THE FLOWER TRILOGY

Lauren Royal

Author's Cut Edition

Novelty Books

THE FLOWER TRILOGY by Lauren Royal

Author's Cut Edition

Published by Novelty Books, a division of Novelty Publishers, LLC, 848 N. Rainbow Blvd, Suite 4390, Las Vegas NV 89107

All books originally published in paperback by Penguin Putnam Inc.

VIOLET © Lauren Royal 2002, 2012

LILY © Lauren Royal 2002, 2012

ROSE © Lauren Royal 2003, 2012

ISBN 978-1-938907-04-3

2nd Edition, December 2012

Cover by Kimberly Killion

Book Design by Novelty Press

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Lauren Royal and Novelty Books, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Authors work months or years on their books and need to feed their families, just like you do.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

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Learn more about the author and her books at LaurenRoyal.com.

INSIDE FLAP

The Ashcroft motto is "Question Convention," and the family is eccentric indeed. An avid gardener, the Earl of Trentingham named his daughters after his favorite flowers, and his son Rowan's name comes from a tree. Though their mother is a successful amateur matchmaker, the last thing Violet, Rose, and Lily want is Mum plotting their marriages. Is it any wonder the Ashcroft sisters are destined to find love in unconventional ways?

VIOLET - England, 1673 - Violet Ashcroft isn't planning to marry—she'd rather spend her time improving her mind than risking her heart. That is, until a handsome viscount named Ford Chase moves into the neighborhood…

LILY - England, 1677 - Lily Ashcroft fell for dashing Oxford professor Lord Randal Nesbitt at sixteen. Four years later, her older sister Rose wants him…and what can Lily do but help her sister land the man of her dreams?

ROSE - England, 1677 - Determined to land a wealthy, titled husband, Rose Ashcroft heads off to Charles II's court to find love. And runs smack dab into Christopher "Kit" Martyn, the one man who could ruin all her plans.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Violet

- Dedication

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Chapter 36

- Chapter 37

- Chapter 38

- Chapter 39

- Chapter 40

- Chapter 41

- Chapter 42

- Chapter 43

- Chapter 44

- Chapter 45

- Chapter 46

- Chapter 47

- Chapter 48

- Chapter 49

- Chapter 50

- Chapter 51

- Chapter 52

- Chapter 53

- Chapter 54

- Chapter 55

- Chapter 56

- Epilogue

- Author's Note

- Acknowledgments

Lily

- Dedication

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Chapter 36

- Chapter 37

- Chapter 38

- Chapter 39

- Chapter 40

- Chapter 41

- Chapter 42

- Chapter 43

- Chapter 44

- Chapter 45

- Chapter 46

- Chapter 47

- Chapter 48

- Chapter 49

- Chapter 50

- Chapter 51

- Chapter 52

- Chapter 53

- Chapter 54

- Author's Note

- Acknowledgments

Rose

- Dedication

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Chapter 36

- Chapter 37

- Chapter 38

- Chapter 39

- Chapter 40

- Chapter 41

- Chapter 42

- Chapter 43

- Chapter 44

- Chapter 45

- Chapter 46

- Chapter 47

- Chapter 48

- Chapter 49

- Chapter 50

- Chapter 51

- Chapter 52

- Chapter 53

- Thank You

- Author's Note

- Acknowledgments

Bonus Material

For Ken Royal

Mom calls you the perfect son,

but I think you're the perfect brother.

Thanks for always being there for me!

CHAPTER ONE

England

July 15, 1673

St. Swithin's Day. Well, it was fitting.

Viscount Lakefield stared out his carriage window at the miserable, wet landscape. According to St. Swithin's legend, if it rained on the fifteenth of July, it would continue for forty days and nights. Normally not a man given to superstition, today Ford Chase found such nonsense plausible.

This was shaping up to be the worst day of his life.

The carriage rattled over the drawbridge and into the modest courtyard of Greystone, his older brother's small castle. Cold raindrops pelted Ford's head when he shoved open the door and leapt to the circular drive. Drenched gravel crunching beneath his boots, he made his way down a short, covered passageway and banged the knocker on the unassuming oak door.

Benchley cracked open the door, then slipped outside and shut it behind him. "My lord, what brings you here today?"

"I wish to speak with my brother." Ford frowned down at the small, wiry valet. What was he doing answering the door? "Will you be letting me in?"

"I think not." Benchley lifted his beak of a nose. "I'll fetch Lord Greystone." And with that, he disappeared back into the ancient castle.

Shivering, Ford stood frozen in disbelief before deciding this treatment fit in with the rest of his day. Rain dripped from his long brown hair to sprinkle on the stones at his feet. Wondering why he should need permission to enter his brother's home, he moved to reach for the latch.

The door opened, and his brother stepped out. He looked haggard, his face a pasty gray, his green eyes and black hair dull.

"Colin? What the devil's going on?"

"Illness. Measles, we think. Thank God you're here."

Ford pulled his surcoat tighter around himself. "Come again?"

"Amy is ill, along with little Hugh and the baby. And half of the servants. One of them died yesterday," Colin added grimly.

"Died?" Ford's gut twisted as he thought of Amy—Colin's beautiful, raven-haired wife—and their bright four-year-old son, Hugh, and the baby, Aidan…all dead.

"It's not so bad as all that," Colin rushed to assure him, evidently reading the concern on his face. "The poor maid was eighty if she were a day, and the disease went straight to her lungs. I'm not expecting my family to perish."

"At least you won't be getting it. If you'll remember, all four of us had it while in exile on the Continent."

"I could hardly forget." Appearing as though he could barely hold himself up, Colin leaned against the doorpost. "But what does that have to do with now?"

"At a Royal Society lecture, I learned one cannot fall ill with the same disease twice," Ford explained.

"I've had measles more than once."

"Not true measles, the one with the high fever. Spotted skin is a symptom of many different conditions."

"Trust you to know something like that." Although Colin looked relieved, his smile was bleak. "Still, the fever is savage, and Jewel has yet to suffer measles. True measles, as you put it. Will you take her from here before she succumbs as well? It would relieve my mind, and Amy's too, I'm sure. The worry is doing her recovery no good."

Alarm bells went off in Ford's head. Take his niece? Where? What would he do with a young girl? "Well, I only stopped by to let you know I've left London and will be at Lakefield for the foreseeable future—"

"Perfect."

"—working on my new watch design. I…I just wanted to be alone for a while. Lady Tabitha has eloped."

"With the rest of the family off in Scotland, I was at my wit's end deciding what to do. I was about to settle Jewel in the village. But this will be much better—"

"Tabitha eloped," Ford repeated, wondering why his brother hadn't reacted to this astonishing news. After all, Tabitha had just upset his entire life plan.

"She eloped?" Colin blinked, then shook his head. "Come now, Ford. What did you expect? After six years of suffering your attentions whenever you deigned to show up in London, and sharing your bed, I assume—"

She had. So what of it? No one in King Charles II's circle was virtuous. Colin hadn't been a monk before meeting his wife, and neither had their oldest brother Jason. The three Chase brothers were all titled and intimates of the king, which naturally meant they were popular with the ladies at court—and none of them had hesitated to take advantage in their day.

"—a lady," Colin continued, "would expect a proposal."

"I told her we'd marry someday. In two or three years." Tabitha had seemed the ideal woman for Ford—stunningly beautiful, always ready to attend a ball or an evening at court. They matched well in bed, and when they weren't together she busied herself with whatever women liked to do, leaving him plenty of time for his work. "For God's sake, she's only twenty-one, and I'm just twenty-eight. Jason married at thirty-two, and no one was on his back."

"I married at twenty-eight."

"You were in a hurry to have children."

"While I'm sure you would as soon do without them altogether." Colin rubbed his eyes. "You really have no idea why Tabitha gave up on you, do you? I hate to tell you this, little brother, but it's time you grew up and realized there's more to life than science and seduction. As the baby of the family, maybe Jason and I coddled you too much."

From beyond the passageway, the patter of rain filled their sudden silence. Colin was obviously weary, so Ford thought it best not to argue. Doubtless Colin had spent sleepless nights watching over his wife and sons—exactly why Ford wasn't ready for a family of his own.

"You look tired," he said. "You'd best get some rest."

His brother heaved a sigh. "I'd rest easier if I knew you had Jewel. You'll take her, won't you?"

What the devil would he do with a girl who wasn't yet six? He loved her, of course. She shared his blood. But that didn't mean he had a clue how to care for her. Bouncing her on his knee or playing a simple card game with her was one thing. A few minutes of fun before returning her to her parents. But to be responsible for a child…

He shoved a hand through his wet hair. "For how long?"

"A week or two. Maybe three. Until the illness has run its course." Colin twisted the signet ring on his finger, narrowing his gaze. "Why are you hesitating? I need you."

"I'm not hesitating," Ford protested. "I just…"

His brother's eyes opened wide. "Did you think I'd expect you to care for her on your own? God forbid." His lips quirked as though he might laugh, but he coughed instead. On purpose, Ford was sure. "I'll send Lydia along with her."

Despite his annoyance at being read so easily—not to mention distrusted—the tension left Ford's shoulders. With Lydia, Jewel's very competent nurse, on the premises, he wouldn't have to care for the girl, wouldn't have to struggle to interpret her mystifying female language and needs. He could just poke his head into her room and say hello every once in a while.

"You won't have to do a thing," Colin added, his tight expression easing into a wry half-smile. "You might try talking with your niece, though. It's time you learned to communicate with the lesser species. You know, those of us of insufficient age or intelligence to grasp the deepest secrets of the universe."

"I don't—"

"Maybe that was your problem with Tabitha."

Ford gritted his teeth. He'd never fooled himself into thinking he understood the opposite sex. His science was what drove him. But he'd had no problems with Tabitha, and he was finished with this discussion.

"Of course I'll take Jewel," he said, consciously relaxing his jaw. "Bring her out—I'll be waiting in my carriage."

CHAPTER TWO

"Listen to this." Sitting with her two sisters while their mother worked nearby, Violet Ashcroft cleared her throat. "'To say that a blind custom of obedience should be a surer obligation than duty taught and understood…is to affirm that a blind man may tread surer by a guide than a seeing man by a light.'"

"What is that supposed to mean?" her youngest sister, Lily, asked. Busily stitching her tapestry in the grayish light from the large picture window, Lily probably had little real desire to know what the quote meant. But she was unfailingly kind, and Violet would never turn away from anyone willing to listen.

She hitched herself forward on the green brocade chair. "Well, now—"

"Why do you care?" their middle sister, Rose, interrupted. Rose cared little for anything that didn't have to do with dancing, clothes, or men. Looking up from the vase of flowers she was arranging, she tossed her gleaming ringlets. "It's nothing but a bunch of gibberish, if you ask me."

"Nobody asked." Violet pointedly looked to Lily. "Did you hear anyone ask?"

"Girls." Clucking her tongue, their mother poured a dipperful of water into the kettle over the fire. "I used to comfort myself that when you all grew up, this bickering would cease. Yet it never has."

Lily's blue eyes were all innocence, despite having reached the advanced age of sixteen. "But Mum," she said sweetly. Their mother's proper name was Chrystabel, but as their flower-obsessed father called her Chrysanthemum, they'd taken to calling her Mum. "It's loving bickering."

"And a bad example for your young brother." With a sigh, Chrystabel resumed plucking petals from a bunch of lush pink roses. "What does it mean?" she asked Violet. "And who said it?"

"It means we should understand why we are doing things instead of blindly following orders. Rather like our Ashcroft family motto: Interroga Conformationem, Question Convention. But said much more eloquently, don't you think? By Francis Bacon."

Violet snapped the book closed, its title, Advancement of Learning, winking gold from the spine in her lap. "But I'm wondering," she teased. "When did my Mum become interested in philosophy?"

"I'm interested in all my children's hobbies."

"Philosophy is more than a hobby," Violet protested. "It's a way of looking at life."

"Of course it is." The kettle was bubbling merrily, spewing steam into the dim room. The fire and a few candles were no match for this gloomy, rainy afternoon. "Will you come and hold this for me, dear?"

Violet set down the book and wandered over to the large, utilitarian table she always thought looked somewhat out of place in what used to be a formal drawing room. "Did Father bring you more roses this morning?"

"Doesn't he always?" Chrystabel's musical laughter warmed Violet to her toes. "Sweet man, he is, rising early to gather them between dawn and sunrise, when their scent is at its peak."

Violet's laughter joined her mother's. "Insane man, you mean." Sweet wasn't a word she'd use to describe the Earl of Trentingham—eccentric fit her father much better. But her parents both seemed to be blind where the other's oddities were concerned.

Not that that was a bad thing. For certain, if Violet were ever to wed—an event she considered unlikely indeed—her husband would have to be more than a little bit blind. She didn't have rich chestnut hair like her sisters—hers was a blander, lighter brown. And her eyes were plain brown as well, not the mysterious almost-black of Rose's or the fathomless deep-blue of Lily's. Just brown.

Average, she decided. Neither fat nor thin. Not tall like Rose nor petite like Lily, but medium height. Average.

But, happily, she didn't mind being average. Because average was rarely noticed, and the truth was, she'd never liked being the center of attention.

Rose thrived on it, though. "Let me help, Mum," she squealed, dropping the stem of blue sweet peas she'd been about to add to her floral arrangement. "Violet probably won't get the top on straight."

Tactless, at best, but at seventeen, Rose still had some time to grow up. With an indulgent sigh, Violet stuck a wooden block upright in the big bowl. She held it in place while Mum sprinkled in all the rose petals, then turned to lift the kettle.

In a slow, careful stream, Chrystabel poured just enough water over the fragrant flowers to cover them. Quickly Rose popped another, larger bowl upside down on top of the wooden block, using it as a pedestal. The steam would collect beneath and drip down the edges to the tray below. As it cooled, it would separate into rosewater and essential rose oil.

Distillation, Mum called it.

A rich, floral scent wafted up, and Violet inhaled deeply. As hobbies went, she did appreciate her mother's unusual one of perfume-making.

"Thank you, girls," Chrystabel said when Violet released the bowl. "Would you hand me that vial of lavender essence?"

Violet turned and squinted at the labels, then reached for the proper glass tube. "I read in the news sheet this morning that Christopher Wren is going to be knighted later this year. And he was just elected to the Council of the Royal Society."

Mum took the vial. "That odd group of scientists?"

Violet smiled inside, thinking Chrystabel Ashcroft a bit odd herself. "There are philosophers as members, too. And statesmen and physicians. I'd love to hear one of their lectures someday."

"The Royal Society doesn't allow women at their meetings." Chrystabel pulled the cork stopper and waved the lavender under her nose. "Besides, most of the men are married."

"I don't want them to court me, Mum." On the whole, she didn't want anyone to court her, much to her mother's distress. "I only wish to cudgel their brains."

Frowning, Chrystabel lowered a dropper into the vial. "Cudgel their—"

"Talk to them, I mean. Share some ideas. They're so brilliant."

"Men aren't interested in talking to women," Rose told her, "and the sooner you learn that, the sooner you'll find one of your own."

"Faith, Rose. I'm only twenty. You'd think I was in my dotage, the way you've become set on marrying me off."

"You're expected to wed before I do."

The words were uttered so innocently, Violet couldn't find it in her to hold a grudge. Of course Rose wanted to marry, and convention dictated the girls wed in order.

But Violet was nothing if not realistic. She knew her plain looks, together with her unusual interests, were likely to make it difficult—if not impossible—for her to find a compatible husband. But that didn't really bother her, and she would never want her own dim prospects to keep her lovely sisters from finding happiness.

Besides, when had the Ashcrofts been conventional? They could marry in any order they chose. Or in her case, not at all.

She watched her mother add three drops of lavender to the bottle of fragrance she was creating, then swirl it carefully.

"Is that a new blend?" Violet asked.

"For Lady Cunningham." Chrystabel sniffed deeply and passed the bottle to her oldest daughter. "What do you think?"

Violet smelled it and considered. "Too sweet. Lady Cunningham is anything but sweet." The woman's voice could curdle milk. Violet handed back the mixture, hunting for the vial of petitgrain she knew would soften it.

Nodding approvingly, her mother added two drops, then made a note on the little recipe card she kept for each of her friends.

"Look," Lily said, her embroidery forgotten. She rose and settled herself in the large, green-padded window seat. "There's a carriage about to pass by."

Chrystabel and Rose hurried to join her at window, while Violet returned to her chair and opened her book. "So?"

"So…" Lily brushed her fingers over one of the flower arrangements that Rose left all over the house, sending a burst of scent into the air. "We get so little traffic here, I'm just wondering who it might be."

"The three of you are too curious for your own good." Violet flipped a page, hoping to find another sage insight. Not that she'd bother sharing it this time.

"It's our occasional neighbor," her mother said. "The viscount."

Violet's attention strayed from Bacon's brilliance. "How do you know?"

"I recognize his carriage. A hand-me-down from his brother, the marquess."

"How is it you know everyone's business?" Violet wondered aloud.

"It's not so very difficult, my dear. One need only take an interest, open her eyes and ears, and use her head. I believe the viscount is in tight straits. Not only because of the second-hand carriage, but heavens, the state of his gardens. Your father nearly chokes every time we ride past."

"I'm surprised Father hasn't made his way over to set the garden to rights," Lily said.

"Don't think he hasn't considered it." Chrystabel leaned her palms on the windowsill, studying the passing coach. "Why, I do believe Lord Lakefield isn't alone."

Despite herself, Violet rose, one finger holding her place in the book. "And how do you know that?"

"The vehicle's curtains aren't drawn." Chrystabel gave a happy gasp of discovery. "There's a child inside! And a woman!"

Her interest finally piqued, Violet wandered to the window to see, but of course the carriage was only a blur.

Everything more than a few feet from Violet's eyes always looked like a blur. It was the reason she preferred staying at home with her books and news sheets, rather than going about to socialize with her mother and two younger sisters. She was afraid she'd embarrass herself by failing to recognize a friend across the room.

"Well, well, well," Mum said. "I must go bring the lady a gift of perfume and welcome her to the neighborhood."

"You mean find out who she is," Violet said.

Her mother's second hobby was delivering perfume and receiving gossip in exchange. Not that anyone begrudged her the information. To the contrary, Chrystabel Ashcroft never needed to pry a word out of anyone. Warm and well-loved, she barely walked in the door before women began spilling their secrets.

On the rare occasions her mother had succeeded in dragging her along, Violet had seen it happen, her bad eyes notwithstanding.

"I wonder if the viscount has married?" Rose asked.

"I expect not," Chrystabel said. "He's much too intellectual for anyone I know." As the carriage disappeared into the distance, she turned from the window. "Why, he's a member of that Royal Society, isn't he?"

"I believe so." Violet watched her mother wander back to the table, wishing she'd never mentioned wanting to attend a Royal Society lecture. The last thing she needed was Mum plotting her marriage. "Perhaps he would suit Rose or Lily."

"I think not." Mum sniffed the perfume in progress, then chose another vial. "I cannot imagine whom he would suit, but certainly not your sisters."

"It's just as well," Rose said, "since you know we three have a pact to save one another from your matchmaking schemes."

It was one thing—perhaps the only thing—the sisters agreed on.

"Heavens, girls. It's not as though I arrange marriages behind the backs of my friends." Everyone Chrystabel knew was her friend. Literally. And they all adored her. "All of my brides and grooms are willing—"

"Victims?" Violet broke in to supply.

"Participants," Chrystabel countered.

Lily sat and retrieved her handiwork. "How many weddings have you arranged this year, Mum? Three? Four?"

"Five," their mother said with not a little pride. She tapped her fingernails on the vial. "Only seven months in, and a banner year already. But none, I assure you, against the participants' will."

Rose plopped back onto her own chair. "You're not matching me up, Mum. I can find my own husband."

"Me, too," Lily said.

"Me three," Violet added.

"Of course you all can." Chrystabel's graceful fingers stilled. "I wouldn't dream of meddling in my own daughters' lives."

CHAPTER THREE

"Nurse Lydia said if it rains today, it will rain for forty days more." In the dim cabin of the carriage, Jewel cocked her raven head. "Do you believe that, Uncle Ford?"

"Of course not. It has no scientific basis in fact."

"I know a poem about it, though."

"Do you, now?"

A smile gracing her heart-shaped face, Jewel nodded. "Nurse Lydia taught it to me last year. And I still remember."

Ford threw a glance at the woman sitting across from them, but she was leaning against the window, sound asleep. "Will you quote it for me, then?" he asked Jewel.

She cleared her little throat.

"St. Swithin's Day if thou dost rain

For forty days it will remain

St. Swithin's Day if thou be fair

For forty days 'twill rain nae mair."

"That sounds more like something your Aunt Caithren would have taught you," Ford observed, thinking of his brother Jason's pretty Scottish wife with all her stories, superstitions, and verses.

"Maybe she did." Jewel turned to her caregiver. "Nurse Lydia, did you teach me the poem, or did Auntie Cait?" When Lydia didn't answer, the girl rose and reached across to poke her shoulder. "Nurse Lydia?" A frown creasing her forehead, Jewel sat down and looked at Ford. "She's sleeping."

"I can see that." Frowning himself, he put a finger to his lips. "Perhaps we should be quieter, then."

His niece surprised him by obediently settling back. He smiled. Maybe having her stay with him wouldn't be as bad as he'd thought. She was adorable, after all. Most females were adorable. And on the whole, he adored them.

But they were baffling. He was really better off without them, he decided, thinking of Tabitha's abrupt change of heart.

Rain pounded on the roof and streamed down the windows, an oddly comforting tattoo. Lulled by sound and motion, Ford's lids slid closed—then flew open when the carriage bumped into a rut. The nurse pitched forward, and he leapt to set her aright.

He jerked his hands away. She was burning up.

Her eyes opened, looking glazed, the pupils huge black voids.

"Nurse Lydia?" Ford raked his fingers back through his hair, his mind racing. If she was ill, what the devil would he do with Jewel? The nurse couldn't be ill. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"Hot," she mumbled. "Tired." Her eyes shut again.

Bloody hell, she was ill. An all too fitting development for an all too dastardly day.

He had to get Jewel away from her.

Trying not to panic, he reached to shake the woman awake. "Where are you from?"

She blinked, swayed, then managed to hold herself up by planting both hands on the bench seat. "G-Greystone, my lord."

"No, before that. Have you family, miss? Parents? Brothers or sisters?"

"Mama," she murmured. "In Woodlands Green." A soft, prolonged snore followed, nearly drowned out by the relentless rain.

She hadn't gone far from home to find employment, then—Woodlands Green wasn't more than half an hour south. Ford knocked on the roof, barely pausing for the carriage to stop before throwing open the door.

Without waiting for the steps to be lowered, he lifted Jewel and jumped down.

She let out a little squeal. "What are you doing, Uncle Ford?"

"Lakefield isn't far." He balanced her on a hip. "We're going to walk from here."

"In the rain? Mama says not to get cold and wet. You could fall ill." Her little forehead furrowed. "We could get measles."

"Staying with Nurse Lydia could give you measles. Besides, it's not cold. It's summer." Never mind that Jewel's teeth were chattering. Surprised to find himself feeling protective, he held her closer. "Can you tell me Nurse Lydia's surname?"

"Her what?"

"The part of her name that comes after Lydia." Huge drops splotched his brown surcoat and dripped from the brim of his hat. He shifted the girl on his hip. "Like in your name, Chase comes after Jewel."

She only cocked her small head, which was rapidly becoming soaked.

Taking a deep breath for patience, he tried again. "Your name is Jewel Chase. Nurse Lydia's name is…?"

"Nurse Lydia. Two names, just like mine."

He rolled his eyes heavenward before looking to his coachman. "Spalding, take the nursemaid to Woodlands Green and find her mother." Woodlands Green was tiny—even without a surname, it probably wasn't an onerous request. "Lady Jewel and I have decided to walk home in this fine weather."

Setting his niece on her feet—where she promptly slipped in the mud—he wondered if things could get any worse.

CHAPTER FOUR

Generally, Ford didn't mind sleeping with females. But this one had wiggled the entire night. When not snuggled up against him, she'd been smacking him with an outflung arm. Her little toenails had left scratches in the vicinity of his knees.

"Hey!" he growled as she managed to elbow him in the ribs for the dozenth time. He wondered what tool she used to hone the bone to such a point. "Lie still."

He heard a whimper and suppressed a groan. Not the tears again!

Tears were what had landed Jewel in his bed in the first place. He'd breathed a sigh of relief after tucking her in last night, only to find himself awakened by her heartfelt sobs.

No wonder he'd decided to swear off women.

Of course, he couldn't blame the girl. Between her hiccups and gulps, he'd gathered that last night had been the first she'd ever spent away from her parents or nursemaid. But if he'd had any doubts he wasn't ready for marriage and fatherhood, they were gone now.

When she sniffled, he turned his head to see her heart-shaped face snuggled on the pillow beside him, her rosy cheeks damp with tears. More tears threatened to spill from her emerald eyes.

He pushed the shiny black hair off her face and felt her forehead. No fever, for which he was insanely thankful. Illness was the last thing either of them needed.

"Ah, Jewel, baby. Come on. It's morning, can you see?" He waved a hand toward the window, where yellow light shone through spaces between the crooked shutters. One more thing on his repair list.

