Fiona tiptoed about the silent hallway of the Duke's family wing, holding the candelabra before her to illuminate her path.

"This has to be the most harebrained idea to have ever struck you, Fiona Butterworth," she whispered to herself. "Oh wonderful, now I'm talking to myself."

She let out a little "eep" when her hip banged against a large porcelain vase. It tilted this was and that before it teetered over to the left.

"Oh no you don't," Fiona gasped and practically threw herself down to keep it from falling.

She let out a sigh of relief when it landed solidly on her hand. She would throw herself into the cold waters of the Thames before she let herself be responsible for the destruction of another article in the Duke's household. She had three vases and one sculpture on her conscience as such. Who needed so many vases anyway?

She tried to get up, but in her haste one of the candles had broken and her sudden movement caused it to fall on her hand—flame and all.

"Goddamnit," she cursed loudly and then shook off her hand. This had to be bad omen of some sort—almost breaking a precious vase and burning one's hand in one night usually was.

But it was too late for second thoughts, she thought to herself as she set the vase straight and got up. Fiona dusted her clothes with her free hand, ignoring the burning in her right hand.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," she huffed and resumed making her way towards the Duke's chambers.

And then she was standing outside the grand door. She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts and raised her hand to knock.

Was this wise?

Of course it wasn't, she thought with a snort.

But she had to do it. For the duchess.

It was the least she could do after the woman had been so kind to her and make her position a permanent one.

She knocked thrice before she could change her mind.

In about five seconds, the door swung open—to reveal the Duke himself(who else was she expecting?), the usual scowl in place.

Nate was silent as he looked at the woman standing outside his door.

Surely he had to be dreaming? Surely the woman had to have some sense to not knock at an unmarried gentleman's door at this ungodly hour—with her hair unbound?

"Your grace?" came her very real voice. Of course he was not so lucky for this to have been a mere dream.

He looked behind her to make sure no one had seen her and pulled her inside before shutting the door behind her.

"Have you lost your mind?" he barked, not bothering to sound civilised. She didn't deserve it—this mad woman.

"I know what this looks like, but I am only here to talk," she said stoutly, even as a blush stained her cheeks and her eyes hesitantly scanned his torso.

His unclothed torso. Bloody hell.

"And you couldn't wait until—I don't know, say a more decent hour of the day?" he snapped, tugging on his shirt.

"Of course I considered the possibility. But you see, I heard from the servants that you would be leaving to town by dawn tomorrow. And I didn't know when you'd return. After you return, you will be busy with the preparations for your house party and then the house party will begin and you know how those last forever. Also—"

"Enough," he roared.

"—this is matter of utmost importance and hence cannot wait," she finished anyway, although she did look uncertain now.

Good.

Nate gulped in two long breaths. He wasn't being a bear unreasonably. He had reasons—three very reasonable reasons. One, there was a very delectable female in his bed chamber in the middle of the night. Two, he was attracted to said female—there was no denying that anymore. And three, just the sight of her with her hair flowing down to her waist and her trembling mouth made him want to throw her onto his bed and have his wicked way with her. Especially after he'd spent the better part of the day fantasising about that very mouth.

She causally moved towards the fireplace, which was on the opposite side of door—obviously to make sure he didn't throw her out.

But faced with the options of throwing her out or kissing her senseless, the former seemed the wisest.

"I will speak to you after my return and not before that, Miss Butterworth. So get out of my chamber," he growled.

She flinched but straightened.

"I apologise for inconveniencing you, your grace. But this conversation will take place now," she said haughtily.

Did she not have the fear of god in her?

Nate lunged at her and caught her hand, ready to bodily drag her out but her yelp caught him. It wasn't one of surprise, it was one of pain. He wasn't even holding her in a painful grip...

He swung around and released her hand. Her lips were pursed as if she were in pain and here eyes were squeezed shut. She clutched the hand he'd just seized in her own as it trembled and swore.

"What's wrong?" he asked gruffly.

"It's nothing, your grace. Now if you would just listen to me, you'd—"

"What happened to your hand?" he strode up to her and tenderly lifted the hand she'd been nursing. He turned her towards the fire so he could see more clearly.

There was a red patch of about one inch diameter on the back of her palm.

"You burnt yourself?" he asked as he made her sit on a chair.

"Just now," she nodded hesitantly.

"How?" he asked as he moved towards the bed stand where a jug of clean water rested. He picked it up and poured the contents into a bowl before bringing it to her.

"I accidentally dropped a candle on it. I think it was the hot wax more than the flame," she mumbled as he carefully dipped her hand into the bowl.

"You ought to be more careful," he chastised her, not liking the pinched look on her face.

"Are you sure your father was a vicar?" he asked to take her mind off her pain.

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"Well, from the way you swear, I thought he might've been a sailor."

"I have my Nana to thank for that," she snorted.

Nate wanted to ask more but he refrained.

He got up again and brought an ointment this time. He held her palm in his and carefully applied it on her wound. "I don't have any bandages here, I'm afraid."

Her only response was her shallow breathing. Nate looked up to see that it was not pain that caused it—but something else. Something that quickened his pulse.

He was about to lean in but then caught himself. This wouldn't do.

He got up from where he'd been kneeling on the floor and took a seat opposite her.

"Now about that important conversation of yours..."

****************

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