Free Lady in Red by Máire Claremont Page A

cold water on her during her monthly bath. They’d forced her into nakedness. They’d jeered and taunted and pinched.
    But she somehow knew he must have brought an odd gentleness to it, as he had with everything. The strangest, most traitorous question whispered through her mind. Did he like what he saw?
    Even more confusing, she hoped that he had. That minuscule hope defied all reason and certainly all sense, given her previous experience with men. It was the first time she could recall longing, even if in secret, to be desired.
    A dry smile twisted her lips at the wondrous, dangerous realization. How could he have seen beauty in the creature he now knew her to be? She was physical and emotional wreckage. Hardly the type of woman someone like His Grace should find appealing.
    She dragged the top sheet from the bed and lowered her feet to the floor. Tucking the folds of the luxurious fabric about her frame, Mary walked to the curtained windows, her bare toes pressing into the plush rug. She pulled back the heavy champagne brocade and stared out through the tall, rain-speckled windowpanes.
    Gray light illuminated the gated park that sprawled in front of the mansion. The morning light was so dim, the scattered evergreens appeared oily instead of bright green.
    Another heavy gray day of winter pressed in on her from the other side of that glass, but she didn’t mind. The clouds and their pinpricks of rain could do nothing to her. There were more oppressive forces in the world. She knew that well now.
    The creak of steps in the hallway sent a shiver down her back, an instinct of anticipatory fear that had taken root in the asylum and would never let go. Not now. Not ever. She whipped toward the door.
    The heavy panel swung open and the duke peered in.
    She wrapped the sheet more firmly about her frame and lifted her chin, determined not to let him know just how full of fear and self-recrimination she was. He had to see her as still worthy of his help. He must, if she was ever to be free of hell. “I am awake, Your Grace.”
    He opened the door wider and stepped in, a perfect black silhouette. Lord, he was devilish male perfection. His black morning coat clung to his broad shoulders and muscled arms in tailored excellence. The lines emphasized his strong waist and long legs. Even the black cravat tied above a black brocade waistcoat seemed to emphasize the edge of danger that exuded from his large frame.
    As soon as he discerned her at the window, he stopped. In one slow, unending glance, his eyes traced from her bare feet to the folds of the sheet skimming over her hips to her breasts, then over her naked shoulders. It was a caress, with no direct hint of sex. It was simply there. The heat of his gaze and the appreciation of her form was a simple fact shown in the way his face tightened and the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes.
    Her own heartbeat increased, pulsing at her throat, making her body seem suddenly alive in a way she had never known nor now understood.
    He raised a black brow. “Are you better in body?”
    She blinked. “In body?”
    Sympathy warmed his hard features. “I assume your spirits are still significantly bruised.”
    She opened her mouth to deny it, but couldn’t. The lie wouldn’t form. “How do you know what I may or may not feel?”
    He gave the barest shrug, a movement that stretched the fine English tailoring of his coat. “I have had my fair share of mornings bathed in shame. It is not a pleasant feeling, but one survives.”
    Survive? How much more did she need to survive? “You no longer experience shame?”
    “I do not.”
    She eyed him, wondering whether indeed such a thing could be achieved. And if she could achieve it, would she choose to live so? “How fortunate for you.”
    “It makes things simpler.” He took one slow step forward, testing the ground between them. “Society’s instruction in morality is what makes you feel as you do now.”
    “You have unlearned such