At least the rain had stopped. So much for St. Swithin's prophecy.

"We'll have a pleasant day, you'll see." He'd send a message to his brother, informing him Jewel's nurse had come down with the measles. Colin would send a replacement. Someone who knew the girl. Someone who knew what to do.

Did you think I'd expect you to care for her on your own? God forbid.

No. Damned if he'd give his brother the satisfaction of seeing he was right not to trust him with his precious daughter. Somehow he and Jewel would manage. And next time, his family wouldn't underestimate his abilities.

He turned back to her sad little face. "Come on, baby."

"I'm not a baby."

"Of course you're not." He hadn't consciously used the endearment; it had simply slipped out of his mouth. "If you stop crying, I'll give you a shilling."

That did the trick. The tears ended, and she struggled to sit in his rumpled bed, apparently smarter than he'd given her credit for.

Thank God. A girl bright enough to be reasoned with. Never mind that his estate was in sad shape and he could ill afford to throw around bribes—he'd give Jewel his entire meager savings if it would ensure her cooperation for the days they'd be together.

He stared at the canopy above him, wondering when his blue bed-hangings had faded to gray. And if the old ropes that supported the mattress would hold, since his niece was jumping up and down on it now, giving him an instant headache.

"A shilling," she chanted in a sing-song voice, timing her words to her bounces. "A shilling. Will you take me shopping?" she asked breathlessly.

Not yet six years old and already eager to shop, he thought with an inward smile. Where did females learn this behavior? Was it in their chemical composition? "There aren't any shops nearby, but if you're good, after breakfast I'll show you my sundial."

She bounced once again to land on her bottom, then sat there in her twisted white nightgown, looking dubious.

"And later this week, I'll take you to the village."

"To shop?"

"Yes, to shop." The way things were going, she ought to have amassed a small fortune by then. He rolled over and swung his legs off the side of the bed, rubbing his face.

"Gads, Uncle Ford! I can see your knees!"

Blinking, he cast a glance over his shoulder. "Have you not seen your father's knees? And your brothers'?"

"Yes." She giggled. "But they're my family."

"I'm your uncle, which is family, too." He stood, grateful the shirt he was wearing covered him to midthigh, wondering if he should have left his breeches on as well. It had been years since he'd worn anything to sleep, but he supposed, for her sake, he'd have to keep himself clothed while she was here.

He held little hope that she'd stay in her own bed at night, so he'd best steel himself for more long hours of nocturnal pummeling.

What had he done to deserve this?

As the youngest of four, he'd never had to deal with children before, save as a loving uncle who bestowed the occasional coin or pat on the head. Whatever compelled people to desire these strange creatures—and the responsibility that went with them—was beyond him.

His clocks struck noon before he managed to coax some breakfast into her and get her dressed in a little pink confection of a gown whose fastenings he found confusing. He was itching to work on his watch design, but she hadn't forgotten about the sundial.

Would that he had such a memory.

Although St. Swithin's clouds and rain would have better matched his mood, the day was warm and sunny when they finally stepped outdoors. A fluffy white rabbit blinked at Jewel, then took off toward the Thames. She bounded after it, but Ford followed more slowly, feeling the effects of the sleepless night.

He would have to hire some servants. Although he'd been granted Lakefield House twelve years ago, shortly after King Charles's restoration, he'd never really lived here. Naturally he'd visited on occasion, but the sheer work involved in renovating the manor house had always seemed overwhelming. So he'd lived in the family's London town house, or at Cainewood Castle with his older brother Jason, the Marquess of Cainewood, and poured what income the estate produced into his scientific pursuits. He'd known that someday he would fix up the place, most likely when he decided to marry. But "someday" always seemed far, far in the future.

He hadn't left Lakefield unoccupied, of course, but the elderly couple who cared for the house—and cooked for him on the rare occasions he was in residence—was no match for a six-year-old's energy. If he wanted help, he was going to have to hire it. Perhaps the "shopping" trip to the village would come sooner rather than later. He could shop for a nursemaid and household help while Jewel shopped for whatever little girls bought with their shillings. Ribbons, he imagined, already dreading the daunting task of fixing her hair.

"Uncle Ford! Where is it?"

He looked up, noticing Jewel had wandered back while he wasn't watching. He hadn't been watching at all, as a matter of fact. She could have fallen into the river.

He heaved an internal sigh. He would have to be more vigilant.

"Have you lost the rabbit?" he asked.

"No." She giggled. "Well, yes, but I meant the sundial. I cannot find it."

Damnation, where had it gone to?

He paced the garden, shocked to find it totally overgrown, although by all appearances it must have been that way for years. Green and wild, plants and vines intertwined with weeds, all semblance of order gone. Jewel ran after him, her short legs no match for his long strides. The sundial had been in the middle of a neat circle of hedges and wooden benches…

"Here it is." He pushed his way through a ring of bushes that seemed to have grown together. His niece followed. The benches he'd remembered were covered with vines. In the center of the mess, he yanked at some greenery and brushed dirt off the carved stone surface of the sundial. "Under here."

She beamed up at him as though he were a genius, melting his heart. "How does it work, Uncle Ford?"

He lifted her into his arms, remembering why he loved women. But from now on, he'd be sticking to ones under six. "Well, you see—"

"Good afternoon, my lord."

A warm, melodic voice. He turned and frowned at the owner, who had followed them into the hedge circle. Although he had a feeling the comely, middle-aged matron wasn't quite a stranger, he couldn't for the life of him place her.

She plucked two stray twigs off her bright yellow skirts, then raised a groomed brow. "So nice to have you in residence. Trentingham Manor can seem lonely when all our neighbors are away in the City."

Mystery solved. Trentingham. As in Earl of. The neighboring estate.

His niece still in his arms, Ford executed an awkward bow. "Pleased to be here, Lady Trentingham."

When her wide mouth curved up, her brown eyes smiled to match. Plainly curious, her gaze flicked to Jewel before focusing again on him. "Will you be staying long?"

"Just while I finish a project." And until he felt up to facing his family and friends. He set Jewel on her feet and leaned a hand against the sundial, grimacing at the crusted dirt.

The countess shot a glance down the side of the house—he noticed the paint was peeling—to where her carriage waited, a coachman sitting up top. The door was open, and someone waited inside as well, enjoying the sunny day. A lady's maid, if he could judge by the woman's starched white cap.

"Pretty lady," Jewel said, staring up at his neighbor.

"Why, thank you, Miss…"

"Jewel," the girl supplied.

"Lady Jewel," Ford clarified. "My brother's daughter."

"Ah," Lady Trentingham murmured. Some of the confusion cleared from her face. "I'm glad of your acquaintance," she said with a graceful curtsy, for all the world like they were meeting in Whitehall Palace.

Jewel mimicked the motion. "I'm glad of your ac-ac—"

"Acquaintance," Ford said helpfully.

But apparently Jewel didn't take it that way. She fixed him with a malevolent green glare. "I can say it."

"Of course you can." Palms forward, he took a small step back. "Forgive me, will you?"

"All right." She turned to the woman, focusing on something in her hand. "What's that?"

"Don't point, baby," Ford said. His twin sister might routinely accuse him of being oblivious, but he did know his manners.

Lady Trentingham knelt by Jewel's side. "It's a bottle of perfume. I brought it for the lady of the house. And I suppose"—she looked to Ford for confirmation—"that's you?"

He nodded his agreement as Jewel squealed. "For me?"

"For you, young lady. Would you like to smell it?"

"Oh, yes," his niece breathed. She waited, dancing from foot to foot while the woman removed the stopper and handed her the bottle.

Jewel waved it under her nose. "It's lovely, my lady!" Tipping the bottle, she wet her fingers and dabbed the potion on her neck, wetting some of the overgrown greenery in the process.

"You must use only a little," Lady Trentingham warned her, "or you'll smell like a field of flowers."

"I like flowers."

"Then you must come and visit Trentingham Manor." She rose to her feet, smiling at Ford. "My husband enjoys gardening."

"I've heard that of the earl." Everyone had heard that of the earl. And standing in his own shambles of a garden, knowing what Lady Trentingham and her husband must think every time they saw it, made Ford want to squirm.

"Who is caring for Lady Jewel?" the countess asked.

"I am, now. Her nursemaid fell ill, so I sent her home."

"Alone?"

"No, with my coachman and two outriders."

Amusement flickered on her face. "I meant, are you caring for Lady Jewel on your own?"

"Oh." Feeling thickheaded, he cleared his throat. "I suppose I am."

"And how are you getting along?"

His neighbor had a straightforward way about her that Ford found refreshing. Lord knew Tabitha hadn't been so.

"Well, I've had Jewel for…" He twisted around to see the sundial. "…it's going on eighteen hours. And no disaster has befallen her yet, so although I haven't managed to find time for anything else, I reckon I'm doing all right."

Lady Trentingham's laughter tinkled through the riotous vegetation. Her gaze turned contemplative. "I have a son."

"Yes?" he prompted, feeling more thickheaded still.

"Rowan. He's seven years of age. A bit older than Lady Jewel, but his favorite playmate is away from home for the month—perhaps I'll bring him over to play. That might give you a bit of a respite."

"A boy?" Jewel interjected.

"A kind one," the woman assured her. "He doesn't have maggots."

Jewel looked dubious. But she also looked lonely. And as far as Ford was concerned, Lady Trentingham could be his savior. An angel sent from heaven. A fairy come to wave her wand and sprinkle magic dust.

Her miraculous solution to his problem was almost enough to make him believe in such ludicrous things.

"I shall bring Rowan tomorrow," she decided. "He has lessons in the morning, but perhaps after dinner."

"He's welcome for dinner," Ford offered. Breakfast and supper, too. Anything to keep his niece occupied so he could work on his watch. He was sure his new design had promise, if only he could find the time to test his ideas.

He must have looked as desperate as he felt, because his neighbor released a tiny, unladylike snort.

"After dinner," she confirmed, hiding a smile as she pushed through the bushes and made her way back to her carriage.

"How did it go, milady?" Anne asked Chrystabel as she climbed inside.

"Fine," she assured her maid.

Perfect, she added silently.

Now she just had to make plans to keep both Rose and Lily busy tomorrow. As well as herself. Violet—her wonderful, willful, bookish daughter Violet—would be the one to take Rowan to visit Lady Jewel.

Picking dead vegetation off her skirts, Chrystabel smiled. She'd met Ford Chase before, but this visit had confirmed it. If ever a perfect man existed for Violet, it was the charming, slightly preoccupied but brilliant Lord Lakefield. These two needed each other.

Her daughters were dead set against her arranging their marriages, and well Chrystabel knew it.

But a resourceful mother could always find a way.

CHAPTER FIVE

"Please wait, Margaret," Violet told her lady's maid the next afternoon. "If all goes well, I'm going to leave Rowan here and come back for him later."

She stepped down from the carriage and grumbled all the way to the front door of the large, if somewhat shabby, Lakefield House. She couldn't fathom how she'd ended up here, escorting her reluctant young brother to play with a strange little girl.

Mum's convoluted explanation had made sense at the time, but how was it that suddenly Rose and Lily both needed to be measured for gowns, and she didn't? True, she hadn't been clamoring for new clothes like they had—she'd never really cared about such things—but Mum had always been careful to treat her three girls evenly.

At the bottom of the chipped stone stairs that led to the entry, she pulled Rowan out of the bushes where he was hiding. He promptly scurried to hide behind her instead. With a sigh, she mounted the steps and raised the knocker.

Before she had a chance to bang it down, the door swung open, and she stumbled forward and nearly fell into the house. She was saved from that indignity when a man's hands clasped her shoulders. Warm hands, keeping her upright.

He held on to her a bit longer than necessary before pulling away. Impertinent, this footman, but she was only inches from his face, and oh my, he was handsome up close. She'd rarely seen a man up close—close enough to clearly see with her poor vision—and this one looked divine. She felt herself sinking into brilliant blue eyes.

"I—I'm—" Backing away a little, she cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm here to see Lord Lakefield—"

"At your service." He bowed. "Ford Chase," he added in a deep voice. The sound of it made butterflies dance in her middle. "And you are…?"

This was the viscount?

He couldn't be. "You're not wearing a periwig," she said nonsensically.

"Pardon?" He blinked. "None of the men in my family ever wear wigs."

It was true her father often went wigless out here in the countryside, but ever? Although, come to think of it, this man wasn't wearing a footman's livery either. The last time she'd seen him, she'd been a girl of only fifteen, and all she'd really remembered was long, untidy brown hair and a harried expression.

He looked rather harried today, too. He raked his fingers through his still-long hair, but it didn't seem to help.

And those eyes. She hadn't noticed his eyes all those years ago…well, she'd probably never been close enough to properly see them. Aristotle had said that beauty was the gift of God. She wondered what this man could have done to be so deserving of the Lord's favor.

"And you are…?" he repeated.

She shook her head to clear it. "Violet Ashcroft."

"The Earl of Trentingham's daughter?" He looked somewhat perplexed. "I expected your mother."

"Well, you have me." She was regaining her equilibrium. She was, after all, a very levelheaded woman. "And this is my brother, Rowan, who has come to claim the pleasure of meeting young Lady Jewel."

The pleasure of meeting young Lady Jewel? Why was she babbling like a featherbrained courtier? She drew a deep breath and pulled her brother from behind her skirts.

"Pleased to meet you, young man." The viscount gave him a proper, grave nod.

Much more stoically than normal, Rowan bowed.

"Uncle Ford!" A little girl came bounding up to the door, skidding to a stop on the dull wood floor. "Who is here?" The moment her gaze fastened on Rowan, Violet knew he was in trouble. "You must be that boy the pretty lady told me about." She glanced up at her uncle, appearing both surprised and pleased. "He looks like me! I like him!"

While it was true Rowan was a handsome lad and shared Jewel's coloring—jet-black hair and deep green eyes—the girl's enthusiasm was enough to send him skittering behind Violet again.

Following him, Jewel poked him on the shoulder. "What're you hiding for, huh? Don't you want to play?"

"No," Rowan muttered. His fingers clawed at Violet's skirts. Sensing his panic, she figured it would be only a matter of seconds before he found his way underneath.

Lord Lakefield also looked panicked, though she couldn't fathom why. "Do come in," he urged, grabbing Violet quite improperly by the arm. Before the door shut behind her, she shot a helpless look back at the blur that was her maid Margaret in the carriage.

She hadn't intended to go inside.

But here she was. Still gripping her arm, the viscount fairly pulled her down a hallway whose paneling was so worn that even with her bad eyes she could tell it needed refinishing. Behind her, Rowan held on like a drowning man clutches a life preserver. He was literally dragging his heels.

Evidently undeterred, Jewel chattered cheerfully as she walked along beside him. "How old are you? Your mother said you were seven. Are you seven? I'm almost six. When's your birthday? Mine's next week. Mama said we would have a celebration. But now she's ill."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Violet said to Jewel, since it was clear Rowan wouldn't. Her heels clicked on the wood-planked floor. She could feel the warmth of the viscount's fingers through her indigo broadcloth sleeve.

"Papa promised me she'd get well," Jewel said. "And he always keeps his promises."

They turned into a drawing room decorated in various shades of red and pink. Or perhaps they'd once all been matching crimson, but some pieces had faded.

Lord Lakefield dropped Violet's arm and waved her toward a couch. She pried Rowan's hands from her skirts in order to sit, and he dropped cross-legged to the floor, his gaze on his lap.

What were they doing here? Violet wondered. Rowan was clearly miserable, and she hadn't planned on staying in the first place.

"Make yourself comfortable," Lord Lakefield told her. "I'll go ask for some refreshments. I rigged up a bell"—he gestured toward the wall where she assumed it was placed—"but I'm afraid my staff is getting on in years. They're a bit hard of hearing."

Dazed, Violet nodded. "So is my father."

"Pardon?"

"He's half deaf. Although my sister sometimes claims he just doesn't want to listen to whatever philosophy I'm spouting at the moment."

Egad, she was babbling more than Jewel.

"Philosophy?" He blinked, or maybe he grimaced. She wasn't close enough to tell which. "I'm certain whatever you have to say must be fascinating. If you'll excuse me." And with that, he took his long, lanky form out the door.

She rose and wandered over to see where he'd pointed. A pull cord disappeared cleverly into a hole, attached, she assumed, to a bell. Her ears were still ringing with his words.

"Fascinating…" she murmured to no one in particular. Apparently the man was trying to flatter her. No man ever thought a woman discussing philosophy was fascinating.

"Well," she said aloud, glad she had the common sense to recognize an empty compliment, "Jean de La Fontaine has written that all flatterers live at the expense of those who listen to them."

Jewel blinked. "Huh?" She blinked again, then knelt on the floor next to Rowan. "Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked.

CHAPTER SIX

Ford hurried to the kitchen, not least because he had a feeling Violet Ashcroft was poised to bolt. And he couldn't allow that to happen.

Philosophy. Truth be told, he abhorred the subject—he wasn't drawn to anything that couldn't be proven. But it seemed the woman might have a keen brain in her head, which was uncommon, in his experience. He'd always gravitated toward the fun and frilly in female companionship, and depended on male colleagues for intellectual stimulation. When it came to women, he was looking for diversion, not meaningful conversation.

Tabitha had been quite a gorgeous diversion. Yet not particularly useful, and he'd decided practicality would dictate his interest in women from now on. Hilda, for instance—his housekeeper—was a useful woman to have around.

And as for Lady Violet…

With her shiny light brown hair and eyes the color of his favorite brandy, Violet was pleasant looking, although not the sort of beauty who would turn men's heads. Which was fine with him, since the last thing he wanted was his head turned. He wanted it right here, thank you, square on his shoulders, where he could use it to concentrate on his experiments and inventions.

He'd sworn off women, but if he could convince this Violet to stay a while—and maybe even come back with Rowan tomorrow—perhaps he could finally find time for his work.

Now, that was his idea of a useful woman.

As he barged into the kitchen, his housekeeper looked up from polishing the silver, one gray eyebrow raised in query. "Yes, my lord?"

"Are the refreshments ready?"

Hilda never answered a question—she always had one of her own. "Is Lady Trentingham here?"

"No," he said, wondering where Harry, Hilda's husband, had gone off to this time. The two of them might be servants, but their marriage mimicked most of the aristocracy's—which was to say they stayed as far from each other as possible.

"Lady Trentingham is at home," he told her. "The woman's daughter came instead. Lady Violet Ashcroft."

"The practical one?"

"Come again?" Spotting a tray of biscuits on the kitchen's scarred wooden worktable, he inched his way over.

"The oldest, right? Lady Trentingham calls her 'the practical one.' The middle girl—Rose, I believe—is 'the wild one,' and the youngest, dear Lily, 'the sweet one.'"

"She has three daughters? All named for bloody flowers?" What sentimental frivolity. The mere idea gave him a headache.

"Are you not aware that her husband enjoys gardening?"

"Yes. I am." He slid one of the small, round biscuits off the tray and popped it into his mouth. "How do you come to know all this?"

Hilda frowned. "Why shouldn't I know my neighbors?" She shoved at the gray hair that had escaped her cap, then went back to polishing the silver. "Lady Trentingham, she's a perfumer, you know. Every once in a while, she drops by with a new bottle. Spiced Rosewater, I prefer."

"Spiced Rosewater?" He reached for another biscuit.

She slapped at his hand. "Leave it, will you? I laid them out in a pattern."

He scrutinized the tray, but his mathematical mind could discern no regular design.

"Do you not like Spiced Rosewater?" she asked.

He leaned close to a wrinkled cheek and sniffed. "It's lovely." In truth, she smelled like a cinnamon bun. But whatever made her happy.

"When Lady Trentingham brings it by, she likes to sit a spell and chat. I've heard all the stories of her girls as they've grown."

"Lady Trentingham sits and talks to the household help?" Now he was the one asking questions.

"And why not? We're people too, you know."

Of course they were—he just didn't think about it much. And he was woefully ill informed about his neighbors. Apparently Lady Trentingham was well-nigh as eccentric as the earl.

"Here comes Harry," Hilda said, watching out the window. "Don't you think it's time to serve these refreshments?" She shoved a steaming pitcher into Ford's hands and, taking the tray of biscuits, hurried out of the kitchen before her husband could make his way in.

Hilda came up to Ford's shoulder and seemed as wide as she was tall. Obediently carrying the hot beverage she'd prepared, he followed her ample behind down the corridor to the drawing room. They stepped inside to see Violet Ashcroft on her hands and knees, her backside jutting into the air.

A very nice backside, Ford observed, most especially compared to his housekeeper's. He could tell that, even through her layers of petticoats and sturdy, serviceable skirts. Which weren't frilly in the least. It was a fitting gown for The Practical One.

Her brother was under the low, square table that sat before the couch. "Rowan," she said. "You come out here this minute."

"No." The boy crossed his arms, not a simple feat given he was lying on his belly. "Not until she leaves."

Rowan pronounced she much like Jewel had pronounced boy yesterday in the garden.

"C'mon, Rowan," Jewel cooed, getting down on her knees herself. "Come out and play. I've always wanted to play with a boy."

Considering Jewel had two brothers at home, Ford had to choke back laughter. And she wasn't pronouncing boy that way now.

His niece was clearly in love.

And Rowan was having none of it.

"We've brought biscuits," Ford declared, announcing his presence. Lady Violet gave a little embarrassed squeal and jumped to her feet. Her pinkened cheeks matched his faded upholstery.

"Biscuits?" Rowan asked. "What kind?"

The way to a Chase male's heart was through his stomach, and Ford was gratified to see Rowan was no different. "Cinnamon," he said.

"I'm still not coming out," Rowan said.

"Would you like a drink of chocolate?" Hilda coaxed, taking the warm pitcher from Ford's hands.

"Chocolate?" The boy inched forward. "Real chocolate?"

"He cannot have it," his sister said firmly. "Chocolate gives him hives."

Rowan crawled closer and bumped his head on the apron of the table. "Ah, Violet…"

She reached to grab him by the wrist. "Got you, you little monster." She dragged him out. "Now, I cannot blame you for being intimidated, but you must mind your manners. Guests don't hide under tables."

"I want to go home."

"Guests don't say things like that, either. It's very rude."

Jewel rose and brushed off the mint green skirts that Ford had spent half an hour struggling her into. He was really much better at removing female clothing than putting it on.

"Here." Jewel handed Rowan a biscuit, and he reluctantly climbed to his feet. "Eat this, and then I'll show you Uncle Ford's laboratory."

"No you won't," Ford said. Not again. He'd taken her to his laboratory yesterday afternoon, hoping she'd sit quietly while he worked. Ten minutes later he'd hauled her out—just before she'd managed to destroy the place.

"Please, Uncle Ford?"

"No."

"Puleeeeeze?" The look in Jewel's green eyes bordered on pathetic. Chase eyes, like Ford's twin sister's. Just what he needed…another Chase female who could wrap him around her little finger.

Evidently she realized her feminine wiles were working, because she turned her lavish charm on Rowan. "You must stay," she told him. "Uncle Ford has magnets, and bottles of smelly stuff, and a pen-pen—"

"Pendulum," Ford supplied, remembering too late that she didn't like to be helped.

But she was so intent on convincing Rowan, she failed to take notice. "Yes, a pen-du-lum. And lots of clocks and a telescope. That's a thing to see the stars."

"Is it?" Lady Violet asked, interest lighting her eyes. "I've never really seen the stars."

Scant moments ago, she'd looked like she was ready to haul Rowan home. Not that Ford could blame her, but his own sanity depended on Jewel's ability to befriend the boy. He had to keep the Ashcrofts here. Whatever it took.

He wouldn't go crawling back to his brother for help.

"I think Rowan might find my laboratory interesting," he said with an inward grimace. "And although the telescope cannot help you see stars in the daytime, if you stay until dark—"

"I cannot stay until dark!" Violet exclaimed with a horrified gasp.

Bloody hell. If she was stuck on propriety, he would invite her maid in to chaperone. No wonder he preferred the loose-moraled ladies at King Charles's court. These sheltered country lasses must be damned difficult to seduce.

Good thing he'd sworn off women.

"I wasn't planning to stay at all," she added. "I had thought to introduce Rowan and then leave—"

"Leave me?" Rowan interrupted, looking even more horrified than she did. "I told Mum I didn't want to come here!" He turned to his sister, burying his face in her dark blue skirts. "Would you really leave me, Violet?"

She patted him on the head. "Of course not. You must have misunderstood me." She glared at Ford as though to say, This is all your fault. And he knew, then and there, that his happy visions of working while she and her brother entertained his niece were just that—visions. As ethereal as a dream.

Lady Trentingham's fairy dust wasn't working, after all. Violet's mother wasn't his savior, and her suggestion that the children play together wasn't the answer to his prayers. As a man of science, he should have known better than to imagine such flights of fancy, even for a moment.

His plans were spinning out of control. No, make that his life…his life was spinning out of control. And unlike the centrifuge in his laboratory, this wasn't a spin he seemed equipped to stop.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning, Ford managed to get Jewel up and dressed by nine o’clock, at a cost of only two shillings. He was getting much better at this child care business. A good thing, because his dreams of hiring additional help had been dashed last night.

A letter from his solicitor had arrived, hinting at financial concerns and asking for a meeting in London at Ford's earliest convenience.

