Page 12 of A Sinful Virgin for the Duke

“Prepare a guest room,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Make sure she is comfortable but remember—this is a temporary arrangement. She will leave in the morning.”

The servant nodded and hurried off to fulfill the command.

Frederick glanced back at Gemma, now lying unconscious at his feet, and shook his head. How had this evening gone so utterly off course? He was used to being in control and matters running smoothly under his command. But this woman—this mysterious, infuriating woman—had turned everything upside down.

As he looked down at her pale face, a strange mix of frustration and curiosity gnawed at him.

Who was she?

CHAPTER 5

“Where am I?” Gemma whispered to herself.

She’d woken up stiff but warm. Now, she looked around the simple but comfortable room.

The walls were pale grey-on-grey damask and a rich navy Aubusson rug graced the floor. Turning her face, she pressed her nose into the clean, crisp linen sheets of the heavy bed.

Moving, she felt bandages looping across her back where the nuns had flagellated her with whips. She felt clean, her hair felt washed and even the dirt under her fingernails was gone.

“Have they bathed me?” she wondered, sitting up.

The shabby shift she had worn under her cloak had been replaced with a luminous blue nightgown. Whoever had brought her here had taken loving care of her. She could not be more grateful or more scared.

“You are awake, I see,” a woman entered the bedroom, her diminutive figure dressed in a heavy brown velvet. A pair of bright blue eyes latched onto Gemma.

The lady’s face was powdered and spidery fingers clutched a cane, as her brows inched upwards toward her fringed, beige turban.

“How are you, my dear? My name is Vivian Wyndham. I am Frederick’s grandmother, and I have come to see how you are faring.”

Gemma’s throat constricted and she clutched the bed sheets tightly, incapable of uttering a word. The lady smiled sympathetically as she folded her skirts and sat down in an armchair beside the bed.

“You are mute then?” the lady said. “Matters to me not, my dear. What does matter is firstly making sure you are healed and then determining a way to return you to wherever you came from, and?—”

“No! Please!” The agonized cry came out without forethought. “Please, Your Grace. I implore you, do not send me back there. I…I cannot go back there. If you do, they will never, ever, let me see the light of day again. Please! Please. I will do anything!”

The lady was unflappable. “You need not do a thing, my child. Doctor Somerson has documented your injuries and from what I am told, they are quite grievous. Where did you come from, dear? Who hurt you so terribly?”

Gemma dropped her head, afraid that whatever she said—if she said it—would not be well received. An unspoken culture of compliance existed within the convent. The silence of the severely abused girls guaranteed that no one would know about the torture that took place within its walls. Therefore, nothing was ever done about it.

Maybe it is time to change that.

Gemma lifted her head and swallowed nervously. “St. Catherine’s Convent, my lady.”

“Pardon?” the lady leaned in. “You whispered that dear and my hearing is not as it used to be.”

She cleared her throat, “I said, St Cath—” The door pushed open, and a man entered, the same one from last night. “—erine’s Convent, ma’am.”

“What?”

The man’s thunderous expression caused Gemma to spring backwards and strike her back on the headboard in fear. He slowly moved towards her, his gait like a panther’s as it stalked a rabbit.

“Whatdid you say?”

“Frederick, for heaven’s sake, you are scaring the poor girl to death,” the lady chided him. “Give her a moment to breathe so you don’t send her to an early grave.”

Pressed against the cold board, she noted the taut ridges of muscle that strained against his tailored waistcoat and trousers. The morning light cast shadows over the sculpted angles of his face. He had rescued her last night, so surely he was a good man.

“I am sorry,” he said more calmly. “But did you say St. Catherine’s?”

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