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struggled. The young man’s hand in her hair twisted pain through her scalp. His mouth was brutal and unyielding. This was nothing like the viscount’s kisses of the night before. He’d been bruising, yes, but also teasing and playful. This man exuded anger and cared nothing for her struggling beneath him.
    With a suddenness that sent her stumbling, he broke the kiss.
    The duke was hurrying toward them, his eyes wide with shock. From the vestibule, she heard Lord Hildebrand’s voice. “Here, you—”
    The viscount strode toward them, his face thunderous. The bespectacled man saw him coming, his eyes widening. He whirled and managed to run a few steps before the viscount’s large hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around. The bespectacled man’s alarmed look faded.
    His lips twisted into a wry smile just before the viscount balled up his huge fist and punched him full in the face.
    Grayson strode down Bond Street, Lieutenant Jacobs at his side, bound for Piccadilly and the Majestic Hotel. Anger poured from him in waves. He was surprised it did not wash everyone away down Bond Street.
    Henderson had fled in his phaeton, but Grayson had been far too furious to wait for a horse or carriage to be prepared. He had fetched Jacobs and departed on foot in pursuit, knowing where Henderson would go.
    Oliver had bandaged up Jacobs’s side the night before, and though Jacobs had moaned a bit, he would live. The cut had not been deep. Mrs. Alastair’s cook had proved competent in helping Oliver stitch and bandage, and Oliver had been pleased to have the help of such a willing nurse. Not that he said as much—he never would—but he had worn the faintest of smiles.
    All of Mrs. Alastair’s servants seemed to have seeped into Grayson’s house. The lad Jeffrey had taken one look at Jacobs’ wound and toppled full-length to the uncarpeted dining room floor. The twin maids, Annie and Amy—at first Grayson had thought he was seeing double—had come running in with a watchman who looked as if he were still in school. Grayson had dismissed the lad. It was hardly fair to send a young and smoothfaced boy after James Ardmore. A prim-faced lady’s maid, who said her name was Alice, came after that to fetch the other servants home.
    Grayson’s rage boiled hotter. He knew damned well who had sent Henderson to perform his little trick this afternoon. He ground his teeth and wished for the cold steel of a cutlass and a pistol in his belt. But this wasmodern London, and the Majestic Hotel might object to having a lieutenant sliced in half on its drawing room carpet.
    But James Ardmore and his band must not be allowed near that beautiful, beautiful woman. She was not a dockside whore or an upper-class courtesan used to dealing with two captains whose exploits had become legendary. She knew nothing about legends. She was a lady, a true lady—one with spun-silk hair and brown-green eyes clear as watercolor. She would be crushed by Ardmore’s games.
    God certainly must have a sense of humor. When Grayson had had nothing to live for, he’d all the time in the world. Six months before, his life had stretched, bleak and empty, before him. And then he had discovered the existence of Maggie, the daughter he hadn’t known he’d had. And now, now , he had found the enchanting and heart-stoppingly beautiful Mrs. Alastair, right next door. A lady who tasted like cool wine on a hot summer day. Who looked at him with eyes he could drown in.
    Maggie had begun nudging to life the man buried deep inside the notorious Captain Grayson Finley, terror of the Caribbean, scourge of the Pacific. Mrs. Alastair might just reach in and pull that man out kicking and screaming. But now, more than ever, Grayson had to keep that man buried.
    The Majestic was a fine Georgian building standing on Piccadilly across from the entrance to St. James’s Street. Once a ducal mansion, it had been converted by a butler into an elegant and expensive hotel. Which fit