Bloody hell, he thought—it certainly wasn't convenient now. Maybe after his niece went home. In the meantime, the two of them were getting along famously this morning. Having learned what she preferred for breakfast—bread and cheese, with warm chocolate to drink—he no longer had to pay her to eat at all.

Now, if only he could bribe that Rowan boy to play with the girl, life would be rosy. True, after he’d suggested they stay into the evening, Lady Violet had hurried her brother home so fast she’d tripped over his threshold on her way out. But today was a new day, and he’d awakened with a new determination.

Desperation bred courage and ingenuity.

Getting the children together hadn’t been Violet’s idea, he reasoned, but Lady Trentingham's. Perhaps the mother would be willing to try again. That goal in mind, he settled Jewel in front of him on his horse and began riding along the river toward Trentingham Manor.

"What do you call her?" she asked.

"Well, my lady, of course. I would have to be much more familiar with her to use her given name."

Jewel's little hands tightened on his where he held her around the waist. "You're not fa-mil-i-ar with your horse? That's sad. Mama and Papa are friends with their horses."

"My horse?" He was feeling thickheaded again. Women seemed to do that to him, to his constant irritation. "Of course I know my horse. But he's not a her. He's a boy."

"Oh." His niece was silent a moment as they reached the Thames and turned to ride alongside it. "What do you call him, then?"

"Galileo."

"Gali-who?"

"Galileo. Have you never heard of him? He was born in the last century, though he lived into this one."

"Was he a horse?"

"No." Ford choked back a laugh. "He was an astronomer and a physicist and a mathematician."

"That sounds boring."

"Oh, but it isn't." Sunlight glimmered off the water, a beautiful morning to visit. Ford was sure this encounter would end better than yesterday's. "Galileo invented a horse-driven water pump, and a military compass, and something called a thermometer that measures hot and cold. And a much better telescope than the one invented before it."

"Like the one in your laboratory?"

"Well, that one is called a reflecting telescope. It's a newer one, invented by another man named Isaac Newton, only about five years ago. But he wouldn't have invented it if Galileo hadn't invented his telescope first. That's the way science works. And with his telescope, Galileo discovered moons around Jupiter—"

"Auntie Kendra told me about Jupiter. But not moons."

"She was talking about the Roman god." Knowing his twin's love of mythology, she'd likely regaled the innocent girl with bloody tales of Jupiter slaying poor souls with thunderbolts. "I'm talking about the planet."

"Like Earth?"

"But much bigger. I can show you with my telescope. And I can show you Saturn, too, which has rings around it. Galileo was the first to notice those."

"That doesn't sound boring."

Behind her, he smiled. "It's wonderful, I assure you. Did you know all the planets go around the sun?"

"Mama told me that."

"Well, another man named Nicolas Copernicus thought so first, but Galileo wrote a book to explain it."

"Galileo is lucky," she said. "Your horse, I mean. To be named after a special man." She leaned forward to stroke the animal's jet-black mane, which matched her own dark, wavy tresses. "Rowan is named for a tree."

"Did he tell you so?"

"No. He wouldn't talk to me." Ford could hear the pout in her voice. "But when you were out of the room, his sister told me that in her family, the girls are named for flowers and the boy is named for a tree."

"That's because their father loves to garden," he told her as Trentingham Manor came into view.

A wide lawn studded with shade trees sat between the river and the sprawling, red-brick mansion, its uneven skyline and irregular patterned brickwork the result of a century of alterations. In the extensive gardens set around it, Ford spotted a well-dressed man fiddling with a rose bush.

"In fact," he said, "I'd wager that's Lord Trentingham there now."

Ford hadn't seen the Earl of Trentingham in quite a few years, but as they rode nearer, he could see where Rowan had inherited his looks. The earl's dark hair glistened in the warm summer sun. He looked up, raising a hand to swipe his sweat-slicked brow.

"Who goes there?" he asked when Ford reined in beside him.

"Viscount Lakefield, my lord. Ford Chase." Ford slid off Galileo, taking Jewel with him. "And my niece, Lady Jewel Chase." The moment he set her on her feet, she raced to a nearby fountain and thrust her hands into the spurting water.

The earl narrowed his emerald green eyes. "Eh?"

"A long time since we've met, my lord." Smiling, Ford held out a hand.

Though the man shook it warmly, he still looked perplexed. "What? What did you say?"

Too late Ford remembered Violet had mentioned her father was hard of hearing. "Ford Chase!" he fairly yelled. "I'm glad to see you!"

Jewel splashed herself in the face as her eyes popped open wide. Then she giggled, and her lips parted in a grin. "Jewel Chase!" she shouted, clearly thinking it was a game.

The earl bowed. "I'm glad of your acquaintance, young lady!" he hollered back.

"Joseph!" Lady Trentingham rounded the corner of the mansion. "How many times must I remind you the rest of us can hear just fine?" Laughing softly, she came close and kissed him on the cheek. "You forgot your hat," she added, plopping a wide-brimmed specimen on his head.

"My thanks, love." Apparently grateful for the shade, the earl clipped a blood-red bloom and presented it to his wife with a flourish.

"Just what I needed," she murmured. But the smile she sent her husband was genuine.

"I'm wearing your perfume," Jewel piped up.

The woman turned to her. "Well, then, come closer, and let me see if it's the right scent for such a lovely girl."

Jewel ran right over, wiping her wet palms on her dress. "Do I smell good?"

Lady Trentingham leaned down and sniffed. "You smell glorious."

A radiant smile transformed Jewel's face. "Will Rowan like it, do you think?"

"She's rather fond of your son," Ford said.

"So my daughter told me." Lady Trentingham's eyes danced as she looked up at him. "She also told me the feeling was less than mutual."

"I'm afraid she was right," he lamented. "And I was so hoping the children would get along."

"I'd wager you were." She looked contemplative. "Men, you know, they sometimes take a while to come around." Her husband had resumed puttering around, but her gaze on him was unmistakably affectionate. "My Rowan takes after his father, I'm afraid, but I'm sure, given time, he'll come to appreciate this delightful young lady."

Ford watched as Jewel went back to the fountain, sighing when she splashed her dress. Another change of clothing in his future. He could already imagine Hilda complaining about the additional laundry and ironing. And him having nothing to do but listen, because he couldn't work with a child running loose.

"Lady Trentingham…" Desperation setting in, he favored her with one of his famous seductive smiles. "Do you suppose your son might give Jewel another chance?"

Perching a knee on one of the window seats in the gold-and-cream-toned drawing room, Violet peered out the window at the blur she knew was the viscount and her parents.

"What do you think they're saying?" she asked her sisters.

Rose pressed closer to the panes, fussing with a floral arrangement she'd set in the window niche. "They seem to be discussing that little girl who's playing in the fountain."

"Jewel," Violet said. "The one I told you about who fancies herself in love with Rowan."

Lily's fingers glided over the harpsichord, producing a lyrical tune. "How sweet."

"How absurd," Rose countered. "She's too young to be in love." She patted her deep chestnut curls. "Unlike me. I do declare, that man out there looks mighty fine."

"He's too intellectual for you," Violet snapped, then wondered why she should suddenly be so short tempered. "Does Mum look like she's pleased to see them?"

Lily didn't miss a beat as she looked up and out the window. "Very."

Rose leaned her hands on the sill. "Now Lord Lakefield has lifted the girl, and Mum is running a finger down her cheek." She turned to Violet. "I think she must like her…do you suppose Mum's already matchmaking for Rowan?"

Rose sounded genuinely worried that their little brother might beat his older sisters to the altar. Which was absolutely ridiculous.

"Well," Violet said, "she's not going to get me to take Rowan to Lakefield again. He was miserable." The blurred figures were getting bigger. "Egad. They're coming inside. All of them. Even Father."

The music stopped as Lily stood, looking puzzled. "Why shouldn't they come inside?"

"I…no reason." The sudden quiet was unsettling. Violet drew a deep breath and found herself smoothing her russet skirts, which wasn't like her. She pulled some of her hair forward to drape over one shoulder, then dropped her hand as Jewel bounded into the room ahead of the adults.

The girl skidded to a stop on the carpeted floor, backing Violet against the wall in her enthusiasm. "Lady Violet!" Throwing her arms wide, she hugged her around the knees. "Where's Rowan?"

"Having his lessons." Looking down into the child's face, Violet couldn't help but be charmed. "Would you care to meet my sisters? This is Lady Rose and Lady Lily."

"I'm pleased to make your ac-quain-tance," Jewel said quite properly. Violet's sisters exchanged an amused glance as the girl bobbed a curtsy. "This room is very fancy," she said.

It was, Violet supposed, though having lived here most of her life, she didn't think about it much. They stood on a lovely gold-and-cream-toned Oriental carpet. The room's dark oak paneling was studded with gold rosettes, the ceiling's cornice heavily carved and gilded, the furniture upholstered in gold-and-cream silk damask. From where she stood, the details looked fuzzy, but she'd seen it all up close.

"Why, thank you," Chrystabel said.

Jewel rocked up on her toes. "When will Rowan be finished with his schooling?"

"Later today, I'm afraid. He has another lesson after dinner."

"Arithmetic," Rose informed them. "He hates it."

"A rhythmic tic?" Her father nodded sagely. "I would hate a rhythmic tic as well. Quite annoying."

"Arithmetic," Mum repeated loudly, laying a hand on Father's arm. "We were talking about Rowan, and how he hates mathematics." An amused smile on her face, she turned back to their guests. "Poor boy. I've promised him a sweet after the lesson."

Jewel tugged on her uncle's sleeve. "Can Rowan come to our house for a sweet? Oh, puleeeeeze?"

Lord Lakefield grinned down at his niece, a grin Violet suddenly wished were aimed at her instead. It was broad and white and just a bit devilish, extending all the way to his brilliant blue eyes. "Excellent idea, baby," he said.

When Mum smiled, Violet could see it coming.

Oh, no.

Trying to look casual, she leaned against the dark paneling, then shot straight when one of the gold rosette studs jabbed her in the posterior. "I don't believe Rowan will be interested," she blurted out, not nearly as composed as she'd planned.

Mum's smile only widened. "I'm sure Rowan would love to visit for a sweet," she said to Lord Lakefield, as though Violet's words had never been spoken. "Will three o'clock suit you? Madame is due here this afternoon for another fitting for Lily and Rose, but Violet will be happy to bring him."

Jewel jumped up and down.

Violet shook her head, but no one took heed.

"What?" Violet's father asked his wife. "What did you say, my love?"

CHAPTER EIGHT

In the three hours since Ford and Jewel had arrived back at Lakefield, his niece had suddenly become very thick with Harry, Ford's elderly houseman. Although Ford held no illusions that the man and girl would become fast friends, he'd jumped at the opportunity for freedom. Now, sitting in his attic laboratory, he paused to listen to little giggles floating through the open window.

"Mud," he heard Harry say. "Clay. It's the exact color of the upholstery."

What could mud possibly have to do with anything?

"Oh, good!" The sound of clapping hands accompanied Jewel's childish voice. "We must hurry, then, so there will be time for it to start drying. And we need something fun to put at his place, so he won't be looking."

"Brilliant, Lady Jewel. I've just the thing…"

Their voices faded around a corner of the house. Shaking his head, Ford focused on the gears held in his hand. His thoughts returned to his current project, which was much more interesting than mud.

Watches were so inefficient—the single hand only approximated the hour. Within the last few years, another hand had been added to clocks, one that ticked off the minutes and made time-keeping much more precise. But since watches weren't pendulum-driven, the mechanism that drove a clock's minute hand wouldn't work inside them.

Yet it should be possible to add a minute hand to a watch. A more accurate personal timepiece would be practical, functional—a true benefit to mankind. And after years of thought and experimentation, he was so close to making it work…

"Your guests have arrived, my lord." Bustling in, Hilda started flicking a dust rag at his various instruments. "Don't you think you should be downstairs?"

Rowan clinging to her skirts, Violet followed Jewel toward Lord Lakefield's dining room, wondering how it was that Mum had talked her into dragging the poor boy here again.

And her maid Margaret hadn't even come along this time! Mum had given the woman half a day off. Margaret was being courted, and Mum—who had introduced her to the "nice footman" from a neighboring estate—thought this a perfect chance for the maid to spend some time with her beau.

How very like Mum to risk her own daughter's reputation for the sake of someone else's romance. Question Convention. Sometimes, Violet thought, the Ashcrofts took their motto a bit too seriously.

Most of Lakefield had seen better days, but the dining room struck Violet as particularly dreary. The paneling was so dark it appeared nearly black, and although the built-in cupboards boasted glass in the doors, very few dishes were displayed inside. The room's color scheme was an uninspiring mélange of browns. Everything was clean, though—the viscount had a decent housekeeper in Hilda.

"Here, Rowan," Jewel said brightly as they entered. "Sit here." She pulled out one of the faded tan chairs. "Right here. I put a toy here for you."

"At the table?" Violet asked.

"Uncle Ford lets me play at the table. As long as I leave him to his thoughts."

Violet would lay odds Jewel's parents didn't feel the same way. But she smiled as she watched her brother race to the chair and claim the toy, a cup and ball.

"Rowan…" she prompted.

"My thanks," he murmured absently, making the ball fly up and catching it in the cup with a satisfying—to him, anyway—bang. He grinned and did it again. Well, his mood was improved, at least. Perhaps this visit wouldn't go as badly as the first one.

"Oooh, you're very good at that," Jewel all but purred, sidling up to Rowan.

He smiled, making Violet think perhaps she could learn a thing or two from Jewel about flirting.

Jewel touched him on the arm. When he looked up at her, she fluttered her lashes. "Rowan, will you show me how to do that? I'm just a butterfingers. I miss the cup every time."

Faith. Rose could learn a thing or two from her about flirting.

But then Jewel reached for the toy, and Rowan jerked away, his frown back in place. "Mine."

"Rowan," Violet scolded, silently cursing her mother for sending her here again. "Behave yourself."

Jewel looked crestfallen. Knowing what it was like to feel awkward with boys, Violet studied the girl. The sash on her powder blue dress was tied very crookedly in back—the viscount's work, no doubt.

Perhaps some female companionship would ease the sting of male rejection. "Here, let me fix your bow," Violet offered brightly, stepping up to retie it.

"Good afternoon," came a low voice from beside her.

She turned, blinking when she saw Lord Lakefield. Silver braid gleamed on his deep gray velvet suit, rather fancy for an afternoon at home. But she had to admit he looked divine.

Feeling underdressed in her plain russet gown, she licked her suddenly dry lips. "Good afternoon, my lord."

"Please, just call me Ford," he said with a smile.

That was so improper, she wasn't sure what to say in return. Should she ask him to call her Violet? Would doing so invite too much familiarity? The oldest of four, she knew how to deal with children, but men remained a mystery. Especially eligible, handsome men—and Viscount Lakefield was by far the handsomest man she'd ever seen.

His smile faded. "Violet?"

Egad, he was calling her Violet already. Perhaps she should just try his name in her head. Ford. It seemed to fit. But when she opened her mouth, it felt entirely too scandalous to say aloud. She seemed to have lost her tongue.

This was ridiculous.

Evidently her silence had stretched long enough. "I'm just going to call you Violet," he said blithely. "We're neighbors, after all. Rowan, my man, what have you there?"

"A cup and ball." Bang, bang. "Lady Jewel gave it to me."

"Did she? I wonder where she got that old thing?"

Violet tore her gaze from the viscount—Ford—and glanced at the toy. "It does look rather used," she said, finally finding her voice. "Ancient, actually."

"Harry gave it to me," Jewel said.

Ford nodded. "My equally ancient houseman."

His housekeeper walked in and set a pitcher of ale on the table. "Is that what my husband was doing with you? I was wondering what you two were up to this morning. That toy once belonged to our son—did Harry tell you that?"

Jewel nodded, then her voice took on that flirting quality. "Isn't Rowan good at it?"

"Very," Ford said, sharing a smile with Violet that caught her by surprise. Clearly he was on to his niece's ploys. He waved Violet toward a chair. "Won't you sit down?"

"I'll be back," Hilda said, "after I get my tart out of the oven."

Seating himself beside Violet, Ford reached for the ale and her cup. At Trentingham Manor, servants did the serving. For a nobleman, he didn't seem to have very many. "How was your afternoon?" he asked.

"Fine," she said, watching him pour. He had very nice hands, long fingers and square nails. She wracked her brain for a topic of conversation. "I'm reading a book by Francis Bacon."

He filled the children's cups, adding water to both. "Philosophy?" he asked, his tone cool but courteous.

"Yes."

"Of course. You did mention you study philosophy." He poured himself some ale, then drank like he needed it. "And what does Francis Bacon have to say?"

She sipped while she thought of a reply, wondering why she cared so much that he liked her. "He believes in liberty of speech."

"That's admirable." He drained his cup.

"He thinks knowledge and human power are synonymous."

He smiled vaguely as he refilled it.

"Do you agree?" she asked, feeling more awkward by the moment.

"Oh, yes. Yes, I do."

She sighed with relief when Hilda waddled in with four plates and started setting one in front of each of them. A welcome distraction. Steam from the plain apple tart wafted to Violet's nose, smelling delicious. She lifted her spoon.

"I don't like apples," Rowan said. "Do you have cherry tart?"

"Do you have manners?" Hilda retorted with a glare. Muttering to herself, she left the room.

Violet wanted to slip beneath the table. "Francis Bacon says," she rushed out, "that if a man will begin with certainties, he will end in doubts, but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he will end in certainties."

Ford finally looked interested. "That sounds very much like the new science. One puts forth an assumption and then endeavors to prove it."

"So then," she said, warming to the subject, "perhaps philosophy and science are compatible."

"Perhaps they are." He looked surprised or dubious; she wasn't sure which. She wished she could see him clearer. "You know," he said, "some philosophers belong to the Royal Society."

Bang, bang.

"Rowan," she said quietly. "We're trying to talk."

For once in her life, she was enjoying a conversation with a man.

Bang.

"Rowan!" Her voice was sharper than she'd intended, and her brother looked up in midtoss, the toy flying out of his hand. It hit the wall with a thwack, and she grimaced.

"Sorry," Rowan muttered.

"What was that?" Hilda asked, hurrying in to investigate the noise.

"A mistake." Rowan rose to go fetch the toy—or rather, he attempted to. How odd. From where Violet sat, her brother seemed unable to rise. His feet didn't reach the floor, but he put his hands on the seat and pushed, his face turning red with strain.

Jewel burst out laughing.

"Jewel," Ford murmured. "You didn't."

"Oh-oh-oh, yes, I did," she chortled. "D-don't you th-think he deserved it?"

"Deserved what?" Violet asked. "What did you do to him?"

"She stuck me," Rowan said, and for a moment, Violet thought he meant with a pin. But he wasn't crying—in fact, he didn't even look angry. He didn't look happy, either. He just looked blank. "She stuck me to the chair."

"With what?" she asked, aghast.

"Harry," Hilda muttered dangerously, bustling from the room. "I'll kill the man."

"I stuck him with glue," Jewel explained proudly between giggles. "And mud to make it brown so he wouldn't see it on the chair. And the toy was to make him sit down without noticing."

Violet felt as blank as Rowan looked. Her mouth hung open. When Ford reached over and pushed up on her chin to close it, she hadn't enough wits about her to even chide him for touching her. "What—how—why—" she stammered.

"It was a jest," he clarified. "A practical joke."

"A jest," she murmured.

"A Chase family tradition." He turned to his niece with a grin. "Most especially Jewel's father's tradition."

Jewel hiccupped. "Tell me again about Papa's pranks. One from long ago."

His eyes narrowed for a moment, deep in memory. "Once, when I was young, Colin tied me to a chair while I was sitting there reading a book." He leaned back, lifting his ale. "In some way or other—to this day I haven't figured out how—he managed to get the rope around my body but not my arms or hands, so I didn't notice."

For some reason, Violet found it all too easy to picture him not noticing.

Rowan stopped kicking. "What happened?"

"He left." Ford paused for a sip. "The knots were behind the chair, so even after I did notice, I couldn't reach them. I yelled for help, but the only response was the sound of his laughter."

Envisioning that, too, Violet's lips twitched. "Did he rescue you?"

"Hours later. I'd nearly finished the book."

"You just kept reading?" she asked with a barely suppressed smile. Faith, even she wouldn't read under those circumstances.

"What else could I do?" he said dismissively. "At least Rowan here won't have to wait so long." Setting down his ale, he rose. "Let me free you, my man," he said, lifting Rowan into his arms, chair and all.

Suddenly, seeing her brother hanging in midair stuck to a chair, and visualizing a bookish young Ford the same way, the smile that had been threatening broke free on Violet's face. Jewel was right. Given Rowan's petulance, he deserved the jest, and a rollicking good one it was, too.

"More stories," Jewel said.

"Later, baby." Carrying Rowan out the door, Ford flashed his niece a grin. "Colin will be proud of you when he hears this one."

And Violet had thought the Ashcrofts were eccentric.

CHAPTER NINE

"All right, Rowan. Let's see what we can do here." Ford set the chair down in his laboratory and turned away to locate a beaker.

"Holy Christ," Rowan said.

Shocked at the youngster's language, Ford swiveled back and stared.

"Pardon." But the lad didn't look sorry. "What are all these things?"

Ford let his gaze wander the chamber's contents, trying to see it through the boy's eyes. A full quarter of the huge attic space was filled with ovens and bellows, a furnace, cistern, and a still. Mismatched shelves held scales, drills, and funnels. Magnets, air pumps, dissecting knives, a pendulum, and numerous bottles of chemicals sat haphazardly on several tables. More things were shoved into half-opened chests of drawers. A larger table beneath the window—Ford's workbench—was littered with the inner workings of several dismantled watches.

It was Ford's playroom, and he was happier here than anywhere else. "Scientific instruments, mostly." He grabbed a beaker. "That's a microscope," he added, waving behind him.

"What does it do?"

"It magnifies. You can put something beneath the lens and see it up close." Forgetting the task at hand, Ford reached to a table for a book. "Here, look at this. Micrographia. It was written by a man named Robert Hooke." Opening the red leather cover, he set the book in Rowan's lap.

Rowan looked down at the title page. "'Some Phys-phys—'"

"Physiological," Ford said.

"That's a big word." The boy read the next words slowly and carefully. "'…Descriptions of Minute Bodies made by Mag—'"

"Magnifying."

"'Magnifying Glasses with…'"

"'Observations and Inquiries Thereupon,'" Ford finished for him. "The book is drawings of things seen under a microscope."

Unlike Jewel, Rowan apparently didn't mind help. Nodding, he turned to a random page and gawked. "Whatever is this?"

"One of the pictures Hooke drew. Of a feather. That's what it looks like very close up."

"Zounds." Rowan stared for a moment, then flipped the page. "What is this?"

"A louse." Ford unfolded the large illustration, revealing the insect in all its horrible glory. The creature was oddly shaped, with a conical head and big goggling eyes.

Goggling himself, Rowan lifted a hand to his hair. "That's what lice look like?"

"Up close, bigger than the eye can see alone." Pleased that Rowan was interested, Ford teased him with an expression of horror. "You don't have any lice, do you?"

"I hope not. I don't think so. Not now." Tugging his fingers from his hair, the boy turned to another drawing. "This is a spider?"

Filling the beaker from the cistern, he glanced over. "A shepherd spider."

"It's particularly ugly," Rowan said, his tone one of fascinated glee.

Remembering the glue, and his guest waiting downstairs, Ford rescued the book. "This is in the way."

As he set Micrographia on a table, Rowan's eyes followed it covetously. "May I take it home?"

"No." Ford sensed an opportunity. "But you can look at it whenever you're here."

"When may I come back?"

"To play with Jewel?" He knelt by the lad's chair and, after removing his shoes, poured the water over his lap.

"Zounds, that's cold!"

"It'll dissolve the glue." Standing, he attempted to pull the boy off the chair by gripping him under the armpits. "I thought you didn't like Jewel."

At that, Rowan squirmed.

"Hold still, will you?" Ford put a foot on the chair's lower rung to keep it on the floor. "You've certainly seemed to do your best to avoid her so far. And after this trick—"

"It was clever," the boy admitted.

"Yes, it was."

"Lady Jewel is…different," Rowan said. "I've never met a girl who would plan what she did. My sisters sure would never. Lily cares only for her animals, and Rose only wants to go to balls. And Violet…Violet always has to learn new things. Can you imagine a girl liking to study?"

Yes, Ford agreed silently, Violet was the oddest of the bunch. Certainly nothing like the type of woman he'd be looking for if he hadn't sworn off women altogether.

While he mused on that, Rowan's breeches finally came unstuck with an impressive sucking sound. Ford knelt to unlace them and began to pull them down.

"No!" The lad's hands clenched on Ford's shoulders. "I'll be arse-naked."

"Well, you can't sit or lean on anything wearing those." Ford sighed. "I'll go find you some clean breeches. Stay where you are," he added before taking himself off. "And don't touch anything."

When he returned a few minutes later, Rowan waved a hand at some bottles of chemicals. "What are those for?"

"Alchemy." Ford made a show of shutting the door behind him. "There. You're safe from prying eyes."

The boy pulled off his breeches and hurried to put Ford's on. "What's alchemy?" he asked, gazing down at the gaping waistband with dismay.

