Mortified, I quickly sweep my voluminous skirts over the sketches and pretend nothing untoward has transpired. At any other time I might find Lord Drakesheath's discomfiture endearing and secretly amusing. Not so today, not after seeing his renderings of me in those poses.

He has defiled me in a way that even Willem could not by breaching my privacy and my trust. How could he? Lord Drakesheath is a cad! I wish to shout to the heavens. Good breeding forbids me to speak.

Frozen to the spot, I rely upon the discretion of Drakesheath and his cousin, the dear Lady Dalbeath, to remove themselves from my presence. My heart races and my cheeks burn with shame, yet I stand regal, waiting for someone to do something. I dare not say a word lest I betray the indignation welling up inside me like a volcano about to erupt. How fortunate for him my pistol and wooden stakes are not at hand.

As these dark, twisted manor walls are my witness, when this sordid little scenario is over, I shall leave Drakesheath and never return. Not that a man of his character should care one wit about such "trifles."