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wounds were apt to do.
    All of these things flitted through his mind even as he watched the intrepid Miss Ophelia Dauntry begin to crumple.
    Then he did what any gentleman worth his salt would do.
    He caught her.

 
    Three
    Ophelia returned to awareness slowly. Inhaling the delicious scent of bay rum, she snuggled in a moment before she realized there was something very wrong with this situation.
    Her memory of that morning’s contretemps came flooding back, and just as her eyes flew open she realized she was clasped against a hard, sweaty, male chest.
    Desperate to get away, she cried out, “No!” and shoved both hands against her captor. Recalling a lesson in fighting off an attacker from a male cousin, she twisted in the hopes of getting her legs low enough to kick him in between the legs, but the man who held her proved too strong.
    â€œBe still,” he said, wrestling to regain control of her. “Miss Dauntry, be still.”
    The voice was familiar to her, but in her frenzy to get away, the speaker’s identity did not dawn on her. Knowing that if she did as he asked she would likely be taken away to the madhouse just as her friend had been, she raked her fingernails over his exposed neck and was rewarded by a curse.
    â€œDamn it, you hellcat, will you stop?”
    And unfortunately, that was when she realized to whom the voice belonged.
    The Duke of Trent, who she was unhappy to see was glaring down at her even as he carried her through an opulent drawing room.
    â€œYes,” he said, as if in response to her silent question. “It’s me. Trent.”
    Before she could apologize he lowered her to an overstuffed settee and stepped back, his hands on his hips as he surveyed her from head to toe.
    And she took the opportunity to look back.
    The duke was not dressed for company that was of a certainty.
    He was in his shirtsleeves, and he wore buckskin breeches but no boots. It was obvious he’d been engaging in some sort of exertions for his dark hair, which he kept shorter than was fashionable, was glistening with sweat. Ophelia had always thought him to be an intimidating man, but she’d never guessed just how much more so he would be in dishabille. Through the fine lawn of his shirt she was able to see the contours of his muscled chest and the hard strength of his arms.
    She felt a blush rise in her cheeks at the memory of being clasped in those arms.
    But a glance at his angry gray eyes was enough to banish the memory.
    â€œHere,” he said curtly, handing her a pristine white handkerchief. “Your head is still bleeding. It is likely the reason you fainted.”
    At the mention of it, her wound suddenly began to sting like fire. Wordlessly she took the cloth from his hands and raised it where she could feel the trickle of blood.
    â€œMay I?” he asked quietly, indicating that he would like to approach her.
    Mortified at her behavior earlier, Ophelia nodded and sat quietly while he examined the cut.
    She had known coming to Trent for help would be difficult but it hadn’t occurred to her that she’d so thoroughly manage to embarrass herself.
    â€œI don’t think you’ll need stitches,” he said curtly, his face uncomfortably close to hers, “but it definitely needs to be cleaned. I’ll have someone send for the doctor.”
    His mention of the doctor brought her out of her momentary fog.
    â€œNo,” she said quickly, recalling her purpose in coming here. “We don’t have time. And besides, I came here for answers. Not medical treatment.”
    But she made no move to rise, because even as she said the words she knew that she was in no condition to do so. Her legs were shaky and she wasn’t even standing on them yet.
    Trent dropped to a crouch beside the sofa, and as if he sensed her despondency, he gentled his voice. “What in the dev … heavens happened to you? Were you in an accident? Did someone