"Alchemy is a science." Ford leaned to tug the laces tighter, but it was hopeless. He scanned the tables and shelves, searching for twine, silently cursing himself for the room's usual state of disarray. "We alchemists—King Charles is one, too—are working to find the Philosopher's Stone."

Rowan clutched the brown breeches with both hands. "Violet likes philosophy."

"Well, the Philosopher's Stone has little to do with philosophy. It's a name for a secret—a way to turn other metals into pure gold."

"Holy Chr—" The boy caught himself this time. "I mean…can you do that?"

"No. Or not yet—no one can. But many are trying. It's said that in days past, men have accomplished it more than once, but the secret has always been lost." Finally spotting the twine, he walked over to fetch it.

"Why didn't the men write it down?"

"At least one did, in a book—a very ancient book called Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. But the book is lost, too."

"Are you looking for it?"

"No. It's been lost for a very long time. Nearly three centuries." He knelt by the boy. "After all that time, perhaps lost isn't the right word. I suspect it was probably destroyed."

"Maybe in a fire," Rowan suggested, sounding fascinated at the prospect.

"Maybe." Making a mental note to keep the lad far from combustibles, Ford bunched the breeches around his waist and circled it with the twine. "But if the secret has been figured out before, it stands to reason we should be able to repeat that success, doesn't it? That's what half of this equipment is for," he concluded, knotting the twine tightly. "Alchemy."

The crotch of the breeches hung to the boy's knees, and the kneebands to his ankles, but he didn't seem to notice. Evidently relieved to be decently covered at last, he smiled happily and lifted a bottle of bright yellow fluid.

His eyes gleamed when he looked back to Ford. "Can I help you find the philosophy rock?"

"Philosopher's Stone." Ford considered. He could turn this interest to his advantage. "Maybe. Maybe you and Jewel together can help me."

Rowan set down the bottle. "Maybe she'll teach me some practical jokes."

"I'm sure your mother would love that," Ford said dryly. But his heart took flight. Finally, Lady Trentingham's plan seemed to be working—thanks to Jewel's prank.

Whoever would have thought?

"Let's go down," he said. "Hilda will be mighty vexed if we don't finish her tart."

As Ford led him from the room, Rowan gave a wistful sigh. "What other science do you do?"

"Astronomy, mathematics, physics, physiology…"

The boy jumped down the staircase one step at a time. Clunk. A step. "I hate mathematics." Clunk. Another step.

"But mathematics can be fascinating. Like a puzzle."

Clunk. "Not when Mr. Baxter teaches it."

"Mr. Baxter?"

"My tutor." Clunk. Clunk. "He's boring." Around they went, past the middle level to the ground floor, Rowan clunking all the long way. "Jewel said you can show me the stars."

"Indeed. If you're here of an evening."

"Really?" At the bottom, Rowan pushed past him and ran straight into the dining room. "Violet!"

Arriving in the chamber, Ford saw her gaze sweep the boy from head to toe. She bit her lip—to keep from laughing, he was sure—but her eyes danced with humor as she looked pointedly to Jewel.

"I'm sorry about your clothes," Jewel told Rowan obediently, if not quite sincerely. Clearly Violet had had a talk with her in the men's absence.

Rowan shrugged. "That's all right." Hitching up Ford's too-long breeches, he turned to his sister. "Lord Lakefield says if I play with Jewel, he'll show me science. And the stars. Will you bring me?"

"You're willing to play with Jewel?" A note of incredulity tinged Violet's voice. "After what she did?"

"She's not like other girls. Will you bring me again tonight? To see the stars?"

She looked hesitant, but perhaps intrigued as well.

"You're certainly welcome," Ford rushed to tell her. "It looks to be a clear night."

"Maybe," she said. "I'll think about it."

Ford mentally crossed his fingers. If Rowan could persuade her to bring him back, surely he'd tire of seeing "science" after a short while. Then Violet could take the children elsewhere, and he would be left to work in peace.

At this point, even a couple of hours sounded like heaven.

CHAPTER TEN

"She wrecked his breeches, Mum!" Violet paced her mother's perfumery, skimming a finger along the neatly labeled vials. "It was amusing, I'll admit, but I don't think all that glue and mud will wash out."

"It was a harmless prank, dear." Chrystabel calmly plucked violet petals and tossed them into her distillation bowl. "And you did say Rowan wants to go back."

"Yes, but I cannot understand why." Pacing to one of the window niches, Violet perched a knee on the bench seat and leaned to look out. "How can he like her after this? Especially when he didn't like her before."

"I've never understood how men's minds work. Does your philosophy give you no clue to that?"

Everything below was a blur. "'It may be said of men in general that they are ungrateful and fickle,'" she quoted.

"And who said that?"

"Machiavelli." She turned from the window. "Now Rowan wants to go tonight to see the stars. And I fear he'll want to go back again tomorrow."

"Isn't that what we've been hoping would happen all along?" Mum's fingers flew as she pulled purple petals, more graceful than Violet could ever hope to be. "What, pray tell, is your problem with this development?"

Violet seated herself at the table and grabbed a bunch of flowers. "He doesn't want to go alone. And I don't want to go with him."

"Now, Violet. Who said that thing about being charitable? You read it to me last week."

"Francis Bacon again," she said with a sigh. "'In charity there is no excess.'"

"A wise man. It would be a charity, for certain, for you to bring Rowan to play. He's bored here in the countryside with Benjamin away." The only boy Rowan's age within walking distance, Benjamin was his favorite playmate. "And a charity to Jewel as well, stuck in that house with no other children. And you'd be giving Lord Lakefield some respite. Surely he has better things to do than watch that girl."

Agitated, Violet started plucking petals. "So I should do it instead? Am I not allowed to have better things to do?" The scent of her namesake flower failed to soothe her. "Can't Rose go?"

Mum frowned at Violet's busy hands. "Rose is too young, I've told you." She tossed a bare stem into a basket. "Besides, she has no sense where men are concerned, and we've all heard her jabbering about the 'handsome viscount.'"

"And he'd take advantage of her, but not me. That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

"Violet—"

"It's true, Mum, and we both know it." She plucked faster. "I'm plain next to Rose and Lily. And men pretend to be deaf rather than listen to me prattle about my interests."

Chrystabel touched her arm. "Violet, your father really is hard of—"

"No male will ever show interest in me unless it's for my inheritance." Ten thousand pounds. Added to her dowry of three thousand, it would tempt many men to wed a mule.

"Violet—"

"I'm not a featherbrain, Mum." Her hand fisted, crushing a flower. "I know I don't turn men's heads."

Because Violet had seen her parents' own successful marriage—because she would settle for nothing less than their true love for herself—she was sure she wouldn't ever wed. But Mum would never stand to hear such a thing. And as Violet had said, she wasn't a featherbrain, so she knew better than to say it aloud.

She sighed, knowing that mere weeks from now, when she turned one-and-twenty and came into the money her grandfather had left her, the offers could very well begin to come fast and furious. She'd have a harder time putting Mum off then.

But she would persevere. And someday—many years from now when she was a content, aged spinster—she would use her inheritance to fund her dream.

"Violet." Her brown eyes filled with concern, Chrystabel gently pulled the bruised bloom from Violet's hand. "You may not look like your sisters, but you're a very pretty girl. Especially to those who love you. Which philosopher said that beauty is brought by judgment of the eye?"

"That wasn't a philosopher. It was Shakespeare in Love's Labour's Lost."

"Oh."

"But he was paraphrasing Plato. 'Beholding beauty with the eye of the mind.'"

Chrystabel grinned. "See, dear? Listen to Plato."

Rose and Lily burst into the room. "Look, Mum!" Lily waved a letter. "A messenger just delivered this from Lakefield. And he said he was instructed to wait for an answer."

"The oldest messenger I've ever seen," Rose added. "He's bald." She said it as though that were the most disgusting physical trait she could imagine.

"That's not a messenger," Violet said. "That's Harry, Lord Lakefield's houseman." As she'd hurried Rowan out the door, she'd seen Hilda's husband cowering in a corner while his wife scolded him for his part in Jewel's prank. The man was quite definitely bald, although Violet hadn't found that at all off-putting.

Maybe beauty was in the eye of the beholder.

She rose and went to her sisters. "Let me see the letter." She snatched it from Lily's hand.

"It's not for you," Rose said, grabbing it from Violet. "It's addressed to Rowan." So saying, she slipped a fingernail beneath the sloppy red wax seal and snapped it off.

"Rose!" Chrystabel chided.

"You wouldn't want to give him a letter without reading it first, Mum, would you? It could be improper for one so young." Without waiting for her mother's answer, Rose scanned the page. "The handwriting is rather messy," she commented, then began reading. "'Dear Rowan.'" She looked up. "Rather familiar salute, don't you think?"

"Goodness, Rose," Lily said, uncharacteristically impatient. "Must you criticize every word?" She snatched the letter back from her sister. "'Dear Rowan,'" she repeated. "'I am sorry about your clothes. But it was funny. I hope you will come see the stars. Love, Jewel.'"

"'Love, Jewel?' Love?" Violet rolled her eyes toward the elaborate plastered ceiling. The blurry curlicues up there seemed in keeping with the little girl's intricate seduction.

Lily smiled dreamily. "Yesterday when you brought Rowan back, you said Jewel was in love."

"I was exaggerating. And to write it…" She couldn't imagine declaring herself so casually on a piece of paper. Writing was permanent, important. Once something was in writing, it was there forever.

That was one of the reasons she burned to publish a book.

"I'm in love, too," Rose declared.

Violet blinked. "With whom?"

"With Lord Lakefield, you goose. He's so handsome. And to instruct his niece to write a letter to Rowan…well, it just goes to show he's a true romantic." Looking rather theatrical, she laid a graceful hand on the cleavage exposed in the low neckline of her periwinkle gown. "Why, it's almost enough to make me overlook the fact that he's poor as a church mouse."

"What a thing to say, Rose!"

Her hand dropped. "Well, lucky for me, it doesn't matter, does it? Thanks to Grandpapa, when I turn twenty-one I'll have enough money to nab whomever I like, rich or destitute."

Violet usually tried to be patient, but she couldn't help gritting her teeth. "Thanks to providence, that won't be for four years, by which time we can hope you will have grown up."

"Girls," Chrystabel warned. "That's enough." She turned to Violet. "Lord Lakefield's houseman is waiting. Will you be taking Rowan to see the stars?"

"I'll bring him," Rose offered.

Taking a cue from her husband, Chrystabel pretended not to hear. "Violet?"

"Yes, I'll do it, Mum," Violet said with an elaborate sigh.

But it was mostly for show. She had to admit, she was curious to see the stars. And for some odd reason, she felt a need to save Ford from a frivolous girl like her sister. Not that she didn't love Rose, but a man of his intellect deserved someone whose beauty was more than skin-deep.

And it was very well done of him to have made Jewel write an apology, though she wondered how he could have neglected to supervise its contents before sending the letter.

Love, indeed.

Hitching herself forward on one of the drawing room's faded red chairs, Jewel jumped one of Ford's checkers with hers and palmed her new captive. "Your turn. Will Rowan come tonight, do you think?"

"I have no idea what he'll decide. I don't understand children."

"But Uncle Ford, you like children, don't you?"

He'd never thought he had. But as he looked at his charming niece, he didn't have the heart to say so. "I like you." Studying his position on the black-and-white board, he lifted one of his dark-stained counters. "And I'd wager Rowan does, too," he added to put a smile on her face. "He seemed much more fond of you after your jest. That was brilliant, baby. You certainly know your way to a young man's heart."

Click-click-click. Three diagonal jumps over her natural wood pieces, and his darker man was at her end of the board. "King me," he said with a self-satisfied smile.

Draughts. He was reduced to playing draughts. And she'd beaten him three times already. He couldn't remember the last time someone had beaten him at draughts; he must have been seven years old.

For all his intentions to come home to Lakefield and bury himself in his projects, the opposite seemed to be happening. He was concentrating on children and fretting over his shabby estate. Rather than unlocking the secrets of the universe, his efforts were focused on persuading a lady named Violet to spend as much time here as possible.

Jewel crowned his piece with one of the hostages she'd taken. "Do you like Rowan?"

"I do. He's very interested in my laboratory." Too interested. But at least the boy had a good brain and a healthy curiosity.

"Do you think Rowan's big sister is pretty?"

Did he? He'd initially thought Violet was pleasant looking at best. But he'd come to realize she had a fresh and wholesome look about her that he found surprisingly appealing.

"She's attractive," he said.

They both looked up as Hilda came in. "Harry seems to have disappeared," the housekeeper said. "Where is he?"

Ford shrugged. "I don't know." There didn't seem to be much he knew these days.

"He went to Rowan's house," Jewel said nonchalantly, jumping two more of Ford's men.

Hilda smoothed her wide white apron. "And why is that?"

"I asked him to take a letter there."

"A letter?" Ford frowned at the board, where his pieces seemed to be disappearing at an alarming rate.

"A letter to Rowan," his niece clarified. "An ap-ap—" She glared at him, as though daring him to help her. "An a-pol-o-gy."

"You wrote a letter?" Hilda asked.

"You wrote a letter?" Ford echoed. "All by yourself?"

"Well, I know how to write, you know. Mama taught me. What's so hard about that?"

Ford took his turn, removing none of Jewel's pieces. "It's not the writing of it, baby, it's thinking to do so in the first place. I'm quite impressed."

"Mama says even a tomboy should have good manners."

"I like the way your mother thinks," Hilda said.

"Besides, I like getting letters. Nobody ever sends me letters." Melting at her pout, Ford made a mental note to send her a letter after she went home. "I thought a letter might make Rowan like me."

"He likes you," came a voice from the doorway. Harry walked in, his florid face split by a big smile.

Suddenly Hilda's face wore a frown. "You could tell me when you leave," she scolded, then immediately bustled out past him.

"Women," Harry muttered. "Always so demanding." He turned to Jewel with a courtly bow. "Present company excepted, of course."

Ford stared. Clearly the girl had won him over. Just as she had Rowan. She looked so innocent in her powder blue gown. So young and vulnerable. Which sat at odds with her fully developed feminine wiles and ingenuity.

Jewel bounced on the ancient chair so hard he feared it might break. "What did Rowan say?"

"Well, I didn't talk to him, you understand." Harry related the information as seriously as if he were a hired spy. "But his oldest sister came out and said she would bring him after the sunset to see the stars."

Jewel squealed and wriggled in her chair, so excited she botched her next few moves. As a consequence, Ford won the game. And Violet was coming with Rowan.

Things were looking up.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rowan climbed into the carriage and motioned his sister after him. "Hurry, Violet. It's dark already."

"The sky isn't going away." Still amazed his attitude had reversed so quickly, Violet took her cloak from her mother and settled the forest green velvet over her shoulders. "Where's Margaret?"

"I gave her the evening off, dear. Hilda and Harry will be there. And Lord Lakefield is a gentleman. I'm sure we can trust him to behave."

Especially with the likes of her, Violet imagined, wondering why she found that familiar truth suddenly distressing.

"I've instructed Willets to come back for you at ten," Chrystabel added, referring to their coachman. "Two hours ought to be plenty long enough to stare at the sky."

Violet looked up. Except for a milky blur, she'd never seen the stars. "I wonder what I might see there?"

"The stars are beautiful," her mother said. "Like diamonds sparkling on a black velvet gown."

Smiling at the fanciful description, Violet gazed at the heavens. She wondered if the stars really twinkled, and if she might be able to wish on one. Excitement fluttered in her stomach.

"I'll see you later, then, Mum." She kissed her mother's floral-scented cheek and followed Rowan into the carriage.

A short while later they mounted Lakefield House's steps. Rowan didn't hide behind Violet this time. Jewel opened the door before Violet could lift the knocker, but Violet had anticipated that and didn't fall into the house.

Which was a pity, since Ford was there to catch her.

He was still wearing the nice suit, making her feel underdressed in her simple cotton gown. But that was absurd—she'd only come to look at the sky.

Instead of ushering her in, he stepped outside, a bit too close for her comfort. "I have the telescope set up in the garden," he said. "Follow me."

For such a tall man, he moved gracefully. As he headed down the steps, she realized she'd been holding her breath.

Breathe, she commanded herself. This was ridiculous.

He was just a man. She couldn't remember ever being this nervous around one, but that was probably because she'd done an admirable job of avoiding them altogether. Surely these feelings would disappear once she got to know him better. Which she seemed destined to do should Rowan have his way.

Holding a torch, Ford led her around the side of the house and down a path toward an area so overgrown she'd be loath to call it a garden. More like a jungle, she thought, hiding a smile.

The children tagged along behind, their voices coming out of the darkness. "Are you angry with me?" Jewel asked Rowan.

He seemed to consider for a moment. "Will you help me plan a jest on my sisters?"

"Of course I will."

"Then I'm not angry."

Listening to the exchange, Violet made a mental note to be on the alert for "jests." If Rowan thought gluing someone to a chair was acceptable, only God knew what he and Jewel would come up with together.

In the midst of a tangle of vines sat a ring of scraggly hedges. They all followed Ford through an opening in the greenery. A new one, from the looks of it.

"Uncle Ford hacked at the plants with an ax today," Jewel proudly informed them. "After Harry came back and said you would come. Wasn't that nice?"

Violet thought she heard Ford groan.

A circle of wooden benches looked newly uncovered as well. Apparently he'd been busy. In the center, atop a stone sundial, a long tube sat balanced on three spindly legs.

Ford gestured at it with a flourish. "The telescope."

"How nice," she replied, hoping she sounded suitably impressed. But the telescope wasn't exactly awe-inspiring. It was just a skinny, thin thing. Her hopes plummeted. This hardly looked like an object that could work magic.

He set the torch in a nearby stand. "Quarter moon tonight," he said, grasping the tube and maneuvering it to point in the moon's direction.

Curious, Violet moved closer. Over the fresh scent of recently cut plant life, she could smell his fragrance, something spicy. And a trace of scented soap. Patchouli, she decided, recalling the aroma from one of her mother's vials. Some years ago, Father had arranged for a number of the minty shrubs to be brought from India. He'd planted them in his magnificent garden so Mum could distill the leaves.

"A partial moon is fortunate for viewing." Ford had closed one eye and focused the other through the tube. "A full moon can be too bright and make the stars around it fade." He made a final adjustment. "Would you like to see?"

"Me first!" Jewel said.

Rowan jumped up and down. "No, me!"

Jewel stepped in front of him. "Me!"

"Well, normally I'd say ladies first," Ford said, "but seeing as how Rowan suffered this afternoon, I think he should have the first peek. Hurry, though, or you won't be able to see it."

Since Rowan was so short, Ford lifted him to the eyepiece. "Zounds," Rowan breathed. "There are big, dark spots on it."

"They're called craters." Ford raised a foot to the pedestal of the sundial and settled Rowan on his knee, looking more comfortable with the boy than Violet would have expected. "What do you think of it?"

"I wish to fly up there and visit."

"Me, too." Ford laughed. "But I expect neither of us will get our wish."

Now Jewel was jumping up and down. "I want to see. Oh, please let me see!"

"Very well." Ford set Rowan down, then readjusted the telescope before lifting his niece. "Hurry, so Lady Violet can have a turn."

"Oooh," Jewel said.

"Why must she hurry?" Violet wondered. "The moon stays out all night."

"Yes, but the Earth moves, you see—it spins. That's why we have night and then day. And because of the spinning, we're moving relative to the moon, so it doesn't stay in the telescope's sight for very long." He set his niece on her feet and waved Violet toward the instrument. "Your turn."

She stepped forward and put one eye to the end, closing her other eye like he had. "Oh," she breathed. "Stars. Just look at all those stars."

"Can you see the moon, too?"

"No, we must have spun out of range like you said." Against black velvet, lights winked at her. White, and faint yellow, and the palest, most beautiful pink. A wonderland of stars.

"Let me adjust it for you."

"Wait." She was looking at a whole new world. Or a universe, to be more precise. "I've seen the moon," she told him. "Not up close, but at least I've seen it. I want to look at the stars."

"But they don't look much different through the telescope. They're entirely too far away for the magnification to make a significant difference."

"But they're beautiful," she said. "Miraculous. What are they, really?"

"Other suns. And some people think there are other planets around them, the same way our planet circles our sun."

The children were chattering behind her, probably planning a jest, but she couldn't stop staring. She nudged the telescope a bit, and another group of stars burst into view. "'There is an infinite number of worlds,'" she murmured softly under her breath, "'some like this world, others unlike it.'"

"A lovely way to put it."

Startled, she jerked back from the eyepiece. She hadn't meant for him to hear that. "I didn't put it that way myself. I was quoting Epicurus."

"Who?"

"A Greek philosopher."

She felt, rather than saw, him nodding beside her. "A forward-thinking man."

A smile twitched on her lips. "Very. He lived about three hundred years before Christ." She leaned close again, peering through the telescope. "Do you believe that? That there are other planets?"

He laid a hand on her back. A warm hand that made a warmer shiver ripple through her. "I do."

Giggles erupted behind them.

"My uncle thinks your sister is pretty," Jewel told Rowan in a loud, confidential whisper.

Rowan's response was a disgusted groan.

Violet stiffened, and Ford's hand dropped from her back. "So," he said a bit formally. "Should I adjust it on the moon?"

"In a minute." Of course he hadn't meant anything by touching her, Violet told herself—he was a flirt, just like his niece. The awkward moment passed as she refocused on the sky. "For now, I'm enjoying the stars."

Just then, one of them streaked across her field of vision, and she made a silent wish.

Give me the wisdom to write a book worth reading…and the tenacity to publish it.

Her first wish on a star.

"Oh," she breathed, "it's awe-inspiring."

Hearing the wonder in Violet's voice, Ford relaxed and decided to ignore his niece's careless comment. Violet's velvet cloak had slipped to the ground, but she hadn't bothered to reach for it. He stared at her shapely back, encased in a snug dark green bodice. Simple and practical, but it certainly didn't hide the curves underneath. Had she been wearing the same gown earlier today? He hadn't paid any attention.

Pretty or not, Lady Violet was even odder than he'd thought. She was still gazing at the sky, slowly shifting the telescope. "Wouldn't you like to see the moon now?" he asked. After all, the stars looked much the same through the telescope as without it.

"Lord Lakefield." Rowan tugged on his breeches. "Lord Lakefield."

"You may have another turn in a minute. For now, your sister's looking."

"I know." When Ford looked down, the boy's smile looked as wide as the telescope was long. "Violet's never seen the stars before."

"Never?" Baffled, he ran a hand through his hair. "What do you mean?"

"She cannot see very well. She says they all just blur together."

She straightened and turned to face them, her eyes glittering with joy in the torchlight. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for showing me a whole new world."

The way she said it made Ford feel like he had given her the world, not just shown it to her.

It was a feeling he rather enjoyed.

He eased her aside to adjust the telescope. "Here, now look at the moon."

When she leaned to peer through the lens, he was rewarded with a gasp of discovery. "It's a sphere," she said. "I can see the outline. Even though it looks like a crescent."

"Depending on our position, the Earth blocks part of the sun, so only a portion of the moon is illuminated. But it's always a sphere, no matter how it appears to us."

"Of course. I've just never thought of it before."

When the moon disappeared from view, he pointed out some constellations—Libra down near the horizon and Pegasus up higher.

"My turn!" Rowan said, and Jewel chimed in. "Let us have a turn!"

Clearly reluctant to relinquish the instrument, Violet stepped back, and the children rushed to see.

"Can you show us a planet?" Jewel asked.

Ford scanned the dark sky. "None are visible at the moment. Another night." But he showed them more constellations, and while they waited to take turns, he entertained them with the Greek and Roman myths that went with each configuration.

All too soon they heard the crunch of wheels on gravel announcing Violet's carriage had arrived. She let out a little unladylike groan. "Is it ten o'clock already?"

"May we come back tomorrow?" Rowan asked. "Can I go into the laboratory?"

Ford gazed at Violet, thinking about how the telescope had helped her to see, wondering if there might be a way to help her more permanently. "I've something that will keep me busy the next few days," he said slowly.

"In your laboratory?" Rowan asked.

"Yes." He turned to the boy. "If you’ll come to play with Jewel until I'm done, I’ll take you into the laboratory after I finish. We can do an experiment together."

"An experiment?" Rowan's eyes widened, and he did a funny little dance. "Can we really?"

"Will you be working on the watch?" Jewel asked.

"No, not the watch." That could wait—it had waited years already. Suddenly this new idea seemed much more important.

"Uncle Ford is making a special watch," Jewel told her new friends. "One that tells the minutes." She looked to Violet. "My Uncle Ford is very clever."

"I'm sure he is." Violet smiled at Ford, a smile that managed to transform her whole face. "Thank you for a fine evening."

"You're very welcome. I hope we can do this again." Surprised by just how true that statement was, he smiled in return as he retrieved her cloak and settled it over her shoulders.

If she'd noticed she'd dropped it, or that she'd almost forgotten it altogether, her behavior gave nary a clue. "I hope we can do it again, too," she said with a last, lingering glance at the telescope. When she took her brother's hand and began tugging him toward the carriage, that infectious smile still curved her lips.

It made a man feel good, being the cause of that. Wishing to coax a similar smile again, Ford hoped he would prove as clever as his niece thought.

