhaps that was your intention,’ he said.

      ‘Of course not!’

      ‘You came pretty close, Caro.’

      ‘Nonsense.’ She swallowed uncertainly. Her throat was sore. An image of herself, retching into a bowl, popped into her head, making her face flame. ‘I am sure you exaggerate.’

      Sebastian shook his head decisively. ‘If the doctor hadn’t given you a purge, I doubt you’d still be with us.’

      Which answered that question, Caro thought, now thoroughly mortified. ‘How long have I been here? And more to the point, why am I here? I’d have thought I’d be the last person you’d want to keep company with, after our last meeting. In fact, even more to the point, where are my clothes? I suppose I should thank you for rescuing me, not that I believe I needed rescuing, but I am perfectly fine now, and will relieve you of my presence just as soon as I am dressed.’

      She jumped to her feet, staggering as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Sebastian strode across the room, catching her before she fell. ‘Dammit, Caro, you have been at death’s door.’

      How could she have forgotten how solid he was? And how quickly he could move. He smelled of fresh linen and soap and outdoors, hay and horse and freshly turned soil. She had an overwhelming urge to cry, and fought it by struggling to free herself. Not that she had to fight very hard. He let her go immediately. As if he could not bear to touch her. Caro sniffed. ‘Was I really so close to...’

      Sebastian nodded.

      She sniffed harder. ‘I truly did not mean to—you must not think it was deliberate. It was just—I was just...’ Her voice trembled. She took a shaky breath. ‘I merely wished to blot everything out. Just for a while. I don’t suppose you understand that, but...’

      ‘Oblivion. I understand that need very well. As I think you remember,’ Sebastian said curtly.

      Oblivion. It was Caro’s turn to flinch. ‘I should go.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

      ‘Sebastian, I know you don’t want me here.’ She tried to push past him, though where she thought she was going dressed only in her nightgown, she had no idea. He caught her, pulling her firmly up against him. Heat of a very different sort flooded her, taking her aback, as her breasts were crushed against his chest.

      For the briefest of seconds, she saw the same heat reflected in his eyes, then he blinked, his face set and he released her, taking up a post at the window, as far away from her as the room would allow, she noted without surprise. ‘May I ask where you plan to go?’ he asked.

      Caro shrugged. ‘Back to my lodgings, where else?’

      ‘I took you there from St John Marne’s. I couldn’t believe it when I discovered you don’t even have a maid. I paid that vulture of a landlady to watch over you once the doctor had given you a purge, and when I came back the next morning she was nowhere to be seen. Your trunk was packed. She left me a note requesting me to leave the key in the lock.’

      It hurt, more than it should, for she should be accustomed to being an outcast by now. ‘One more place where I am persona non grata,’ Caro said with a fair attempt at nonchalance. ‘There are plenty other landladies. I must assume, from your decision not to return me to the bosom of my loving family, that you are aware that I have been cast out?’

      ‘I heard that you and Rider had separated.’

      She felt her cheeks flame. ‘It is not like you to be so polite, Sebastian. I can tell from the way you hesitated that you have heard significantly more than that. You have not asked me how much of it is true.’

      ‘What difference would it make? Besides, whatever you may think of me, I am no hypocrite. My reputation is hardly snowy white.’

      She smiled faintly. ‘No, but it is different for a man.’ This was such an incontrovertible fact that he made no attempt to answer, for which she was strangely relieved. Whatever he had heard, he had not judged her. It was the smallest of consolations, but it was a balm nonetheless. ‘My father came to see me earlier on the day you found me at St John’s. He was just back from the Balkans. He was so angry that I, the one dutiful daughter he thought he had, should be the cause of such a dreadful scandal. It is ironic,’ Caro said with a twisted smile, ‘that of the five of us, I am the only one to have gone through with a match of his making, if one does not count Celia’s first marriage, and it is that very match which is now the subject of every scandal sheet in London. He told me—he said to me—he

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