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declared, showing a flash of pride that he could have applauded. “I have no idea what to do when I wake up tomorrow.”
    “Go on about your life, Miss Hamilton.” He thought of all the times he had thought he could not bear to see the sunrise, the nights he thought he couldn’t stand to live another day. But he had.
    “My life is about marriage, Mr. Sharpe,” she whispered. “That is the direction of my every day.”
    He wanted to say that it still could be, but instead he said, “Then perhaps you should find a new direction for your life, Miss Hamilton.”
    Then he opened the door, checked the hallway, and watched her go.
     
    This was what she got for looking to a man to rescue her.
    Grace threw her crumpled satin gloves to the smooth counterpane covering her bed and she stalked to the bellpull to summon one of Lady Prudence’s maids. Unlike all the other women here, she could not afford to bring her own.
    A rich, earthy, unfamiliar scent touched her nose and she panicked. She released the tasseled rope before she gave the tug that might ring her death knell. She smelled of him.
    She could not be attended by a maid. Not when her dress was a wrinkled disaster, her hair was a mess, and she wore the undeniable smell of a man. But she could not take off her own gown and corset. And she needed washing water.
    Struggling with the buttons, she stalked to the ewer and basin. There was some left, cold, but it might be enough to rid her of this smell. She could sleep in her corset—well, not sleep, just wait for dawn—but there was still the matter of her dress.
    As she struggled with the buttons she could reach, then wriggled and jumped and grunted to get the dress off, Grace muttered aloud, “Lord Wesley is a lily-livered rodent who is not worthy of licking my boots. Horse droppings are more noble than he!”
    It might have been silly, but it made her feel better. And as she gave a final push and stepped out of her gown, she sighed with relief. She left her dress in a puddle on the floor, hoping that might explain away the wrinkles, then grimaced as she poured the last of the water into the basin.
    She supposed it was punishment for being a fool. She dampened the washcloth and shivered.
    Marriage was to be her salvation—it was the only way out—and now she’d thrown that away. As penance, she scrubbed herself hard with the cold washcloth.
    What was she to do? She had inherited none of her father’s talents, unlike Venetia who could paint and her sister Maryanne who was a gifted author. She was not in the least bit artistic, unless one counted a flair for throwing herself into dramatic disasters.
    Of all Rodesson’s daughters, she had inherited the most from their mother Olivia:—her blond hair, fine and pale but strong enough to curl and wave, and her mother’s famed features. Her eyes were green—like those of her infamous father. Gentlemen admired her figure, which she felt was too plump and generous. But the elderly matrons of Maidenswode, the ones who no longer bothered to watch their tongues, insisted that men were attracted to a generous bosom. Her breasts were apparently worth their weight in gold.
    Certainly Lord Wesley had admired her breasts. Apparently it was the only thing he wanted about her.
    “No.” Grace said it aloud, to make it more resolute, as she rinsed the cloth. “I have to move forward. I need to decide what I can do. There is still marriage after all. I could marry an older gentleman. There’s any number of older wealthy peers who would like my breasts, I’m sure—”
    “Sweetheart, you do not have to sell yourself that way.”
    Startled by the familiar male growl, she turned to the door, suddenly tense, aware, uncertain—yet liking the thrilling mix of sensations. “I locked that.”
    Mr. Sharpe shrugged. “Indeed, you did.”
    “Do you make a habit of breaking into women’s—” She paused, aware of the heat in her cheeks, aware she wore only her corset and shift. Of