As he watched the Ashcrofts' carriage roll away into the night, he lifted the girl into his arms and pecked her on the cheek.

"What was that for?" she squealed.

"Nothing, baby." It mystified him as much as her, but he would analyze the emotions later. "You just make me feel happy."

"I'm not a baby," she said. "Put me down."

But she planted a big, sloppy kiss on his cheek before he did so.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Why aren't we going today?" Rowan demanded.

When Violet looked up from the notes she was making at her delicate desk in the library, it took everything she had not to laugh at her little brother. She hadn't seen a pout like that on him since he was three years old.

But he wasn't going to change her mind. "I told you—we've been there every day since we looked at the stars. Four days in a row, each afternoon we arrive like clockwork. We're wearing out our welcome."

The pout turned into a glare. "That's not true."

Of course it wasn't. To the contrary, Violet was sure Ford was pacing the floors waiting for their arrival. Waiting for them to come entertain his niece so he could work on his blasted secret project.

Well, much as she liked children, she wasn't a nursemaid, and she didn't intend to take up the career now—never mind that it was a spinsterish thing to do. She hadn't seen hide nor hair of Ford since the night he'd shown her the stars. If he couldn't even make the effort to stick his head out of that mysterious laboratory to say hello and thank her for occupying his niece, she was finished making the effort to help him.

Rose glanced up from her desk at the opposite end of the room, where she'd been conjugating Spanish words aloud, much to Violet's aggravation. "Since you don't like him," Rose said, "I can take Rowan instead."

"I like Rowan fine."

"I meant the viscount. I was giving you leave to take a fancy to the man and get yourself married, but since you haven't, well, he's mighty handsome, and—"

"You're too young to take Rowan over there unchaperoned," Violet said pointedly. She was sick of Rose always trying to marry her off. And though she knew she should feel relieved that Ford was ignoring her, she was peeved to find herself vexed instead.

But she shouldn't take that out on her sister. She looked up, contemplating the fuzzy pattern the dark molding made on the ceiling as she searched for her missing patience. "I'm sorry, Rose." She sighed, wondering what was getting into her these days. Ford Chase's effect on her was ridiculous. "If Mum says you may go, you have my blessing."

Rose snapped the Spanish book shut and ran off to ask their mother, Rowan galloping after her. Leaving Advancement of Learning and her notes on the desk, Violet stood and turned to peruse the library's well-stocked shelves. But nothing new caught her interest. All she could think about was Ford's irritating lack of manners.

"Lady Violet."

She swiveled at the sound of the majordomo's voice, noting he held a silver tray. "A letter, milady."

"Father is out in the garden."

"It's for you."

She couldn't remember the last time she'd received a letter. "Are you certain?"

Raising the parchment, Parkinson cleared his throat. "'Lady Violet Ashcroft,'" he read off the back. "I believe that is you." Handing it to her, he turned on his heel and left.

Peeved all over again, she broke the seal and scanned the childish handwriting. Dear Lady Violet, she read, Why have you not brought Rowan today? Uncle Ford has something for you. Please come. Your friend, Jewel.

Astonished, she plopped back onto her chair. The nerve of the man, asking a six-year-old to coax her into a visit. Uncle Ford has something for you. She could just imagine what—probably a nursemaid's uniform.

"Violet, dear." Chrystabel swept into the library. "Why won't you take your brother to play with his friend?" In a show of checking for dust, she ran a finger along the carved marble mantelpiece, then down one of the two supporting columns that looked like palm trees. Her voice took on the prying tone that mothers must practice behind closed doors. "Did something happen yesterday?"

"Oh, Mum, nothing happened." Which was precisely the problem. And she was getting tired of Mum grilling her every time she came home from Lakefield. She couldn't imagine what her mother expected to happen there that she would find noteworthy. Nothing ever did.

"I would just like a day for myself," she said. "Is that too much to ask?"

"Of course not, dear." Mum focused on the letter still clutched in Violet's hand. "What's that?"

"A note from Jewel." Violet tossed it onto the dark wood desk. Stark white in contrast, the paper looked entirely too important.

"How sweet. What did the girl have to say?"

She wouldn't tell Mum that Ford had something for her—news like that would escalate Chrystabel's motherly prying to record levels. An awkward silence stretched between them while Violet stared at the note, wishing it would disappear.

"Jewel was just asking me to bring Rowan," she finally admitted. When she looked back up, a tilt of her mother's head was all it took. "I guess I'll go after all," she said with a sigh.

"That's my Violet," Mum said.

And if her cheerful smile set Violet's teeth on edge, she was determined not to show it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jewel was waiting on the steps when they arrived.

"Lady Violet!" she squealed, running down the long walk to meet the carriage outside the gate. "Just wait till you see what Uncle Ford has for you! He had to find rocks to make it."

Rocks? Violet couldn't imagine. What sort of man made things from rocks and had a child write his letters?

A strange one with few manners.

"Perfect rocks," Jewel clarified. "They had to be perfect." She turned her attention to Rowan. "Tomorrow is my birthday," she said, "and Uncle Ford promised he would take me to the village to spend my money. He said I could invite you and Violet."

"What money?" Rowan asked.

"He pays me to be good. And not to cry. And other things."

Rowan's jaw dropped open. He turned to Violet.

"Don't even think about it," she said.

Jewel looked toward him sympathetically. "Will you come with us tomorrow? I have enough coins for us both."

Violet wasn't surprised. If Ford was willing to pay bribes, she had little doubt a girl as bright as Jewel could manipulate her way to a fortune.

"Rowan can bring his own money," she said.

He tugged on her hand. "Does that mean we can go?"

"I suppose. Since it's Jewel's birthday." She couldn't imagine turning six years old and being away from home for her birthday. Birthdays were major events for a child. In the Ashcroft home, they were major events into adulthood. Her family was odd that way.

She wasn't looking forward to the birthday she had coming up.

"Oh, good!" The girl's face lit. Violet was having second thoughts already, but she couldn't deny that smile. Although she still wasn't thrilled with this nursemaid arrangement, at least it would be something different to do. She wouldn't just be sitting here. And Ford wouldn't be able to totally ignore her.

She hated being the center of attention, but a little attention would be nice.

"Come inside," Jewel said, turning to head up the walk. She looped her arm through Rowan's and leaned close. "I have an idea for a jest."

Violet might have been half-blind, but there was nothing wrong with her ears. "I heard that," she said.

Jewel started up the steps. "Heard what?"

"You're planning a jest."

Opening the door, the girl batted her long black lashes. "Who, me? You must have mis-mis—" She paused for a breath. "Mis-un-der-stood."

Jewel's tone was so innocent, Violet would have believed her had she not known her better. My, she was going to miss the sprite when she left. And she knew Rowan would, too. But Ford would be relieved. She imagined he thought of the girl as little more than a bother.

Until he came down the corridor and swept the girl into his arms. Then, despite his preoccupation with his laboratory, his love for his niece was obvious. There for all to see, shining in his incredible brilliant blue eyes.

"Have you found our friends after all, baby?"

"I knew they would come if I sent them a letter."

He kissed her on the nose. "Did you think of that yourself?"

When Jewel nodded, Violet hid a gasp of surprise. The sprite was even more resourceful than she'd thought.

"That's my clever girl." Ford hugged her tighter. "And I suppose you got Harry to deliver it?"

"He always does what I ask."

"Doesn't everyone?" With a wry grin, he turned to their guests. "Welcome," he said, sounding like he meant it. "Please come in."

"As you wish," Violet murmured. Maybe she'd been too quick to judge him. Thinking he was even better looking than she remembered from a few days ago, she tripped over the threshold.

And once again found herself in his arms.

She couldn't imagine how he'd managed to set Jewel on her feet before catching her, but he'd done so quite handily. He steadied her, then grinned. "This is getting to be quite a habit."

"I'm sorry." Blast her poor vision, anyway. His hands felt warm on her shoulders, and she swayed in his grip. "I know I should be more careful."

"Nonsense. I enjoy catching you."

His charming smile almost succeeded in making her believe him. But of course he didn't enjoy catching her, or even being with her, for that matter—the fact that he'd ignored her four days running certainly proved that.

She not-so-subtly wrenched free of his hands. "Lady Jewel said you have something for me?"

"Did she?" He looked disappointed—as though he'd wanted to tell her himself. He turned to his niece. "What did you tell her?"

"Just that you made something from rocks. And I invited them to come with us tomorrow." She grabbed Rowan's hand. "Let's go play in the garden."

"Wait." With an outstretched arm, Violet stopped her brother's headlong rush. She looked to Ford. "Do you think we should let them go alone?"

Ford shrugged. "I'll send Harry after them," he said. "And if you'll wait for me in the drawing room, I'll bring the surprise."

She watched the children leave in one direction and Ford go the other. The moment they were all out of sight, a little flutter erupted in her stomach. A surprise. When was the last time a man had given her a surprise?

Never.

Unless she counted her father, and most of his surprises involved flowers.

Trying not to get her hopes up, Violet made her way through Lakefield's now familiar corridor to the drawing room. She seated herself on the faded couch. She crossed her ankles. She uncrossed them. For the hundredth time since she'd met Ford, she told herself not to be ridiculous.

It was becoming a litany.

Although it seemed like an eternity, she didn't wait long before he entered, breathing heavily, as though he'd run from one end of the house to the other. Which she supposed he must have.

He wasn't holding anything, though. Disappointment welled up inside her—which was ridiculous. Then he drew something from his pocket—something small—and held it out, almost shyly.

"I made this for you," he said.

She took it from him, turning it in her hands. Hardly a thing of beauty, it was two round, clear pieces of glass framed by some sort of wire. A little bridge connected them, and there were metal sticks on both sides.

Puzzled, she looked up.

"Spectacles," he said. He slid onto the couch beside her, acting friendly, familiar.

What little composure she had left completely fled.

At her lack of response, his brow furrowed. "Have you not heard of spectacles? They're sometimes called eyeglasses."

That jarred her out of her haze. Spectacles. Her mouth dropped open, and her breath caught in her chest. "I—of course I've heard of them, but…"

More words wouldn't come.

"Would you like to try them on?"

"I…thank you," she breathed.

She truly was thankful. This was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for her. But the sad truth was, she knew the spectacles were useless.

She bit her lip. "I…I can read just fine. I know Rowan told you I cannot see very well, but it's the distance that's a blur. Printed pages look clear as water. But I sincerely appreciate—"

"No." She'd expected him to look disappointed, but instead he grinned. "These aren't for reading, Violet."

"They're not?" Thrilled as she was at his unexpected thoughtfulness, her brain seemed to be muddled, not half because of his close proximity. "What are they for, then?"

"Spectacles for reading have convex lenses—they get fatter in the middle. These are concave, the opposite. The edges are thicker than the center. They'll help you see in the distance."

As she digested what he was saying, her hands started shaking. "What is all this metal?"

"Silver. To hold the lenses on your face. For reading, when a body is still, it's fine to hold a lens or balance a pair on your nose. But after I made these, it occurred to me that you may want to wear them and move around. So I devised the sidepieces to rest on your ears and hold them in place."

He scooted even closer, so close she could smell his clean spicy scent. It made her light-headed. Gently he took the spectacles from her hands, narrowing his eyes as he gauged them compared to her features. "I'll probably need to adjust them. You've a smaller face than I thought."

She'd never thought of herself as small—any part of her. Lily was the small one.

And she'd never, ever thought she might be able to see like a normal person. "May I try them on?" she asked, struggling to steady her voice.

"Please do. I suspect I may have to play with the lenses as well, to give you optimal vision. The degree of concavity affects the amount of correction."

She hardly understood what he was talking about, but she didn't care. Her head was buzzing. This man had made her spectacles. He was handsome and generous and warm.

He lifted her chin with a finger, and she obediently raised her face, holding her breath while he fit the contraption in place. It felt strange there, perched precariously. She closed her eyes against the sensation.

When she opened them, Ford rose and stepped back—and he was still in focus.

"Oh, my," she breathed, unable to tear her gaze from his face.

He stepped yet farther away…and she could still see him. He smiled that devilish smile of his, and she could see it all the way from where she sat.

"Oh, my." Suddenly she was looking everywhere. "I can see the bellpull!" she exclaimed, "and the clock across the room." He had clocks all over his house, and this chamber was no exception. "I can read the time! On that clock, and that one, too!"

It seemed a miracle. She stood, walking on shaky legs to the window. With the spectacles on, she felt taller than before and nearly tripped.

Nothing had changed there, but it only made her laugh.

"Look." She leaned her palms on the windowsill, aghast at the beauty of the world. "I can see it—I can see everything! The clouds and the flowers and the leaves on the trees. Each individual leaf."

"They're working for you, then," his voice came from behind her. "But odds are I can make them even better. We'll have to figure out whether more or less concavity will be optimal, and then, with a day or two to remake them, I can—"

"No." She whirled to face him. "You're not taking these away from me." She put her hands to the frame, tilting the spectacles crazily.

He laughed, a deep sound of pleasure. "Let me at least make them fit."

"No."

"A minute, that's all it will take." His lips curved with amusement. "I left the sidepieces straight, you see? If I bend them around your ears, they'll stay in place better."

"A minute?"

His eyes met hers, that brilliant, compelling blue. Something flip-flopped in her stomach. "One minute," he promised.

Reluctantly she released the spectacles, and he slid them off her face. The world immediately blurred.

She hugged herself, a little thrill running through her as she watched him manipulate the metal. "Faith, what a difference they make. Jewel said something about you needing to find rocks. Perfect rocks. What did she mean by that?"

"I took her up into the hills, hunting for quartz for the lenses. Rock crystal." He glanced up briefly, and she wished she could see his eyes better, see the heart-stopping glint she suspected was there. He refocused on his task. "Perfectly clear quartz is difficult, but not impossible, to find."

"They're not glass? They're called eyeglasses."

"True." He smiled as he worked. "But plain glass doesn't have the properties needed for optical lenses."

"How did you know that?"

Making a final adjustment, he shrugged, an almost elegant tilt of his shoulders. "My brothers would tell you I've wasted countless hours filling my brain with useless facts, when I could have been doing something productive."

Her heart lurched at that thought. "Oh, but it wasn't useless at all. Look what you've done with that knowledge!"

"My family wouldn't agree with you." Finished, he stepped closer to put the spectacles back on her face. "They would much rather see me improve this estate, instead of sinking all my income into research and experiments."

"They just don't understand you, then." She could relate to that, since her family rarely understood her.

"You're generous to say so. Especially since I'm beginning to see they're right. I should have renovated Lakefield a decade ago. I've been living with my oldest brother entirely too long."

He ran his fingers around her ears, making sure the sidepieces curved to fit. A little thrill rippled through her at the contact.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

The way he looked at her made her breath catch. She swallowed hard and nodded.

His hands still rested on her face. Warm fingertips danced beneath her jaw. "Can you see well now?"

She nodded again, gazing into his eyes, his beautiful eyes, realizing she was close enough to see them without the lenses. So close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Thank you," she whispered. "You've changed my life."

With all her heart, she meant it. This incredible man had given her the most amazing gift. And now he was looking at her, really looking at her.

She was the center of his attention.

Blinking at that thought, she dropped her gaze to his mouth.

He had a beautiful mouth, too. Suddenly, inexplicably, she wanted it on hers.

And suddenly it was.

His lips were warm and soft, much softer than she'd imagined a man's lips would be. They brushed hers once, twice, then settled more firmly, caressing her mouth with a skill that sent a shiver of delight coursing through her. His hands were still cupping her face, and they threaded into her hair.

She had no idea what madness had possessed him to kiss her, but she didn't want him to stop. Instinctively, her arms came up to loop around his neck, and she pressed herself closer. He felt hard and strong against her, her body on fire wherever they touched.

Faith, she wanted to melt right into him.

The pleasure was so unexpected, a mind-numbing, delicious sensation. A little whimper escaped her throat, and suddenly, thrillingly, his mouth slanted more hungrily over hers. His fingers tightened in her hair, and her pulse raced in response.

Then he pulled away, a dazed half-smile curving his lips, his vivid eyes a little hazy. He looked as stunned as she felt.

She shook herself, an ineffective attempt to clear her head. Of course he was stunned. A man would have to be daft to kiss a woman like her. Especially when she was wearing spectacles.

But that didn't stop her from wishing he'd do it again.

"That was…amazing," he murmured.

"Yes. Well." She looked down at the unvarnished floorboards. Amazing. What had he meant by that? Her hands went to the sides of her face, feeling the metal that hugged her ears. "I suppose I must look a fright."

"No, Violet." His voice was a husky rasp. "You look lovely." When she glanced back up, he appeared as surprised to have said the words as she was to hear them. "Your eyes shine like bronze beneath the lenses."

She was still feeling dizzy, still wishing she could lean against him again and feel his mouth on hers once more…

But she knew it wouldn't happen. Whatever had driven him to do such a ludicrous thing—such a ridiculous thing—was unlikely to ever recur.

"My eyes are brown," she said bluntly. She wasn't lovely, and she didn't like being lied to. If she'd been average-looking before, now, with the spectacles, she was sure she looked hideous.

"Your eyes look bronze to me," he repeated, "though I've also thought they look like brandy. My favorite brandy. And you look fine. Better than fine, in fact."

Better than he'd thought, Ford realized with a start.

Enchanted by her delight with the spectacles, he'd acted without thinking. The kiss had been impulsive. And enjoyable…much more enjoyable than he'd ever have imagined.

Now, seeing her flushed with happiness, from his gift or his kiss—he wasn't sure which, but he hoped it was both—he wondered how he'd ever thought she was plain. His sister often accused him of being oblivious, and for once he agreed. Violet's unique beauty sent the blood pumping through his veins.

He wanted to kiss her again.

Never a man to deny himself pleasure, he began to reach for her—but the children came bounding into the drawing room.

"Uncle Ford!"

"What is it?" he grumbled, then cursed himself silently when his niece's eyes turned troubled.

He must learn to be more patient. Jewel hadn't meant to keep him from enjoying another kiss. Children and romance simply didn't mesh—another one of the many reasons he was in no hurry to have any of his own.

He sucked in a breath. "What is it?" he repeated, forcing his lips to curve in a smile.

She smiled back. "There was a spi—"

"What is on your face?" Rowan interrupted, staring at his sister.

"Spectacles. Ford made them for me."

Behind them, Violet's brandy eyes glowed with wonder, and Ford didn't miss the fact that she'd finally called him by his given name. The single word made him glow inside to match.

"What for?" Rowan asked.

"So I can see better." The glow spread to encompass her entire face. "I can see things all the way across the room."

"Oh." Hands behind his back, the boy rocked up on his toes. "That's good. But they look odd."

"They look better on her than on me," Jewel said. "Uncle Ford used my face to test different ideas. I think we tested about eleventy of them."

Violet grinned. "Eleventy, hmm?"

"Jewel." Rowan made a funny sound in his throat. "Remember? Remember what we were going to tell them?"

"Gads, I forgot!" She paused for effect. "You won't believe what happened!"

"What?" Ford and Violet said together.

"We found a spider in the garden. A big, fat, hairy one. Rowan saved me from it," she added, beaming at said savior.

"Did he?" Violet said very solemnly.

"Mmm-hmm." Struggling to keep a smile from his face, Rowan whipped his hand out from behind his back. "Look."

Violet screamed. And screamed some more. Then she turned to Ford and buried her face against his cravat, so hard he could feel the metal frame of the spectacles biting into the skin beneath his shirt.

She was a nice, warm armful, but he wished she would stop trembling.

The spider really was quite impressively enormous. "Get that out of here," he told her brother.

"But it's dead. It cannot hurt anyone."

Jewel erupted in giggles. "Yes, Uncle Ford, it's dead." She turned to her accomplice. "I told you it would work. I could tell your sister is lily-livered."

"I am not," Violet said, her voice muffled against Ford's front. As if to prove her bravery, she turned to look, then promptly reburied her face.

Knowing his niece well—or rather, assuming she was like her prank-playing father—Ford sent her a warning glance. "Just get it out of here, will you?"

"Oh, very well." Still giggling, Jewel went to open a window and motioned Rowan over to toss the creature outside. "But it really cannot hurt anyone."

"It wouldn't hurt anyone were it alive, either," Ford said. "It's not a deadly sort." Somewhat reluctantly, he coaxed Violet out of his arms. "But that isn't the point."

"It was ugly," Violet said with a nervous giggle of her own.

She walked to the window and peered at the dead spider dangling ungracefully from an overgrown bush. A delicate shudder rippled through her.

"I can see very well," she declared, "and that is quite the ugliest thing I've ever laid eyes on. Perhaps these spectacles aren't such a good idea, after all."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

While Rowan ran for the house, anxious to tell their mother all about Lady Jewel and the spider, Violet alighted from the carriage, still looking about in wonder.

The world was magnificent. She wandered around the side of the mansion, stunned by the splendor of her father's exquisite flowers. Such brilliant colors, such delicate petals. She'd seen them before, of course, but only in her own hands or leaning down close. The gardens overall had been blurs of color, never this entire panorama of perfect shapes and rainbow hues stretching into the distance. And, oh, the subtle details were wondrous.

Oblivious to her approach, her father knelt by some roses, patting mulch into place. She touched him on the shoulder. "You've done a spectacular job here, Father."

"Eh?" Engrossed, he didn't look up. "What did you say?"

Sighing, she raised her voice a notch. "Your flowers are beautiful."

"So are you, dear," he said automatically, rising from his knees. At the sight of her, he froze. "Violet. What have you done to your face?"

She grinned. "They're spectacles, Father. Lord Lakefield made them for me."

He blinked. "What do they do?"

"Besides make me ugly?" Despite that fact, a smile bloomed on her face. Throwing her arms out wide, she spun in a circle, looking at everything at once. "I can see, Father! I can really see!"

In her exuberance, she'd yelled it, and he'd certainly heard. When she stopped twirling, he gathered her into his arms—something he hadn't done in quite a while.

He hugged her hard before pulling back, then searched her eyes with his. "Can you see everything? Just like me?"

"Everything." She knelt by his flowers. "This red rose, and that yellow one in the distance. And the hedges over there, and the rowan tree by the river." She rose, turning slowly this time, savoring the incredible view. "I cannot wait for tonight to look at the stars." Facing the house, she stopped. "I can see Lily smiling behind the window." She waved merrily, grinning when her sister waved back.

"Violet!" Rowan came running out, their mother trailing behind. "I told Mum about your spectacles, and she wants to see them!"

"Chrysanthemum!" her father said enthusiastically, going to kiss the woman as though they hadn't seen each other for a week. Normally Violet rolled her eyes at her parents' uninhibited affection, not to mention Father's absurd habit of calling Mum Chrysanthemum instead of Chrystabel. It was so sickly sweet it made her stomach turn.

Usually. But today, watching them kiss, Violet could only think of her own kiss a little while ago. Her first kiss. A tingling weakness spread through her body.

What was happening to her?

"Let me see these spectacles," her mother said, taking Violet's face in her hands and turning it this way and that. "Do they really help you see?"

"Immeasurably. It's quite a miracle. And worth looking hideous, I can assure you."

"You look fine, dear."

Now Violet did roll her eyes.

Her sisters stepped outside, both wearing new gowns they'd had fitted the past week while Violet had been at Lakefield House. Rose's was a midnight blue brocade, the skirt looped up and caught on the sides with ice blue bows to show off the matching satin underskirt beneath. Embroidered lace trimmed her chemise, peeking from the scooped neckline and the cuffs of the fitted sleeves.

If not exactly practical, it was quite a lovely dress, and Violet could see every detail before her sister even came near. Absolutely a miracle.

"What is that dreadful contraption on your face?" Rose asked. Lady Tact.

"See, Mum?"

"You look fine," Lily said. Her gown was a sunny yellow and quite lovely, too. It had a square neckline and a nutmeg-colored underskirt embroidered with yellow daisies.

"I don't care how I look," Violet told them all. "Only that I can see." She turned to her mother. "When will my own new gowns be fitted?"

"Since when do you care about clothes?" Rose asked.

But Mum just beamed. "Tomorrow. I shall send a note to the seamstress forthwith."

"Excellent," Rose said. "And I'll take Rowan to Lakefield tomorrow, since Violet will be busy."

Last week, Violet would have been relieved to hear that. But now she was just annoyed.

"That won't be necessary," Mum said. "Violet can be fitted in the morning while Rowan has his lessons. She'll be free by afternoon."

Rose's pout was so well done, it could earn her a part in a play at the Theatre Royal.

"Lord Lakefield said he would take us to the village for Jewel's birthday tomorrow," Rowan informed them. "Jewel has a lot of coins. May I try the spectacles?"

"If you're careful." When Violet gingerly removed them, her world went blurry. She handed them to her brother, and he slipped them on.

"I cannot see," he said, scrunching up his nose and squinting through the lenses.

"Well, of course not. They're for bad eyes, and your eyes are good."

"Let me see," Lily said. Rowan handed over the spectacles, and she held them up to her face. "Goodness, Violet, your eyes must be really bad."

"Let me see," Rose said, grabbing for them.

"Careful!" The metal frames were thin, and Violet didn't want her new treasure broken.

"I won't hurt them." Rose slid them onto her face, then gasped. "Is this what things look like to you?"

