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Becky.” His leisurely stare moved over her. “My my, dimples and all.”
    She blushed, but then he shook his head and sternly took her to task. “This isn’t Yorkshire,
ma cherie.
You cannot proceed this way in Town. You could get hurt. Badly.”
    He did not know the half of it.
    “I’m not afraid,” she vaunted; a knee-jerk reaction, in truth, for of course it was a lie. She supposed such bravado was deeply ingrained in her from a lifetime of having to prove herself.
    He smiled knowingly. Drifting closer, he casually placed one well-groomed hand on the side of her candle-snuffer. She failed to protest, mesmerized momentarily by his elegant fingers’ deft caress along the smooth wood.
    He probably had an expert valet who buffed his nails for him in a monthly gentleman’s manicure, she thought. Hypnotic hands.
    His nearness made her strangely weak. She could do nothing, enthralled by his glittering gaze and strong, sensitive hands; he took her weapon gently out of her grasp and set it back in its holder, easily disarming her—in more ways than one.
    “That’s better,” he whispered. “Now we can be friends.”
    When he turned to her again, she stared at him uncertainly, filled with an odd longing to put herself in his beautiful hands.
Help,
she thought.
Please help me.
    He reached out and with a bold, slow, seductive caress, traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip. She quivered; the response surely amused him.
    “So what do you think of our fair metropolis, after a full eight hours on London soil?” he inquired casually.
    “Honestly?” At his encouraging nod, her confession tumbled from her lips. “It’s horrid,” she wrenched out, her voice breaking to a wretched whisper, her chin starting to tremble. “I hate it with all my heart.”
    Her vehemence clearly startled him, but then he furrowed his brow and drew her closer. “Oh, darling, no. Shh, there. Don’t cry.” He put his arms around her, soothing her with his whispers; she stood there numbly for a moment, neither moving closer nor pulling away.
    The contact routed her defenses, taking her greatly off guard. It had been so long since anyone had held her. Years. That thought alone made her want to cry. She closed her eyes.
    “Shh,” he whispered.
    She did not know him, but she was so weary, and the delicious strength that she felt in his arms and muscled body as he embraced her, invited her to rest against him.
Safety.
When he bent and kissed her brow, she simply melted, leaning her forehead against his lips, half asleep on her feet.
    “Becky, my sweet.” His mouth skimmed her hairline and then he whispered, “Shall I take you home?”
    “I can’t go home,” she said miserably, exhaustion and his kindness making her eyes well up with tears. She shut her eyes more tightly, not wanting him to see.
    “So, it’s like that,” he answered thoughtfully, drawing what conclusions, heaven only knew. When he spoke again, his tone was mild, his breath warm against her brow, a sophisticated murmur. “Actually, you see, I meant . . . to my place.”
    Oh, God.
He thought she was a harlot and was now genuinely propositioning her for the night. “Sir, I really don’t think—”
    “Look at me.” He tipped her chin up with his fingertips, and when he stared evenly into her eyes, the world disappeared. “I’m not going to hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”
    She nodded slowly.
    He wiped the single tear off her cheek, which had escaped her willful effort not to cry. “I understand better than you know, believe me. I can guess how it all played out. Some heartless cad back in Yorkshire had his way with you.” As he spoke, he slowly rubbed away the smudge of dirt on her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Your parents threw you out. It probably wasn’t even your fault. Now you’re alone. You’ve got nothing, no one.”
    Tears threatened afresh at his last words, because those, at least, were true. Unbearably so.
    He shook his head with