By Love Unveiled by Deborah Martin

interest in his eyes. The attention he gave her mask sent alarm whirling through her body.
    “Please unhand me, my lord,” she said quietly.
    He did as she asked but made no move to let her pass.
    “What I did, I’d do for anyone,” she went on. How she wished she’d listened to her aunt and had stayed away from Falkham House. “I’ve already refused your gold, so nothing else remains to be said.”
    “But I’ve something better to offer than mere coin. There’s a London physician named Milburn, with a miraculous treatment for smallpox scars. He claims he can wipe them away so the skin is as soft and smooth as a babe’s. I’ll send you to him. ’Tis the least I can do for the woman who saved my leg, possibly my life.”
    She stared at him. Oh, Lord, her “horrible scars.” Perhaps Aunt Tamara’s explanation for her mask hadn’t been so brilliant after all.
    And why would he offer this? She had heard of Milburn. Her father had denounced the man as a charlatan, but some claimed to be helped by him. Milburn was most famous for treating the wealthy and always extracted large sums from his patients. Could Lord Falkham really intend to spend a fortune on Milburn’s “treatment” for a mere gypsy?
    She peered at him through her mask, noting how his eyes roved to her hands and then back to the silk covering her face. Could his offer simply be a trick to find out what lay beneath her disguise? Somehow she would have to refuse it without rousing his suspicions.
    “Thank you for the offer, but I’ve learned to live with my . . . er . . . unusual appearance. If this doctor failed to help me, I’d suffer far more than I have until now.”
    “Ah, but think what could come of it. If his treatmentworks, it might enable you to find a husband who’d care for you far better than your aunt can.”
    It took all her will not to move away and show her wariness of him. For he looked formidable indeed in the light that streamed through the open curtains, highlighting the broad, stern forehead and the chestnut brows drawn together in a deep frown.
    “I’ve already said I won’t accept your gift, my lord.” She had to escape him, curse it! “I’m pleased you’ve recovered fully, but I won’t be forced to endure the probing of strangers for naught when I can scarce endure the sight of my hideous face myself. My scars are too deep for any mere potion to heal.”
    She didn’t realize how she’d erred until he lifted his hand to the hood of her cloak.
    “Let me see your ‘hideous face’ for myself before you refuse my help,” he bit out, pushing back the hood and yanking the ties of her mask loose. “If what you say is true, you may leave this house without another word.”
    “No!” she protested, but he was already lifting away the mask . . .

Chapter Four
    No beauty she doth miss
    When all her robes are on;
    But beauty’s self she is
    When all her robes are gone.
    —Anonymous madrigal
    G arett hadn’t been certain what he’d find when he removed the gypsy girl’s mask. He’d half expected the scarred maiden she professed to be.
    But the sight that now greeted him stunned him. Two warm hazel eyes widened in alarm in a face as arresting as it was unblemished. Not only had she no scars but her skin was a light golden color—not the dark olive of a gypsy, yet not the pale cream of a sheltered lady, either.
    As his gaze roamed her delicate-boned face, her peach-tinged lips parted in shock. He fixed automatically on the sweet mouth, so finely drawn. He could well believe her father had been nobility. Yet he glimpsed in the stubborn set of her chin and the wild glint in her eyes that she didn’t always follow a lady’s rules.
    Hers was a face designed by nature to intrigue, entice . . . tempt. With him it succeeded.
    In the past few years, he’d thought only of his revenge and his return to England. Except for the occasional doxy for a night’s pleasure, women hadn’t had a place in that. But for