"Probably. But not anymore." She took the eyeglasses from Rose and happily settled them back in place, sighing as her view of the family cleared. "I don't care what I look like," she said again. "It's just so wonderful to see."

"Truly, you look fine," Lily said kindly. "The spectacles suit your face somehow."

Violet didn't believe her, but she really didn't care.

"Truly," Lily repeated, and when she smiled, her teeth looked whiter and straighter than Violet remembered. "It was thoughtful of Lord Lakefield to make them, wasn't it? He must be a very nice man."

"And handsome," Rose added.

"Yes," Violet said. "We all know you think he's handsome."

"May Jewel come for supper?" Rowan asked.

Mum patted her son on the head. "A grand idea. We'll send an invitation immediately. We all owe Lord Lakefield thanks for restoring Violet's vision."

"Eh?" her husband asked. "Did you say something about a decision?"

Mum set her hand on his arm. "I said vision, darling."

"Hmmph," he muttered half to himself as he plucked a dead head off a hollyhock plant. "The man of the house is traditionally involved in decisions."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ford leaned away from the Ashcrofts' polished mahogany table, barely resisting patting his stomach. The supper had been absolutely delicious, especially compared to the unimaginative fare Hilda prepared and served.

"Thank you kindly for the invitation," he told Lord Trentingham.

"Imitation?" The earl cocked his head quizzically. "It wasn't common chicken," he said, not unkindly. "The partridges in that fricassee were hunted today."

"Darling," Lady Trentingham said loudly, laying graceful fingers on her husband's arm. Eschewing convention, she sat right beside her husband rather than at the other end of the table. "Lord Lakefield was thanking you for inviting him to dine."

"Yes," Ford all but bellowed, since he was at the other end of the table, "it was quite a treat to spend an evening in the company of all of your beautiful ladies."

He couldn't help but notice that Rose practically purred. "You're quite welcome—" she began.

"Thank you for making my spectacles," Violet interrupted. Her mother had seated her next to him. "This is the most wonderful thing anyone's ever done for me," she added, the words clearly from her heart.

Candlelight from the silver branches on the table glinted off the lenses shielding her eyes. "It was nothing," he told her, meaning it. He'd made the eyeglasses as an experiment—to see if he could devise a lens to help her see her daily world as the telescope had helped her see the stars. He was pleased his idea had proven workable, and her delight was an unexpected bonus.

Unexpected and more pleasing than he ever would have imagined.

As another experiment, he offered her a lazy, seductive smile, dropping his gaze to her lips. When her cheeks flushed fetchingly pink, he was certain she was remembering their kiss.

Hmm…he would have to continue this line of investigation. It could very well lead somewhere interesting.

"Are you finished, milord?"

"Oh. Yes." He cleared his throat and shifted to allow the maid to remove his plate. Was she Daphne or Dolly? He liked the way Lady Trentingham addressed servants like they mattered to her, and talked to them instead of just ordering them around, and listened to what they had to say. It was both unusual and admirable, and he was attempting to do the same. But the Ashcrofts seemed to have so many. He couldn't remember this one's name.

"Would you care for tea now, milord?"

"Um, yes. Please," he said, feeling more and more like a half-wit. Darla? Was she Darla?

Some impression he must be making on Violet's family. And devil take it, he hadn't yet analyzed why, but he did want to make a good impression.

They were neighbors, after all.

"Everything tasted so good," Jewel said as another maid whisked away her empty Delftware plate.

Lady Trentingham smiled at his niece. "We're glad you enjoyed it, sweetheart."

In fact, Jewel had all but licked her plate clean. Though Hilda's cooking left much to be desired, Ford hadn't realized he was starving his niece. It was humiliating.

She beamed at their hostess. "Your house is so pretty."

"You've said that," Ford told her. Six times.

Her gaze swept the exquisite molded ceiling, the gilt cornice, the heavily carved fireplace, the enormous flower arrangements set on every flat surface. "Well, it is pretty."

Ford felt his shoulders tense. While Trentingham Manor was opulent beyond anything the Chases owned, Jewel didn't have to keep saying it. She was making him out a pauper. Between the two of them, any hopes he had of impressing the earl and his wife were sinking fast.

"Milk, milord?" the maid asked. "Sugar?"

"Both, if you please."

Dorothy? he wondered. Daisy? She set a small silver pitcher on the table.

"I have the sugar," Rowan announced. As the boy passed the bowl along with a tiny silver spoon, Ford looked at him and wondered if he'd have been called Daisy were he born a girl.

Probably. Or Daffodil. Or Peony, perhaps.

Jewel pulled on the maid's sleeve. "Dinah, can I have tea?"

"May I please have some tea," Ford corrected her automatically. Dinah, he thought with relief.

"May I please have some tea?" his niece repeated obediently. "I love tea, but Uncle Ford doesn't have any."

Tea was still somewhat of a novelty and frightfully expensive; Lord knew he didn't stock it at Lakefield House. Apparently Violet's family could afford anything they wanted. And now, thanks to Jewel, they knew he couldn't.

Violet leaned close. "Children rarely think before they speak," she whispered sympathetically. "Rowan is no different."

He knew that was true. But bloody hell, was his discomfort that obvious? Avoiding her gaze, he focused across the room on the Tudor linenfold paneling—painted white in the latest fashion—while he waited for his tea.

"Heavens," Lady Trentingham said. "I almost forgot to tell everyone the news. My maid Anne is getting married."

"Goodness, that's wonderful, Mum." Lily actually clapped her hands. "Is she wedding that coachman you introduced her to?"

"Of course. I knew they would suit."

Rose sipped from her wineglass. "Her betrothed is from the Liddington estate, isn't he? Where will they live?"

"Here, naturally. We'll hire him on." The countess laced her fingers together atop the mahogany table. "Anyone can replace a coachman, but I cannot do without Anne."

"How many matches does that make for you this year, Mum?" Lily asked. "Six?"

"Just so. But I introduced Lord Almhurst to Lady Mary Spencer last week, so I expect I'll be up to seven soon."

The maid arrived with the tea and poured. "Thank you, Dinah," Ford said, hoping the Ashcrofts noticed how respectful he was of their servants. He lifted the ridiculously small spoon and began using it to shovel sugar into his tea. Though he didn't share his twin sister's habit of eating dessert before the meal, he did share her sweet tooth.

"Seven weddings," Rose said with an impressive sigh. "In case you haven't heard, my lord, Mum is the unofficial matchmaker for all of Southern England."

"I've introduced people from the North as well," Lady Trentingham said a bit huffily.

This talk of marriages was making Ford nervous, so he decided to change the subject. "What time shall I fetch you to go to the village tomorrow?" he asked Violet.

Her hands went to the frames of her spectacles. "Oh, I…well—"

"She cannot go," Rose put in from across the table. "Mum has arranged for her to have new gowns fitted."

Rose graced him with a wide smile, but although she had fetching dimples, he didn't find himself attracted. Odd, considering her tall, willowy beauty was very attractive, indeed.

"Perhaps I can accompany Rowan instead," she added. "I know how much he's looking forward to the outing."

"It won't take the entire day," Ford said. "The village is hardly a metropolis." An understatement—Jewel would likely finish her shopping in twenty minutes. He spooned in more sugar—pure white sugar, he noticed, imported from the West Indies, no doubt. Another sign of the Ashcroft wealth. He turned back to Violet. "I can come by for you and Rowan in the afternoon, following your fitting."

Behind her new lenses, her eyes clouded. "I—I…" She shifted on her petit point seat cover. "I'm not certain I'm ready to be seen in public," she blurted. "With the spectacles, I mean. I know everyone will stare and ask questions. Perhaps after I'm more used to them—"

"You goose," Rose interrupted. "Just take them off."

Violet's hands went protectively to the sides of her face, as though she were afraid her sister might grab them off herself. "I like to see," she said. "I don't want to take them off."

"If you're going to insist on walking around with glass and metal on your head, then you'll have to get used to people staring at you."

"Rose." Chrystabel's tone was soft, but a warning nonetheless. "Our Violet prefers not to be the center of attention," she explained to Ford.

"Please pass the sugar," Lily asked sweetly.

"I'd like some, too," Rose said. "Put it between us."

Ford sent the sugar across the table. "How about if we go to Windsor, then?" he suggested to Violet. "It's much bigger than the village. You're unlikely to run into anyone you know there, and Jewel will find a larger shopping selection."

Violet looked unconvinced, but Jewel's eyes lit like green beacons. "Good idea, Uncle Ford."

"But—" Violet started.

"Yes, it is," Rose interrupted. "Except that will take all day, so Violet won't be able to go. But as I said, I'll be happy to go instead."

"Rose." Now her mother's voice sounded more exasperated. "That won't be necessary. I can send a note to Madame and reschedule the fitting for another day."

"But—" Violet tried again.

"A perfect plan," Lady Trentingham concluded.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Holy Christ," Rowan whispered. "Look at that thing."

As they headed toward the river, Violet glanced at Harry walking in front of them, his bald head shining in the sun. Thankfully he hadn't seemed to hear.

"Hush," she told Rowan. "You don't want me to tell Mum you're talking like that, do you?"

Having expected Ford, she'd been surprised when Harry had come to the door instead. Not that she was sure she wanted to go to Windsor at all. She did want to see the town, really see it, but…

She touched the metal frame of her spectacles—egad, people were going to stare and ask questions.

"Father says holy Christ all the time," Rowan muttered.

"And you can, too," she said, keeping her voice low, "as soon as you're grown and have children of your own."

"But just look at that thing!" he exclaimed.

Harry definitely heard that. He slowed so they could catch up, a crooked smile on his face. "I'd wager you've never seen anything like it," he said, gesturing toward the dock.

"I haven't," Violet agreed.

On the river, Ford and his niece were waving from the deck of a barge so old, she half expected it to sink before her eyes. Flecks of gold on its woodwork glistened, the last vestiges of gilding that must have once graced the heavily carved boat. Once upon a time, she imagined, it had been a ceremonial vessel for someone very important—if not the king himself.

But now it must be a hundred years old if it were a day.

At least the sails still looked serviceable, if tattered and gray. She waved back, and her brother did, too. Then she stopped and turned him to face her.

"Don't say anything bad about it in front of them. Please." She still remembered him asking Hilda for cherry tart, and she never knew what would come out of his mouth next to embarrass her. "Please," she repeated.

"Bad?" Rowan's green eyes looked incredulous. "It's the most wondrous thing I've ever seen!" With that, he broke into a run and didn't stop until he'd crossed the dock and leapt onto the ancient craft.

Violet was glad Harry's old legs gave her an excuse to approach more slowly, since her fashionable high heels hampered her ability to run. She wasn't used to wearing them. But at least, with her new spectacles, she was confident she wouldn't trip over the uneven ground.

A crew waited aboard, three men she recognized as Ford's coachman and outriders. As she lifted her peach satin skirts, Ford reached a hand to help her up. She smiled and put hers in it. "Good day, my lord."

He grinned, his free hand gesturing at the blue, cloudless sky. "It is, my lady." He dropped his voice as she stepped aboard. "You look lovely today, Violet."

Her own free hand went reflexively to her spectacles. Though her new gowns weren't ready, she was wearing her fanciest day dress and knew it was pretty. But she also knew she was not.

He held onto her fingers a few moments more than necessary. "I hope you'll enjoy the day."

If the fluttering in her stomach was any indication, she was sure she would. When he released her hand, she felt a distinct loss.

"I'm surprised you came by river," she said, "rather than by road." An understatement if ever she'd uttered one, though suddenly the barge seemed like the most delightful mode of transportation.

"It's a beautiful day," he said, "and Windsor just a pleasant sail down the Thames. I thought the children would enjoy it."

"They are already." With whoops of joy, the two of them were chasing around the cabin perched in the barge's center, jumping over ropes and racing around rigging as though the entire vessel had been designed as their playground.

Like Lakefield House, the boxy cabin could use a coat of paint, but it was obvious the boat had once been elegant and impressive. "Wherever did you find this?" Violet asked.

"It came with the estate. Though a bit the worse for wear, she's seaworthy, I assure you. Or riverworthy, in any case."

"She's magnificent." Twirling slowly in a circle, Violet noted the rich details. Although spotless, the barge was old to the point of antiquity. Just the thought of riding such a silly thing made her want to laugh. But in its own way, it was beautiful, too. "Are you going to fix her up?"

"Perhaps. I haven't thought about it, really." The boat started down river, and he led her to two chairs on the deck. "Sit, will you?" She did, and he sat down beside her. "What do you fancy shopping for today?"

"There's nothing I want. This is Jewel's day." They were a long way from Windsor yet, so she settled back, delighting in the light breeze on her face and the warm sun dancing on her skin. And the company. She'd never thought she'd enjoy a man's company much, but Ford Chase was changing her mind.

The barge rocked gently as they made their way down the Thames. Father waved from the garden as they passed, and she waved in return, then stiffened.

Father had seen her. That meant other people could see her. Including neighbors.

Her gaze went wistfully to the cabin. "Can we go inside?"

"It's a sleeping cabin—there's nothing in there but a bed, so it's not really suited for the two of us." He raised a brow, a gleam in his eye, and she felt her cheeks grow hot. "Do you not enjoy the sun?" he asked.

"I worry for my complexion," she fibbed. Her mother and Rose both worried about their complexions, but Violet had never cared a fig. "I much prefer rain."

"Rain?" He looked at her as though she were a half-wit, which accurately described how she was feeling at the moment. Then a smile tipped the corners of his mouth, and she knew he had caught her in the lie. "You really prefer rain to sunshine?" he asked, much too politely.

Seeing a man wander the riverbank, she rose and turned her back. "Well, I love rainbows," she said, only digging herself in deeper. "And since rain is needed for rainbows, I do prefer it."

He grinned up at her. "I can make you a rainbow without rain."

"Can you?" He was the most extraordinary man!

"Absolutely. I will do so tomorrow. In the meantime…" With great exaggeration and a flourish, he gestured to her empty chair.

She sat back down, and Ford began talking about this and that. She was soon so engrossed in their conversation that she forgot all about her eyeglasses or being spotted wearing them. The warm sun felt good on her skin, and though their journey was a leisurely one that covered several miles, the time passed quickly.

Too quickly. Before she knew it, there were docking at Windsor. Where she suddenly got cold feet.

It was a busy town. Windsor Castle had suffered much damage during the Cromwell years, and King Charles was now enthusiastically refurbishing and expanding it, which meant many laborers crowded the streets along with the town's usual inhabitants. Wearing her spectacles here would be worse than just being the center of attention—more like being the center of the universe. At the last moment, she pleaded a headache and retired to the shady safety of the cabin.

Two hours later, the others returned to find her there.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"I'm starving." Followed by the children, Ford stepped inside to drop off their latest purchases. "If you're feeling better, can I tempt you with a meal? I promise to take you into a nice, dark deserted inn."

Violet heard the teasing in his voice and knew he knew she was a coward. He'd accompanied the children around town, where Jewel had purchased ribbons and a hat and a doll. For her birthday, Ford had bought her a lovely silver heart pendant. He'd also kindly bought Rowan some marbles fashioned from pretty stones, and they'd stopped at vegetable stands and a butcher, loading the barge with staples for Lakefield's kitchen.

They'd made three trips back and forth, and in all that time, Violet hadn't set foot out of the cabin.

Now the three of them crowded into the small space, their expectant gazes practically pinning her to the bed where she sat.

She bit her lip. Ford had been more than patient. The least she could do was be honest. "I'm sorry, my lord. But I just know people will stare."

"Will you stop my-lording me?" He swept off his hat and, in a gesture that was beginning to become familiar to her, raked his fingers through his long brown hair. "After what happened yesterday"—his voice deepened an octave, and he raised a brow as he met her eyes—"you should certainly have leave to call me Ford."

"Ford, then," she said. He was right. And she was miserable.

Jewel tugged on her uncle's sleeve. "What happened yesterday?"

"He gave me these marvelous spectacles," Violet said before he could answer, although she knew he'd been referring to their kiss.

She'd been thinking about that kiss the whole time she waited on the barge, replaying every little detail in her mind, over and over, until her lips tingled and she found herself short of breath. She'd alternated between wondering if he'd kiss her again and telling herself not to be ridiculous.

Of course, she knew the truth: He'd been carried away by the success of his spectacles, and it wasn't going to happen another time. But that didn't seem to keep her from hoping and dreaming.

And another truth she knew was that she'd never get another kiss from anybody if she hid herself the rest of her life. If she was going to wear the spectacles, she needed to get over this fear of appearing in public.

Not all at once, however. "Can we dine on the way back?" she offered as a compromise. "An inn along the river. Where I won't have to walk a street teeming with people."

He measured her for a moment. "If I cannot tempt you with food," he drawled, "I suppose a bookshop wouldn't work, either?"

"A bookshop?" she murmured.

He jammed the hat back on his head. "Right there on Thames Street. You can see it from here." Without asking for permission, he grabbed her arm and drew her off the bed and out of the cabin. She blinked in the sunlight. "There, see?" he said.

In the distance, a sign swung in the slight breeze. The cracked wood looked a century old, but the lettering was newly painted and visible from the barge: JOHN YOUNG, BOOKSELLER.

There weren't too many people on the street. "Maybe just the bookshop," she conceded.

Though his grin told her that he knew he'd won, he didn't lord it over her with words.

"I'd like to choose a foreign language book for Rose," she added in a paltry attempt to save face.

"And maybe a philosophy book for yourself?" It seemed he knew her all too well. Jewel and Rowan had followed them out, and he waved them off the barge. "Hurry, before she changes her mind."

As Violet stepped onto the dock, she took a deep breath and lifted her chin. Let people stare. She had to get used to it, and she might as well start now.

"Why a foreign language book for Rose?" Ford asked as they walked.

"A peace offering. I've been entirely too short-tempered with my sister lately."

"Having met her, I suspect she probably deserved it." The street was rutted and uneven, and he took her elbow to steady her in her heels. "But I meant why a foreign language?"

"Oh." She was feeling like a half-wit again, distracted by his hand on her arm, warm through her peach satin sleeve. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mullioned glass windows of the Swan, a reflection of her walking with a man. It was difficult to think straight. "My grandfather was a scholar and spoke many tongues. Of all of us, Rose spent the most time with him before he passed on—"

"She doesn't seem the type."

"She'd be pleased to hear you say that." As they passed Bel and the Dragon, music pumped out the tavern's open door. "Although Grandpapa is no longer with us, Rose has kept her interest in languages. She teaches herself now, and she loves new books to puzzle out for practice."

"I never would have guessed it. Rose seems…"

"Rather empty-headed?" Violet supplied helpfully.

"No. Well, yes, I suppose, but I don't mean it in a bad way."

"She's constructed a good facade, our Rose." She pressed closer to him, avoiding a horse and carriage. "Rose is of the opinion, you see, that men aren't interested in intelligent women."

"I wasn't," he murmured.

"Pardon?"

Switching sides to shield her from the traffic, he cleared his throat. "I wasn't at all aware of Rose's scholarly tendencies. Philosophy, languages…you Ashcroft girls are surely not the usual sort."

"The Ashcroft motto is Interroga Conformationem."

"Question Convention?" Judging from his expression, that seemed to amuse him. "What talent is Lily hiding?"

"Only a gentle heart. She cannot stand to see any being in pain, human or animal." She stopped before the bookshop, which looked blessedly deserted, and suddenly realized that with all the conversation, she'd forgotten to worry about strangers staring at her.

In fact, she'd forgotten about everything but Ford, including her unsightly spectacles—and her little brother. Amazing that a man could have such an effect on her!

Ford looked to the children. "Do you two think you can behave? No pranks in there, you hear?"

"Gads, Uncle Ford, of course we wouldn't." Jewel pulled open the door. "Pretty," she said, looking up. "Like Rowan's house, and Auntie Kendra's."

Walking in behind her, Violet bit back a smile. Although the ceiling Jewel was gazing at was heavily carved and gilded, the rest of the shop had seen better days. Row upon row of narrow aisles were crammed with books on plain wooden shelves. More books sat piled haphazardly on the floor, apparently waiting to be sorted. Dark and well-worn, the place smelled like leather, paper, and ink.

Exactly the way a bookshop should.

A man appeared, looking well-worn like the shop. "John Young, at your service." His hair was salt-and-pepper, his blue eyes lively though faded with age. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you a secret about that ceiling."

He wove through the tall shelves and stopped in the middle of the shop. "Look up," he said.

They all did. A carved molding divided the elaborate ceiling, and although the sides were decorated in an identical fashion, the front half was dated 1576 and the back 1577.

"Why are there two dates?" Rowan asked.

"That's the secret." Mr. Young smiled, revealing a mouthful of teeth with only one missing. "Tell me," he asked the children, "what happened between those two dates?" He waited a beat. "I'll give you a hint. It wasn't the first time it happened, nor will it be the last. It happened again about fifty years later, and yet again in 1665."

"I wasn't born yet," Jewel said. "How should I know?"

Rowan puffed out his chest. "I wasn't born yet, either, but I know anyway. The Black Death."

"Bright boy." The bookseller ruffled Rowan's hair. "The workmen were from Italy and sailed for home when the plague took hold. But they promised to come back and finish, and so they did, a year later. Hence the two dates."

"That's funny." Jewel stared at the ceiling a moment longer, then her gaze dropped to a table against the wall. "A draughts board!" She batted her lashes at the bookseller. "May we play?"

"Of course."

"Mr. Young said I'm bright," Rowan told her. "I wager I can beat you."

Ford laughed. "I wouldn't recommend you bet money. She's the type that goes for the throat."

"I can beat any old girl."

Jewel narrowed her eyes and set her hands on her hips. "We'll see about that."

She made a beeline for the table, waving Rowan into the chair opposite as she settled herself with a fluff of her pale yellow skirts. Her face was all business as she made her first move.

Mr. Young turned to Violet, peering curiously at her spectacles. "May I help you find something, milady?"

"They allow me to see at a distance," she explained, although he politely hadn't asked.

"How very fascinating."

He didn't seem repulsed by her appearance, just honestly interested. "Would you like to try them?" she offered.

"I can see at a distance fine. It's up close where I have trouble. My arms need to be longer." His smile reappeared. "It's a brilliant invention, though, isn't it?"

"Quite." She smiled in return. Perhaps people wouldn't stare at her, after all.

"Have you any books in foreign languages?" Ford asked. "And my lady would like to see some philosophy titles."

"Philosophy I have. This way, if you please." After directing her around the corner to a tall shelf full of books, he scratched his graying head. "Now, as for foreign languages, I'm afraid…ah, yes, perhaps I do have something in the back. If you'll excuse me for a moment."

The instant he disappeared, Ford moved close, so close Violet could smell the warm scent of his skin. Patchouli and soap and fresh air.

He backed her gently against the shelves. "How does it feel to be off the barge?" he whispered.

"Liberating." She gave a nervous laugh. "Will you look for books, too?"

"I'll look for Rose's."

"Would you? I'm hopeless at languages."

"I don't know many. French, having grown up on the Continent during the years of Cromwell's Protectorate." He skimmed his knuckles along her jaw. "And Dutch, since the English court spent time at The Hague as well. And Latin, of course." Wrapping a curl around his finger, he gave it a gentle tug. "But that's all."

"It's three more than I can claim." With his fingers teasing her hair, her scalp felt all tingly. She struggled to keep a clear head. "If you'll choose some subjects Rose might find interesting, I'd be forever grateful."

"Forever grateful. I like the sound of that." He grinned, and her insides flip-flopped. "Though I'm tempted to just stand here and enjoy the lovely view of you in your spectacles."

The proprietor ambled back, dragging a crate of books behind him, and Ford moved away. The old man nodded toward him. "I don't know what sort of foreign book you're looking for, milord, but you may have anything in here for a shilling."

"Anything?" Violet asked.

"Take your pick. My son Thomas found these in the attic—never been up there myself. Must've been there since before I bought the shop—from the looks of them, before that curious ceiling even went in," he added, his old grin quite fetching even with the missing tooth. "Tom wanted to toss them, seeing as we don't deal in foreign titles, but I cannot seem to find it in me to get rid of books." He dusted off his hands. "If you're not wanting anything else, then, I shall leave you to look."

With a nod, he walked off. They heard him stop and talk to the children, a soft murmur followed by youthful giggles. Apparently the shop had no other customers, which suited Violet perfectly. She turned to the shelves, her heart singing as it always did when she was in the presence of books.

Ford crouched on the floor and began absently sifting through the crate. "What would Rose like?"

"Anything, really, except perhaps philosophy or science." The two subjects she and Ford would want for themselves. She smiled at that thought as she peered at the titles on the shelf.

Choosing a slim brown volume, she slipped off her spectacles, the better to see up close. She set them on a ledge and began to flip pages without really reading. She could still feel Ford's fingers on her jaw, his warm breath on her face, the slight tickle of him playing with her hair.

"What is that called?" he asked without looking up.

"Aristotle's Master-piece." It looked promising, though she was surprised to find a book about or by Aristotle that she'd never heard of before. "I think I shall inquire about the price."

"Here, I'll hold it for you while you look some more."

She handed it to him, and he set it on the floor, on top of two volumes he'd apparently chosen for Rose. She could understand why the bookseller would let them go for a shilling. Even without her eyeglasses, the foreign editions looked like they hadn't been opened in decades.

