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setting her gently on the floor. “It’s no trouble.”
    Vivien emerged from the privy a few minutes later, clearly surprised to find him still there. She seemed no bigger than a child, dressed in his shirt with the sleeves rolled back several times and the tail reaching below her knees. Her gaze lifted to his, and she returned his friendly smile with an abashed one of her own.
    “Better?” he asked.
    “Yes, thank you.”
    He extended a hand to her. “Let me help you back to bed.”
    She hesitated before hobbling forward. Carefully Grant reached around her slender body, hooking one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees. Although he lifted her with extreme gentleness, mindful of her injuries, Vivien gasped as hebrought her against his chest. Of all the women he had held in his arms, none had ever possessed such lush, exquisite delicacy. Her bones were slender, but her flesh was pliant, voluptuous, utterly desirable.
    Returning to the bedroom, Grant eased Vivien onto the mattress, fumbling to arrange a stack of pillows behind her. She tugged the blankets upward, bringing them high over her chest. In spite of her bedraggled condition, or perhaps because of it, he was struck again with the disconcerting urge to cuddle and caress her. He, who was known for possessing a heart of granite, or some similarly impermeable substance. “Are you hungry?” he asked gruffly.
    “Not really.”
    “When the housekeeper brings a tray, I want you to eat something.”
    For some reason his tone of command made her smile. “I’ll try.”
    Grant stood frozen in place by her smile…lucent and warm, a flash of magic that illuminated her delicate face. It was so unlike the self-absorbed woman he had met at Wentworth’s ball that he wondered briefly if she was the same person at all. Yet she was, unmistakably, Vivien.
    “Grant,” she said hesitantly. “Please, would you bring a looking glass?” She pressed her hands to her cheeks in a self-conscious gesture. “I don’t know what I look like.”
    Somehow managing to tear his gaze away from her, Grant went to the gentleman’s cabinet in the corner of the room. He rummaged through the narrowdrawers and located a wooden nécessaire covered in leather. The case was designed to hold scissors, files, and grooming items, the lid fitted with a rectangular looking glass inside. Returning to the bedside, Grant opened the nécessaire and gave it to her.
    Vivien tried to hold the case near her face, but her hands still trembled violently from her experience of the previous evening. Grant reached over and steadied the nécessaire as she viewed her reflection. Her hands were very cold beneath his, the fingers stiff and bloodless. Her eyes widened, and she barely seemed to breathe.
    “How strange,” she said, “not to recognize one’s own face.”
    “You have no cause for complaint,” Grant said huskily. Even bruised and pale and ravaged, her face was incomparable.
    “Do you think so?” She stared into the looking glass without a trace of the self-satisfaction she had displayed at the ball. That Vivien had had no doubt of her many attractions. This woman was far less confident.
    “Everyone thinks so. You’re known as one of the great beauties of London.”
    “I don’t see why.” Catching his skeptical expression, she added, “Truly, I’m not fishing for compliments, it just…seems a very ordinary face.” She produced a comical, clownish expression, like a child experimenting with her reflection. A shaken laugh escaped her. “It doesn’t seem to belong to me.” Her eyes glittered like sapphires, and he realizedwith a flare of alarm that she was going to cry.
    “Don’t,” he muttered. “I told you last night how I feel about crying.”
    “Yes…you can’t stand a woman’s tears.” She wiped her wet eyes with her fingers. A wobbly smile touched her lips. “I didn’t think a Bow Street Runner would be so sensitive.”
    “Sensitive,” Grant repeated