The Duke and the Dressmaker (The St. James Series) by Keira Montclair

prevent him from coming back.
    Her thoughts jumped from one thing to the next. What should she do first? She needed to escape, but where? She sniffed the air, recalling she had vomited. She couldn’t go anywhere with vomit on her, nor could she live with his smell on her.
    She stripped off her dress then returned to the other room to wipe up the vomit on her floor. Tossing the soiled clothes in a sack, she retrieved clean clothes and threw them over the screen she dragged to the back room. She grabbed linen towels as well.
    Climbing into the tub, she shivered as the cold reached her skin. But it didn’t matter. She had to scrub off his smell. He had also touched her. Where had he touched her? She would have to scrub double hard there as well. Hadn’t he licked her again? But where? She couldn’t remember where. Think, think! She had to wash every bit of him off her. He had grabbed her hair, right? And touched her dress? But she had already thrown that out. She could never wear it again. Oh, her finger, he broke her finger. Obviously, her hands needed to be scrubbed, too. But how could she scrub when it would cause so much pain? Oh, the counter, she would have to clean the counter after she scrubbed herself. He had touched the coins on the counter.
    He had thrust his filthy paws into her hair. Maybe she should cut it. Or maybe washing it three times would do. Or perhaps five? She snatched the soap and began the ritual, fiercely scrubbing her body, groaning whenever she grazed the spots where he had kicked her. She had to remember every place he had touched her so she could wash extra. Thinking hard, she started with her chin, and the side of her face where he had licked her. Wait, she should probably cleanse that spot on her face again. His spit was on her. She rinsed the cloth. Well, perhaps one more time on her cheek just to be sure. She worked at it until her skin turned raw. That should do it.
    She scrubbed and scrubbed at the rest of her body, moaning in agony, disgusted by the memory of his touch. Dousing her head under water, she covered her hair with soap and lathered as hard as her one hand allowed. When she stopped, she grabbed the soap with her left hand and screamed in pain. In her frantic ritual, she’d almost forgotten her bruised and broken pinky. She looked at it now. The finger had swelled. She held them all under the water. The cold actually helped the pain, so she kept them there until her fingers turned numb. She tried to move the one but couldn’t.
    After rinsing her hair, she reviewed everything in her mind. She couldn’t get out yet. After all, hadn’t he rubbed against her bottom? She scrubbed that twice. After going over every last detail again, she finally reached for a linen towel and climbed out of the tub.
    She dressed as quickly as she could. Some feeling returned to her fingers. Brushing her hair gave her time to think. She couldn’t stay here. What if he came back to break something else? He broke her finger. What would he break next? How could she possibly work? She heard a noise behind the shop and jumped in fright.
    I have to get out!
    Where could she go? She had nowhere to go. She paced large circles around the platform in her middle room. The invitation given by the Dowager Duchess of Brentwood popped into her head. That was it. She would go there. The duchess was an intelligent woman. She would know what to do.
    After tidying up a bit, Sara pulled on her cloak, locked the front door and started toward Hearthstone Manor. The swelling in her left hand was getting worse. It was a bit of a walk to the St. James home, but she could make it. Her hair was still damp, but the sun was warm. Her steps methodical, she followed the route she thought she needed to, but confusion settled in after a few turns.
    She rounded another corner and tried to remember where she was headed. Yes, Hearthstone Manor. What had happened? Something bad. She knew something terrible had happened. Plus her hand