Still crouching by the crate, Ford began humming a soft tune as he searched. A lullaby, if she didn't miss her guess; she wondered if he sang to Jewel. She slipped another title off the shelf. The clicks of checkers told her the children were miraculously staying put. Though their voices were a bit louder than she would have liked, they didn't seem to be bothering the proprietor, so she decided not to let it bother her, either.

She'd added two more likely books to the growing pile when Ford sat down with a thud, clutching a book in both hands.

He looked like he'd seen a ghost.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"What?" Violet asked. Sitting on the floor, Ford looked as pale as her father's prized lilies. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He glanced around uneasily, as though he expected someone to pop up and steal the book out of his white-knuckled hands.

She couldn't help but notice those hands were shaking. The book was small and looked old. No, make that ancient, she decided after she'd reached for her spectacles and slipped them back on. It was handwritten, and the pages sounded brittle, crackling when he gingerly turned them.

"Another foreign title, is it?" Even with the eyeglasses, she couldn't read a word. "Do you expect Rose would like it?"

"No." Still trembling, he stood abruptly. "Not this one."

"Can you read it? Is it French or Dutch?"

"It's no language I've ever seen. Will you get those?" he added distractedly, gesturing to the books on the floor.

As she knelt to collect the volumes they'd chosen, he hurried away to talk to the proprietor.

"Yes, only a shilling," Mr. Young was saying when she joined them a minute later. Gazing down at the book, he lazily flipped a few pages. "It's not English or Latin, though, and difficult to decipher, handwritten as it is. Can you even read it?"

"Well, no." Ford raked his fingers through his hair—not the smooth, thoughtful gesture Violet had become used to seeing, or even the quicker one that indicated frustration. This motion was jerky and convulsive instead.

What was wrong with him?

"I have a friend, an expert in languages," he said. "I thought he might enjoy the challenge." He held out his hand, and she could almost hear him willing the shopkeeper to give him back the book.

The man handed it over, gesturing dismissively. "A shilling will do, then. Truth be told, I feel guilty taking money for the thing at all."

"Appreciate it." Ford turned to Violet, taking the books from her arms. "Add these to the total, will you?" He passed them over to Mr. Young and started digging out his pouch.

"I brought money," she protested. "I cannot accept a gift from you. It wouldn't look right."

"Rubbish. You've already accepted the spectacles, haven't you?"

Her hands went to her face protectively. "These were different. You made them."

"They're just books, Violet."

Mr. Young looked at each book, scribbling their prices on a scrap of paper, preparatory to adding them up. He paused when he came to Violet's first choice. "Are you certain you want this, my lady?"

"Aristotle's Master-piece? Yes. Unless…is it very expensive?"

Frowning, he blinked his pale blue eyes. "No, not particularly."

"We'll take it." Ford selected a few coins and pressed them into the bookseller's hand. "Jewel? Rowan? Are you done with your game?" He looked to be in a terrible rush.

"One more minute, Uncle Ford."

He shifted from foot to foot while they finished playing, then took Jewel by the hand to pull her from her seat. With a distracted "Thank you" called over his shoulder to Mr. Young, he waved Violet and Rowan through the door and followed them out with his niece.

"Is something amiss?" the little girl asked.

"No. No, not at all. I'm hoping something is very right." He hastened them down the street, his gaze focused straight ahead to where the barge sat waiting. "Hurry. Quickly."

In her heels, Violet had a hard time keeping up, and she completely forgot to worry about who might see her wearing the spectacles. In no time at all, he was ushering them aboard.

"Straight home, Harry." Ford hesitated, though for barely an instant. "No, stop at the first decent inn—but not until we've cleared the town."

The children joined Harry at the helm while Ford hurried Violet into the cabin, apparently forgetting it was unsuitable. He pulled the door shut behind them. When the barge began moving, he let out a long, audible breath and dropped heavily onto the bed.

Since there wasn't any other furniture, Violet seated herself gingerly beside him. "What's going on?" she asked, concerned by this odd behavior.

"I just…I suppose I feared Mr. Young would come running out and take the book back." It was still clenched in his fingers. "It's foolish, I know," he said, offering her a sheepish smile.

"Is it that important, then?"

"If it turns out to be what I'm hoping it is, yes, it's important." He relaxed his grip and, opening the book, turned a page and then another. If she could judge from his smile, the crackle of old paper seemed music to his ears. "Very important."

"I imagine your friend will be pleased."

In the midst of turning another page, he looked up. "My friend?"

"Your friend who is good with languages."

"Oh." She'd never seen a man blush before. "That wasn't the whole truth, I'm afraid. I just didn't know quite what to say. If the bookseller realized what he had…well, what it might be…"

Meeting her gaze, he sucked in a breath and blew it out. "This book could be extremely valuable, Violet."

Just the way he'd said her name, deep, like he cared, made her warm to her toes.

Rowan opened the door and poked his head in. His gaze seeked out the book. "It looks very old," he said soberly. "Is it the emerald secrets book?"

"I'm not sure," Ford said. "Everyone thought it was gone. I'm not certain I quite believed it had ever really existed." Light streamed through the cabin's two windows, illuminating the old pages, but they didn't glow nearly as brightly as his eyes. "The book was supposed to have been small and bound in brown leather, and of course it would have been handwritten. And here, look." He flipped to the first page. "The alchemical symbol for gold. And five words in the title. But I cannot be sure. I wish I could read the thing."

If Violet had never seen a man blush before, she'd never seen one so excited, either. About anything. "The emerald secrets book?" she asked. "What's that?"

Her brother smiled importantly. "It tells the lost secret of the Philosopher's Rock. I'm going to tell Jewel." He slammed the door, and she heard his footsteps pound across the wooden deck.

"The Philosopher's Stone," Ford corrected the empty space where Rowan had stood.

Violet gasped. "The formula to turn metals into gold?"

"The very same. Secrets of the Emerald Tablet has been missing for three hundred years, and if this is it…"

"Do you think it really is?"

"I don't know. It could be. Everyone assumed it had been destroyed." He turned a few pages and stared down at the ancient text. "I'm crossing my fingers—and I'm probably the least superstitious man you'll ever meet."

Suspecting he was right, she smiled at that. "What is the Emerald Tablet?"

He shut the book. "It's a long story."

"It's a long way down the river," she pointed out.

"Very well, then," he said, looking pleased. He shifted to lean against the headboard, settling back against some pillows and appearing altogether at home there on the bed.

Her heart sped up at the thought, and she felt her face flush, but he didn't seem to notice.

"It all started," he said, "back in Egypt, some twenty-five hundred years before Christ. Where the Divine Art first had its birth."

"The Divine Art?"

"Alchemy. A priest named Hermes Trismegistus was known to have great intellectual powers. The Art was kept secret and exclusive to the priesthood, but more than two thousand years later, when the tomb of Hermes was discovered by Alexander the Great in a cave near Hebron, they found a tablet of emerald stone. On it was inscribed, in Phoenician characters, the wisdom of the Great Master concerning the art of making gold."

He paused, looking at her where she still sat perched at the foot of the bed. "You look uncomfortable there," he said, reaching a hand behind him to pull out one of the pillows. "Lean back against the wall." He tossed it to her.

He'd told her it was a long story, so she scooted over to the wall and tucked the pillow behind her back, her legs lying crosswise on the bed. Noticing their outlines were visible beneath the drape of her peach gown, she fluffed her skirts a little. "Where is the Emerald Tablet now?"

"We don't know. But years later, in the thirteenth century, a man named Raymond Lully was born to a noble family in Majorca. He took up the study of alchemy and wandered the Continent to learn more of the science. Many stories have been told of Lully's abilities to make gold, which he claimed to have learned from studying the Emerald Tablet."

"What sorts of stories?"

His mouth curved in a faint smile. "You're really listening, aren't you?"

She cocked her head at him, baffled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason." Still smiling, he turned the book over in his hands, then opened it again absently. "It's said that the Abbot of Westminster found Lully in Italy and persuaded him to come to London, where he worked in Westminster Abbey. A long time afterward, a quantity of gold dust was discovered in the cell where he'd lived. Another story has it that Lully was assigned lodgings in the Tower of London. People claimed to see golden pieces he'd made, and they called them nobles of Raymond, or Rose nobles. It was during this period that he is said to have written Secrets of the Emerald Tablet, I believe around the year 1275."

"Almost four hundred years ago." Looking at the pages Ford was carefully turning, she could believe the book was that old. "What happened then?"

"Lully eventually left England to resume his travels, but it was thought he left the book behind. It was supposed to have been written in language that's difficult to read."

She held out a hand, and wordlessly, he passed her the open book. She removed her spectacles and peered at the spiky writing. She couldn't read a word. Some of it didn't even look like words, but more like symbols.

"Do you suppose it's Phoenician, like the Tablet?" she asked.

"I have no idea. Legend has it that the book changed hands a few times and then disappeared in the fourteenth century, never to be seen again."

"Until now."

"Maybe." His eyes appeared wistful. "It looks old enough, doesn't it?"

"It would be priceless, wouldn't it?" Imagine being able to produce gold. Caught up in his excitement, she handed back the book. "You could sell that for a fortune. An unbelievable fortune."

"I'd never sell it." He clutched the book to his chest. "If it's the missing volume, I'll never, ever sell it. Even should it turn out not to divulge a working formula."

"You'd feel the same even if it doesn't reveal how to make gold?" Surprised, and yet somehow not, she slipped her spectacles back on to study his face. "I wouldn't have taken you for a romantic," she said softly.

"A romantic?" he murmured, holding her gaze for a long, breathless moment.

He remained silent while he stretched out his legs. And crossed his booted feet. And set them on her lap.

Speechless, she looked down. Completely without her permission, her eyes wandered the length of his legs. They looked strong and well-turned, and his knees looked loose, like he was comfortable.

Suddenly wondering what those legs might look like without breeches, hose, and boots, she wasn't comfortable at all. Tucked behind her back, the pillow he'd thrown to aid her comfort didn't seem to be helping a bit.

"Raymond Lully is the stuff of legends," he continued blithely, apparently oblivious to their shockingly intimate position. "Any book he'd written would hold an immeasurable amount of historic and sentimental value. It would be an honor to own it, no matter what it said."

When he fell silent again, she raised her gaze to his face, and the expression there told her he wasn't oblivious at all.

He knew exactly how uncomfortable he was making her.

This was ridiculous.

The barge slowed and bumped against a dock, but it didn't jar her from the spell he'd so expertly woven around them.

"A romantic?" he repeated, clearly not expecting an answer. His lips curved in a lazy smile, and he leaned forward, reaching one long arm to brush her cheek with two fingers. Her skin grew warm, and her body felt heavy on the bed.

Harry pulled open the door, and the spell was broken.

"Will this do, my lord?" He gestured toward a respectable old riverside inn that boasted tables along the bank of the Thames.

To his credit, he didn't blink when he saw Ford's feet in her lap. And, thank the heavens above, Ford swung them off the bed before the children arrived in the doorway.

"It will do very well," he said. "Thank you."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Look!" Jewel pointed to an enormous oak by the river. "There are swings!"

The children bounded off the barge and ran shrieking along the grassy bank. Violet walked more carefully behind with Ford beside her, the book still in one hand. She teetered a bit on the unaccustomed high heels—and perhaps, she had to admit, because she felt drunk with new sensations.

Ford had put his feet in her lap. Why on earth had she found herself so affected? Although they'd been sitting on a bed, nothing scandalous had happened. They'd both been fully dressed, and they hadn't even kissed.

The whole thing had been silly, really…as silly as a grown man physically attached to an old leather book. Wondering if he might sleep with it tonight, she smiled to herself.

He put a casual hand at her back. "What do you find so amusing?"

"Nothing." His fingers felt warm through her thin satin gown. She chanced a look at him, feeling flushed and happy at the innocent contact.

That was silly, too. "Nothing at all," she repeated, trying to hide another grin. When his hand dropped from her back, she could swear she still felt its imprint.

By the time the two of them caught up, the young ones had claimed the pair of rope-and-board swings that shared a heavy branch on the old tree's right. They were pumping into the air, racing to see who could get the highest, their laughing taunts floating out over the water.

"That looks like fun," she said wistfully. Oh, to be six, flying into the sky on your birthday, instead of almost twenty-one and dreading it.

One-and-twenty. According to Rose, that was the day Violet would become an official spinster. Not that she minded her fate. She'd been resigned to it for years—planning happily for it, in fact. A spinster enjoyed freedoms a wife never would.

But the word "spinster" sounded so very old and final.

Ford took her by the arm and marched her around the giant tree. A third swing there hung empty. "Sit," he said.

She giggled, feeling sillier still. "You take it."

"Sit."

With a shrug, she did. It had been years since she'd been on a swing—since the last time her family had stayed at Tremayne Castle. The board felt flat and hard beneath her skirts. She wrapped her fingers around the thick, scratchy ropes on either side of her head. When she felt a hand at her back, she gave a little shriek, then laughed as Ford pushed her swinging into the air.

He came around the side to watch her, holding up the book to shade his eyes. "It's nice to hear you laugh."

She laughed again. "I feel like a child."

"Is that bad?" he wondered.

Pumping her legs to go higher still, she considered. The wind rushed by, tangling her hair in the frame of her spectacles. When her peach skirts billowed, she clamped them between her legs. The sun sparkled on the water. Through her miraculous eyeglasses, the landscape looked clear and brightly beautiful all the way to the horizon.

"No," she said at last. "Feeling like a child isn't bad." At nearly twenty-one, feeling like a child was wonderful.

Setting the book on the grass, Ford stepped behind her and gave her a shove. She leaned back, feeling her hair flow and flutter as she went soaring over the river.

"I can go faster than you!" Jewel cried.

"No, I can go faster!" Rowan yelled, and the two of them pumped their hearts out, racing toward the sky.

Ford's hands on Violet's back felt strong and warm, the pushes rhythmic and reliable. Her lids slid closed. She didn't want to go faster than anyone; she just wanted to blank her mind and enjoy the motion.

With her eyes shut, she imagined she were flying. She imagined she were young and beautiful, and Ford her lover, not just a flirtatious, overwhelmed uncle who wanted her help caring for his niece.

"Holy Christ," Rowan complained, jarring her back into the real world.

Her eyes popped open. "I've told you not to say that."

"No matter how high I get," he panted, "I cannot seem to go faster than her. She swings three times and I swing only two."

Jewel snorted. "Because you're heavier, you goose."

"I'm not a goose," Rowan said, and Violet cringed, suspecting the girl had learned that insult from Rose. But Rowan seemed to consider Jewel's analysis. "Anyway, you're a girl, so you'll get tired," he decided smugly. "And then I'll go faster."

"No," Ford said, giving Violet another push, "you won't."

"He won't?" Violet asked. Rowan's theory made sense to her. Well, perhaps not the part about Jewel tiring—the girl was a bundle of energy if ever she'd seen one. "If Rowan pumps harder, he won't go faster?"

"He won't," Ford repeated. "The swing is a pendulum—"

"Like in your laboratory?" Jewel interrupted loudly.

"Just like that." He pushed again. "Only you are the weight at the bottom."

Jewel's dark hair streamed behind her, then flew forward to hide her face. "And he's a heavier weight, so…"

"No, the amount of weight doesn't matter." When Violet swung back, Ford wasn't there to push. She slowed down to listen. "The time a pendulum takes to go back and forth is called the period," he said, walking over to push Jewel instead. "And the period depends on the length of the string. Or in a swing's case, the ropes." He reached to give Rowan a shove. "Jewel's ropes are quite a bit shorter, so Jewel swings faster."

"Are you sure?" Rowan asked dubiously.

"Positive. But test it yourself. Switch swings with Jewel. That's what an experiment is all about."

The children dragged their feet on the ground to stop the swings, and Ford came back to Violet.

Soon Rowan and Jewel had switched sides and were pumping again. And Rowan was going faster. "You're right!" he yelled.

"Of course I'm right." Ford gave Violet another little push. "But I didn't figure it out myself. Galileo first made the observation."

"I know all about Galileo," Jewel told Rowan importantly. "Uncle Ford named his horse after him." She swung back and forth, back and forth. "I want to go faster again!"

"I'll swing a hundred times and then you can," Rowan offered.

"Fifty times."

"As you wish. But we'll switch back after another fifty." In his loud, young voice, he began counting.

Ford gave Violet a huge shove, and she soared out over the river, swinging back so hard one of her shoes flew off and landed on the grass with a plop.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, the word sounding breathless and giddy. "Stop!"

"Why?" He pushed her again, and when she rushed back, he plucked off her other shoe. She heard that one, too, plop somewhere behind her back. "There," he called as she swung away again, "now you'll really feel like a child."

Laughing, she wiggled her toes, feeling free in only stockings. And he pushed her higher. And higher. And higher. "Stop!" she screamed, meaning it this time. "Or I think I might get sick!"

He grabbed the ropes and jerked her to a halt. "Better?"

"Much." Still holding on tight, she gave a shaky laugh. "I guess I'm too old for this, after all."

"No one's too old for this," she heard him say from behind her. And then an arm curved around her waist and fingers cupped her chin.

Warm lips nuzzled her neck.

Her hands clenched the ropes as a delicious shiver rippled through her. "The children…" she murmured, attempting to turn her head. But his mouth trailed her throat, making her entire body weaken and blocking her from looking.

She heard the children's chatter and hoped that meant they weren't watching, and then it didn't matter, because Ford was tilting her back, back, until his face was hovering above hers, only upside down.

And he was all she could see. All she could care about.

Slowly he drew off her spectacles and lowered his mouth to meet hers.

The kiss was gentle yet demanding, like the one yesterday, only more so. And different, like they were kissing each other's bottom lip. Something ached deep inside her, and her hands clenched the ropes. Then, unlike yesterday, his tongue slipped out and traced the seam of her mouth. It was shocking and wild and wonderful. That single caress stole her breath, her thoughts…

And it was over all too quickly.

Slanting a furtive glance to the children, he reluctantly pulled away. She shifted upright. Walking around to face her, he handed her the spectacles with a smile. A secretive smile. A smile she hadn't the experience to comprehend.

Her hands shaking, she took the eyeglasses and fitted them back on her face. Leaving her stunned, he moved from her sight. She struggled to catch her breath, listening to him collect the book and her shoes.

"Thirty-seven, thirty-eight," Rowan chanted.

Ford paused for a breath behind Violet, collecting his wits. Why the devil had he risked that in front of his niece?

Someone had left one of the inn's benches near the tree—to sit and watch their children, no doubt—and he dragged it over by Violet's swing and sat. He set her shoes on the grass and the book on his lap.

"Forty-eight, forty-nine…" On the opposite side of the tree, Rowan reached fifty, and the children traded places.

"You're very good with them," Violet said quietly from her swing.

Never, in ten lifetimes, had Ford thought anyone would tell him that. Of course, he'd never thought he'd kiss a woman like Violet Ashcroft, either. An innocent country miss who spouted philosophy.

"It was only physics," he said dismissively, gazing at her profile. Her lips were parted. They looked kissable. They were kissable. "Science. I'm good at science."

Still motionless on the swing, she turned her head to look at him. "You're good with your niece. And Rowan."

He felt totally inept with them, but he didn't want to argue. "Perhaps that's because I never grew up myself," he suggested instead. "My family would tell you that."

"You've said something like that before," she recalled, looking flushed and flustered and beautiful. The spectacles had slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back up. "What are they like, your family?"

"Loud," he answered with a grin. "I have a twin sister, Kendra, and two older brothers, Jason and Colin. All married. Among the three of them, they have seven children already, and I suspect more to come. Jewel is the oldest."

"No wonder you're good with children, then."

He shook his head. "It's not like that. I've played with them, of course, and when I'm not in London, I live with Jason and his family at Cainewood. Two boys, he and Cait have. But before now, I'd never taken care of my nephews or nieces." They all had nursemaids to see to that. "I've never taken care of anyone before."

He'd been the baby of the family. Everyone had always taken care of him.

"Well, you're doing a proper job." She shifted to look over at Jewel, who was shrieking with laughter as she soared through the air beside Rowan.

His niece looked happy. Perhaps Violet was right, and he wasn't doing such a bad job after all.

"And your parents?" she asked, turning back. "What are they like?"

"Dead."

"Faith," she muttered, her face going white. "I'm so sor—"

"No need to be sorry." He turned the book over in his hands. "I was all of one year old when they left to fight for King Charles, seven when they died at Worcester. I barely even remember them. My oldest brother more or less raised me, with the help of the exiled court. It was an interesting life."

Her fingers trailed up and down the ropes. "And a rough life, I'd wager."

He shrugged. "Not really. Although my parents sold most everything to help finance the war, I was too young to worry where my next meal would come from. Someone else always took care of that. The court moved from Paris, to Brussels, to Bruges and back…the world was my playground. I suppose things were tight, but a child doesn't need much."

When she met his gaze, something twisted in his gut. "A child needs love," she said softly.

Soft or not, he heard a challenge in her voice.

"I had love." Uncomfortable under that gaze, he looked at the sun sparkling off the river instead. "From my sister and two older brothers. I never wanted for anything."

A short silence stretched between them before he finally looked back. One of her stockinged feet reached for the grass and pushed off. "And when you were no longer a child?" she asked, swaying back and forth. "A youth has more needs than a boy."

"Mine were met." How to explain a life in a few short sentences? Why did he care that she understood? "By the time Charles regained the throne, Jason and Colin were grown. Men with responsibilities. Cromwell had stolen their youth, and neither of them were ever afforded a chance for formal study. As a younger son, I should never have owned land. But a year following the Restoration, Charles granted us all titles and estates…and I left mine behind and went off to university."

"How old were you then?"

"Seventeen. And spoiled rotten."

He'd never thought of it that way before, but it was nevertheless true. After completing his studies at Oxford, he'd returned to live with Jason. He'd never had to fend for himself. Never worried for anyone else. Never even had to chase after a female, since they always seemed to come after him.

He grinned. "I've led a charmed life."

"I'm sure you haven't," she said quickly, and he remembered Tabitha. That part of his life wouldn't fall under the heading charmed…but for some odd reason, it didn't seem to matter anymore. And it certainly didn't hurt.

Leaning back, Violet stuck her legs out straight and stared at her stockinged feet. "Nothing is that simple."

But it had been. It had been for him.

They fell quiet, and he smiled at the charming picture she made on the swing, wearing his spectacles. He'd never talked with a female like he talked with Violet Ashcroft—never met one who seemed interested in discussing much beyond fashion and gossip. Never talked with anyone who made him reveal parts of himself he hadn't even known.

And though he'd never suffered for lack of bed sport, he'd never wanted a woman like he suddenly wanted this one right here.

Right now. He wanted to kiss her again. And more.

But she was the Earl of Trentingham's daughter. A sheltered country lass. "What was your childhood like?" he asked.

"Boring in comparison." Still looking down, she turned her toes this way and that. "Grandpapa sent money for the cause, but he never went off to fight. He put family before the monarchy. We never went into exile, either. I've never been outside of Britain."

"But he did support King Charles?"

She looked up. "Oh, yes. Of course he did. My family was never anything but Royalist."

"I'm surprised Trentingham wasn't attacked by Cromwell's forces, then. Cainewood was." And had the cannonball marks to prove it.

"They confiscated Trentingham and occupied it, but we weren't there. Grandpapa had a secondary title and property that went along with it. Tremayne Castle, very near Wales. Not helpful for the Roundheads strategically, and I suspect too far away for them to bother with." She glanced over at the children. "Rowan is Viscount Tremayne now."

"So your family stayed there for all the years of the war?"

"And after. All through the Commonwealth, until the Restoration. Besides having an odd penchant for studying languages, Grandpapa was a stickler for family security." She pushed off again, gliding up and then down, slowing immediately when she did nothing to sustain the momentum. "My parents were wed at Tremayne, and I was born there. As were Rose and Lily. I was eight before I ever stepped foot on Trentingham soil."

"Eight?" he said, surprised. "How old are you now?"

"Twenty."

From the tone of her voice one would guess she thought twenty was a doddering old maid. But he'd thought she was older. Not that she looked older, but Tabitha was twenty-one, and except in matters of the bedchamber, Violet seemed so much more mature.

"I'm twenty-eight," he told her.

"I figured that," she said, "when I heard you went off to university at seventeen, a year after Charles returned from the Continent."

"Unlike Rowan, you're good at mathematics." He grinned, thinking she was good at a lot of things. Especially heating his blood. "Does your family sometimes live at Tremayne Castle now?"

"Not anymore. We retreated there to wait out the Great Plague—Rowan was born there during that time. But then Grandpapa died, and we haven't been back since." Seeming deep in thought, she gazed out over the Thames, swaying gently to and fro in the swing. "The castle was only ever half built. Mum says it's too far from London, and Father prefers Trentingham's gardens. It's a quiet sort of place, Tremayne…" She met his gaze again with a smile. "See, I told you my childhood was boring."

To his great embarrassment, his stomach growled. Loudly.

"Oh!" she said. "It's been at least two hours since you said you were starving! Before we even bought the books!"

"I haven't perished." He stood and handed her the shoes. "But I wouldn't mind wandering over and taking a table."

While she put them on, he went to fetch the children.

"Not yet!" Jewel yelled, swinging higher. "Another minute!"

"Two minutes!" Rowan countered.

"Three!"

"Five!"

"Ten!"

"Ten," Ford agreed, giving Jewel one final push. "But only because it's your birthday, mind you."

Violet followed Ford to an empty table. As she slid onto the bench, she aimed a concerned look to where the two young ones were still swinging, facing away as they soared over the picturesque river.

"Sit," he told her. "They'll be safe. If they fail to come over and join us, they can eat their portions on the barge on our way home. And the two of us can dine in peace."

A nice thought, Violet decided. Even more nice after he went inside to order a light dinner, then returned to sit beside her.

Could he actually be interested in her as a woman? Every idea she'd ever held told her no, but his actions told her yes. It was confusing, to say the least. Especially when her hands drifted up to her face and she remembered her ugly spectacles. For a while there, she'd forgotten all about them.

"No one's staring," he said gently. He lowered her hands and laced his fingers with one of them. It felt intimate, and her heart skipped a beat. "You look fine, Violet. You look lovely."

Through the lenses, he looked sincere. She surveyed the few patrons seated at the other tables. The buzz of their conversation sounded pleasant to her ears, and he was right: no one was staring.

Besides Ford, no one was looking at her at all.

His gaze dropped to the book, his face brightening at the sight. "I still cannot believe I may have found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet."

"I'm so happy for you."

"It might not be the right book," he reminded her, although she suspected he was actually reminding himself. He squeezed her hand. "But I thank you for sharing my excitement."

"It's contagious," she told him. Her fingers tingled every place they touched his; she'd never realized her hand had so much sensitivity. And when he leaned forward and grazed his lips over hers, they tingled, too.

Almost unbearably.

It hadn't been enough. Even the kiss on the swing hadn't been enough, and it had been so much more. If the two of them were someplace more private, she would have wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close. As it was, the brush of mouths happened so fast, she wondered if she'd imagined it.

But if so, her imagination was very powerful indeed, because her breath was coming shallow. "Ford," she breathed, unsure whether it was a protest or an entreaty.

"Hmm?" He raised one brow.

She touched her free hand to her suddenly hot cheek. "We're in a public place."

"I must endeavor to get you alone, then."

Her laugh was embarrassingly shaky. "I think not."

He only smiled. A serving maid came out and put two tankards on the table, along with a pewter platter piled with fat slices of cream toast. She set down two empty plates, and Ford dropped Violet's hand to take one of them.

Her spectacles seemed to be fogging. She pulled them off, polished them on her skirt, and put them back on. "Thank you for sharing your dream," she said, lifting a tankard. A bracing swallow of ale seemed just the thing. "I truly hope it comes true."

"It would be amazing, wouldn't it?" He also sipped, regarding her over his tankard's rim. "And what are your dreams, Violet?"

"You'd laugh." She'd never told anyone outside her own family. Ever. Avoiding his eyes, she busied herself sprinkling sweet brown sugar on a slice of the egg-battered bread.

"I won't laugh. I promise." He sprinkled extra cinnamon on his. "Tell me," he said, cutting a piece.

"Well, one day…" As a delaying tactic, she swallowed a bite of cream toast, then washed it down with some ale.

"Yes?" he prompted, looking amused.

"I'd like to publish a philosophy book," she blurted out. "Not now, of course, but when I'm older. I still have much to learn first."

"A lady authoring a philosophy tome." Chewing, he considered. "It's quite an ambitious dream."

He was listening, and he wasn't laughing. "I would publish it under a man's name. Else no one would read it."

"Do you think so?"

"I know so." She sipped, then rushed on. "I have an inheritance coming, you see, enough to print and distribute the book far and wide."

He finished his slice and took another. "What is it you're so burning to say?"

"I don't know yet." Perhaps that sounded rather foolish, but it felt so good to finally tell someone—someone who really listened. "I'm still researching, still changing my opinions. But I believe these things are important. Ideas can change the world. And…I dream of leaving my mark."

"So do I."

"But with science, am I right?" Ford was different, like her. She'd never expected to find a man like her. "You want to leave your mark with science. Science can change the world, too."

"Exactly."

He smiled, reaching across to trail his finger on the back of her hand. She thrilled at the contact—until she heard his next words.

"You know, most ladies would think they have better things to do with their money."

The sentence cut her to the core, robbed her of breath.

She'd thought he understood.

Disappointment swamped her earlier giddiness. Raising her tankard to hide her face, she ordered herself to shrug it off. She focused on Rowan and Jewel still swinging in the distance, their lighthearted laughter floating to her on the breeze. Of course a man would think like that, she reasoned—she should expect nothing else.

Ford was different, but not as different as she'd hoped. A man that different didn't exist.

With a sigh, she lowered the tankard. "I realize most men marry for money." And Ford would be no exception, especially given his obvious lack of the same. "But as far as I'm concerned, that isn't a good reason to shackle oneself for life."

She watched him rake his fingers through his hair. "Did I say anything about marriage?"

"You didn't have to say it—I knew what you were thinking."

"I think not." He lifted his own tankard, looking puzzled, as though he had no clue he'd said anything that could possibly upset her. "Are you never planning to marry, then?"

Perhaps she'd dreamed of it for a minute—one short, self-delusional minute. "My family isn't a conventional one."

"Question Convention."

"Yes. I feel no compulsion to lead a typical female's life."

He just gazed at her for a while. A long while, while she tried and failed to figure out what he was thinking.

"No," he said at last, and paused for a sip. "Nobody would ever call Violet Ashcroft typical."

That hurt, but she only stiffened her spine. "I'm aware that I'm an odd woman, my lord. It's why I'm certain no man would want me except for my inheritance."

He bristled. "Bloody hell, is it that much money?"

She couldn't tell whether he was sarcastic or serious, and she didn't get a chance to find out. Because in the next moment, two voices rang out from the riverbank.

"I dare you!"

"I dare you!"

And a moment after that, both children flew from their swings into the water.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Violet jumped up from where they were eating. "The children!"

Splashes and screams followed.

Icy fear gripped Ford's heart. Boots and all, he made a running dive into the river.

But the splashes were playful ones—on Rowan's part, at least. And if Jewel's shrieks weren't exactly in fun, they weren't a harbinger of death, either. It was immediately apparent both children knew how to swim.

The shock of cold water helped Ford regain his equilibrium as he gathered them close, one in each arm. He should have given his niece more credit. She was much too bright to jump to her death. And if she was less than happy with the outcome of her prank, perhaps it would be a lesson learned.

Mere moments later he'd hauled them ashore, no harm done. Back on the barge and sailing for home, he couldn't imagine why Violet was so hysterical.

"We shouldn't have left them!" she lamented, wringing her hands. He'd never seen a woman wring her hands. Not in real life. He'd thought people only wrung their hands in plays.

And they hadn't left the children—they'd been watching them the entire time. There had never been a true risk of drowning, he told himself, struggling to hold on to his logic in the face of hysteria. He'd been there within seconds. His racing heart was beating only double-time now. He knew how to deal with an emergency.

"All's well that ends well," he told Violet philosophically, wondering if a philosopher had actually said that. But if she knew, she was in no state to inform him.

Jewel was hysterical, too. "There were fish in there!" Her entire body shuddered, and not from the wet and cold. "Fish! Slimy fish!"

Rowan was hysterically laughing at Jewel, and Ford…well, if he'd thought hysterics would have mitigated matters, he'd have been hysterical along with the rest of them.

"Of course there were fish," Rowan crowed between snorts. "You goose," he added with undisguised glee.

Ford suspected he'd been waiting to call Jewel a goose since she'd called him one on the swings. Pouring water from one of his boots, he rather sympathized with the boy.

Women could be so irrational. They puzzled him in general, and Violet was no exception. Take their conversation at the inn, for example. They'd been discussing their dreams, nice as anything, then suddenly she was declaring she'd never get married. Or at least not to anyone who had the nerve to be interested in her money.

Where the devil had all that come from?

As they neared Trentingham's dock, he sighed and tipped his second boot. Water ran out, along with a tiny sliver of silver.

"Another fish!" Jewel screamed.

Rowan snickered.

Violet moaned.

And Ford knew he wasn't going to get an answer to his question.

The next day, Ford paced Trentingham's library. He still had no idea where he stood with Violet following that confusing, interrupted discussion. He'd tried to talk to her before coming upstairs, but here at the Manor there always seemed to be a sister or two around.

Turning the old book in his hands, he sighed, supposing the conversation probably hadn't meant all that much, anyway. Violet seemed to have recovered from yesterday's hysteria, at least, and her family had allowed him in the house, so apparently they didn't hold him responsible for the young heir's soaking.

A good sign. He'd hate to think Jewel might lose her playmate.

"Lord Lakefield?" Jarring him out of his thoughts, Rose sauntered into the room with Violet, fluttering her seventeen-year-old lashes. "My sister said you wanted to see me?"

He stifled a laugh, then fastened his gaze on those bold dark eyes and tried his famous smile on her—the one that seduced all the ladies. "Violet tells me you've a special expertise in languages."

Looking a bit off her stride, she leaned a hand on one of the library's two impressive globes, then jumped when it spun beneath her fingers. "Not truly," she said, glaring at Violet as she brushed the front of her magenta skirts. "I know only a little."

"More than a little," Violet argued. "You know French and Spanish, German, Welsh, some Gaelic—"

"Would you know this one?" Ford interrupted, struggling for patience. So far as he could tell, the book was none of the tongues Violet had mentioned or anything related. He walked to a round wooden table and opened the book on its surface. "Does this language look familiar?"

When Rose didn't make a move, he sent a pleading look to her sister.

"Rose…" Violet said. It was a single word, but uttered in a tone he hoped never to hear directed at himself.

"Oh, very well." Rose unriveted herself from the floor and came to lean over the table. She frowned at the book, reaching to gingerly turn a page, then another. The brittle paper crackled in the silence of the richly paneled library.

"No," she said at last. "I've never seen this language. It may be obsolete." When she looked up, her dark eyes were apologetic. "I know only modern languages, my lord." Her false pretense of empty-headedness gone, she closed the book respectfully and slid it across the table.

Disappointment formed a weight in his gut. Reaching for the book, he sat himself on one of the table's four straight-backed chairs. Violet surprised him by sitting beside him. After yesterday, he didn't know what to expect from her.

"How about the title?" he asked, not quite ready to give up. He reopened the book. No author had signed it, but there, right on the first page, was the alchemical symbol for gold. Of course, the symbol was just a plain circle with a dot in the center, so it could mean something else. Or nothing at all—in a handwritten book, such a mark could be a decoration or a doodle. But the sight of that symbol had set Ford's heart to pounding in John Young's shop.

The title alone could confirm whether or not he'd found the right book. He pushed it back toward Rose. "Can you puzzle out a single word of the title, even?"

"I can try." Rose's reluctance disappeared as she took a seat on his other side and drew the book closer. Clearly warming to the challenge, she ran a tapered finger across the handwritten text. "There are five words."

"Yes." But were they the right words? "Can you read any of them?"

"No." She shook her head. "I think not." She flipped back to the center of the book. "Some pages are stuck together."

"It's old," he said with a shrug. He'd peeled a couple of them apart and found nothing of interest, just more of the same. And he'd ripped one of the pages in the process. "I hesitate to start tearing at it, when I don't even know—"

"This is strange."

"What?" Violet asked.

"Well, I can read this one word here. Argento. It means silver in Italian."

Silver. Ford's hopes took an incautious leap. A book that mentioned silver might also mention gold. And Raymond Lully had lived in Italy for years.

Violet reached across Ford to lay a hand over her sister's. "Are you sure? I never knew you could read Italian."

"I'm sure." A hot blush touched the girl's lovely cheeks.

Rose resembled Violet, but her features had a glossy perfection that was missing from her sister's. Tabitha had been like that, too. They were too perfect, Ford thought. Violet's looks were friendlier, more comfortable.

He could touch her without worrying about messing her up.

"I found an Italian book," Rose explained, gesturing to the shelves that stretched to the high, geometric-patterned ceiling. "It wasn't too difficult to teach myself. The language shares much with Spanish."

Nodding, Violet sat back. A pity—he'd rather enjoyed having her hang over his lap. She'd smelled like flowers. Probably violets, he imagined.

Rose looked back down to his book. "Of course, some languages share the same words with different meanings. For example, in French four means oven, but in English it's a number. So just because argento means silver in Italian doesn't mean it couldn't mean something else in another tongue." Carefully, she flipped another page. Scanning it, she hummed under her breath.

"What is it?" Violet asked.

"It's odd, that's all. That one word appeared to be Italian, but others aren't. There are letters here that are foreign to me, and here"—she looked up—"look at this line, here."

Both Ford and Violet scooted closer, their chair legs rasping on the carpet. "Yes?" Ford prompted.

"This line is written backward. Even the letters are backward, like in a mirror. And then this line here"—she drew a graceful finger along some text—"has no strange letters at all." In her enthusiasm, her voice had lost its deliberate seductive quality. "The writing is a bit faded and more than a bit smeared, but all readable, you see?"

Violet shook her head. "I cannot read it."

"You cannot comprehend it," Rose corrected. "But you recognize the letters, don't you?"

"It may be a code," Ford realized suddenly.

"Different languages and patterns. You may be right." She looked up at him, her dark eyes excited rather than coquettish. "Violet said this could be an important book. Was the book you're looking for written in code?"

"I never considered it before, but it could have been." The book had been rumored to be difficult to read. If he were recording priceless secrets, he'd be tempted to do so in code.

And he knew someone who was very good at cracking codes.

"If it's a code," Violet asked her sister, "do you think you could puzzle it out?"

Rose shook her head regretfully. "I'm afraid not. There are too few words I recognize."

"And none in the title?" Violet pushed.

"None." Rose looked to Ford. "I'm sorry."

She looked sincere and intelligent, and although she didn't interest him like her sister did, he liked her much more than he'd thought. "That's quite all right," he told her, offering her a smile. "You've actually helped a lot—"

"Where is Jewel?" Rowan interrupted, running into the room.

"At home," Ford said. "With her new friend Harry."

"I'm her new friend." Jewel would positively preen if she saw Rowan's pout. "Is she in your laboratory?"

"She'd better not be."

"You said we could go into the laboratory today. You promised."

"Rowan—" Violet started.

"He's right," Ford cut in.

He had promised. And at Lakefield, he might find an opportunity to get Violet alone.

He wondered if she'd let him kiss her again.

Rising, he closed the small leather book. "I did promise," he reminded her. "And a Chase promise is not given lightly. You'll come along, won't you?"

Her hesitation wasn't heartening.

"Lord Lakefield…" Rose's voice was back to its practiced purr. "What is your laboratory like?"

"Messy," he said shortly. He knew she was angling for an invitation, but he wasn't at all tempted to offer one. Then he noticed Violet was scowling at her sister.

That was much more heartening.

He graced Rose with his famous smile, adding, "Perhaps sometime I'll show you."

"I'll come along," Violet blurted.

Very heartening, indeed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"It's up here, Violet."

"I'm coming." Violet followed her brother up the dark, square staircase and then up some more, the old wood creaking all the way to the attic.

They walked through a corridor lined with books—not the handsome leather-bound volumes that filled the Ashcrofts' impressive library, but books that were clearly well read, jumbled haphazardly on plain shelves. Science books, she assumed.

From what she had seen, which granted was only part of the ground floor and now this attic, it seemed Lakefield didn't boast a proper library. If she were mistress here, she would remedy that.

But of course that was never to be. Just being in this place reminded her of how much money Ford needed to fix it. He was going to have to marry for money, and she would never let that happen to her.

At the end of the corridor, Rowan stepped into a room. As Jewel scampered in past him, he waved an expansive arm in a very grown-up way. "Look."

The single word was uttered in an awed tone. Entering the laboratory, Violet could see why.

Housed in a gigantic open space, Ford's workroom was a boy's dream come true. Beneath a steeply pitched ceiling of raw beams that exposed the stone-tiled roof above, a profusion of paraphernalia lived in charming confusion. Under the single shuttered window, a jumble of gears and other parts sat among an army of watches and clocks. Their ill-timed ticks filled the air, sounding like hundreds of scampering mice.

"Incredible," she said. There was no other word to describe it.

Ford opened a drawer and took out a shallow pan. "It's nothing compared to my laboratory at Cainewood. Or Charles's laboratory—the man has at least six of everything."

She didn't doubt it. King Charles was known to take his scientific pursuits very seriously and indeed had chartered the Royal Society. She'd heard he attended the regular meetings.

Just then, the clocks started chiming, as badly timed as their ticks, and she burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. How anyone could accomplish anything in this chaos was beyond her comprehension.

"Look at this," Rowan said, pulling a heavy red book off a shelf. He shoved aside a mortar and pestle to set the book on a table, then opened it with great ceremony. Flipping several pages, he stopped on one and unfolded a large diagram.

She blinked. "What is that?"

"A spider," he said gleefully. "Like the one we scared you with."

Jewel snickered and moved close.

Violet slanted her brother a dubious glance. "That doesn't look like any spider I've ever seen."

"It's as seen under a microscope." He pointed to an instrument across the room, a handsome specimen of chased brass. "The book is called Micrographia." Pronouncing the word carefully, he turned to a random page, and the children leaned over the sketches.

They all stared at the patterns of tiny squares and holes. Jewel scratched her head. "What is it?"

"'Cork and other such frothy bodies,'" Violet read. "Fascinating, isn't it?" Even more fascinating than the pictures was her brother's animated face. He treated lessons as a chore; she'd never seen him so interested in anything academic.

"Look at this," he said, unfolding another large drawing. "Snowflakes."

"No, they're not," she said, hiding a grin. "Read it."

He focused on the page. "'Several observables,'" he enunciated slowly, "'in the six-branched figures form'd on the surface of urine by freezing.'"

"Ewww." Jewel made a face.

But Rowan was unruffled. "Can we buy one of these books, Violet? Please?"

"I have no idea where to get one."

"London," Ford said, polishing a small rectangle of mirror on his breeches. "Check the title page."

She turned to it and read. "'Printed by Joseph Martyn and James Allestry, Printers to the Royal Society, and sold at their shop at the Bell in St. Paul's Churchyard.' Hmm." She looked up at Rowan. "I'll talk to Father about it when next we go to the City."

Ford ripped a piece of white paper from a page of scribbled notes. "When will that be?"

"When Parliament is in session."

"I'll see if we can get one for him sooner." He turned to his niece. "Would you and Rowan do me a favor? Run downstairs, will you, and ask Hilda for a pitcher of water."

While Jewel hurried Rowan from the room, sending a pendulum swinging as they went, Ford walked to the single window and threw the wooden shutters open wide. "Three o'clock on a clear and sunny day," he said. "The sun should be just about right."

"For what?"

"Our experiment. I promised you a rainbow, remember?"

Baffled, she decided to take a wait-and-see attitude. "I'm sorry Rose couldn't help you," she said.

"But she did. Without her observations, I may never have realized the book might be in code. Or in a language so old it's obsolete." He set the paper by the mirror and pan. "I have a friend from my Oxford days, now an expert in ancient linguistics. And codes." He laughed at some age-old memory. "Rand used to infuriate his brother by deciphering his secret journals. I'm going to send for him tomorrow."

"So you do have a friend."

A faint glint of humor lit his eyes. "I have many friends."

"I'm sure you do." More than she had, she'd wager. "I just meant I'd thought you'd invented that friend as a story to tell Mr. Young. The bookseller."

"Well, I didn't buy the book for Rand, so that much was a falsity. But he does exist. And I'd trust him with my life, although I'll admit I hesitate to let that book out of my sight." His half-smile was one of self-amusement. "I expect that's why I didn't think to call on Rand in the first place. Foolish of me—if I'd summoned him yesterday, I might know what I have already. But it never even occurred to me until Rose brought up the inconsistencies."

"You're just focused," she said. "On other things."

"You're right, you know." He moved closer. Very close. "I've always had that annoying trait. When I concentrate on one thing, I cannot think of another."

Finding herself backed into a table, she put her hands behind her and knocked over a flask. She whirled to right it. "My father is like that," she said while still turned away. "He focuses on his flowers."

"My problem is," Ford said softly, "I've been focusing on you." Settling his hands on her shoulders, he gently maneuvered her to face him. "Thank you," he said, more softly still.

"F-for what?" Even through her gown, her skin tingled under his fingers. Her senses whirled and skidded—she couldn't think straight when he was so close. When he was touching her, when she could smell him, when she could feel his warm breath on her face.

This wasn't right. It wasn't fair. He wanted her for all the wrong reasons, but she wanted him anyway.

His voice deepened as his eyes burned into hers. "Thank you for forgiving me for whatever thickheaded thing I said yesterday."

Yesterday rushed back, those heady moments by the river when she'd thought he'd understood, and then his words: You know, most ladies would think they have better things to do with their money.

Most ladies would use their money to buy a highly ranked husband.

She swallowed hard, hurt anew at the reminder that she wasn't like most ladies. That she wasn't pretty enough—or normal enough—for a man to want her only for herself.

But his hands smoothed up her neck until they cupped the sides of her face, and those doubts fled her head. Her heartbeat suddenly seemed louder than the dozens of ticking clocks.

She wondered if he could hear it.

With his index fingers, he drew her spectacles forward and off. A little click sounded when he set them on the table behind her. Then he lowered his head, capturing her lips with his, and she was no longer wondering anything at all.

Her thoughts were lost in the rush of feeling. The blood seemed to heat in her veins, her knees weakened, and when his lips parted hers, the tip of his tongue hot and carnal and exciting in her mouth, she felt as though she'd been waiting for this all of her life. Without thought, she raised her arms and twined them around his neck, pressing against him, savoring his warmth.

His arms tightened around her, pulling her even closer, until every curve of her body felt like it had been formed to match his. She'd thought she was finished with this, finished with him. But nothing could be further from the truth.

Loud, childish voices came drifting down the corridor. Ford and Violet pulled away simultaneously. Her cheeks burning, Violet smoothed her skirts as the youngsters came in, chatting happily. She blinked at their blurry faces, then spun around to the table and grabbed her spectacles, shoving them back onto her face.

"Here, Uncle Ford." Jewel held out the pitcher.

Ford took it and filled the pan with water. Nonchalantly. Like nothing had ever happened.

Well, she told herself sternly, to him a kiss probably was nothing. Especially a kiss with her. He was obviously proceeding with the experiment perfectly calmly. She shook her head to clear it, determined to pay attention.

With a forearm, he swept aside springs and gears to set the pan on his work surface. Bright sunlight streamed through the window and glinted off the water.

He handed Jewel the small rectangle of mirror. "Put this in," he instructed, "so one end is in the water and the other end is resting on the side of the pan."

"May I do something?" Rowan asked.

"In a moment." They all watched as Jewel, looking very self-important, placed the mirror. Then Ford turned to Violet's brother. "You get to do the crucial part."

Rowan's green eyes danced. "What's that?"

"Move the pan around, and the mirror if necessary, until the sunlight reflecting off the mirror makes a patch of light on the wall."

The walls in the attic were unvarnished wood. Rowan did as he was told, gasping when a bright rectangle appeared like magic.

"What, you didn't believe it was possible?" Ford ruffled the boy's dark hair.

Rowan gave him a crooked smile. "I just wasn't sure I could do it."

"You can do anything you put your mind to," Ford told him. "Always remember that." He handed Violet the piece of paper. "Now, hold this so the patch of light shines directly on it."

Enjoying the game, she did as he asked…and watched a brilliant range of colors bathe the white sheet.

"Holy Christ," Rowan said.

Ford's eyes met Violet's. "Do you like it?"

"A rainbow," she murmured.

"Yesterday I told you I would make you one."

Thrilled, she stared at the beautiful hues. "I thought you meant figuratively."

"Now you can have rainbows without needing to prefer rain."

She felt herself blush. "I never did really prefer rain."

"I figured that," he said and laughed, and any embarrassment she might have felt was lost in the shared moment.

"Why does it work?" Rowan asked.

Ford turned to him, all scientist now. "The water sitting on top of the slanted glass is a wedge shape. When the sunlight bounces off the mirror, that wedge of water does the same thing a glass prism would. It's called refraction. The prism refracts the sunlight and breaks it down into all the different colors of light."

"May I try?" Jewel took the paper and held it away, then slipped it back in the beam of light.

The colors burst forth again.

"My turn." Rowan tried it himself, smiling at the results. "What do you mean by colors of light? Isn't all light white?"

"No. White light, like sunlight, is actually a combination of all the colors of light." Ford's language was simple although the concepts weren't; he didn't talk down to the children. "Isaac Newton presented this experiment at the Royal Society last year."

Violet sighed. "I wish women were allowed."

"One was, once. Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle. But not as a member. She had written a book called Observations upon Experimental Philosophy, and she was allowed as a guest to observe some of our own fine experiments."

She gave him a wan smile. "I don't expect the Royal Society would be interested in any book I could write."

He looked contemplative. "Not as a group, perhaps. They can be a snobbish lot. But individual members would certainly take an interest." Rowan and Jewel began playing in the water, but he didn't seem to notice. "Have you heard of John Locke?"

"No." She pulled her brother's hand from the pan. "Who is he?"

"A brilliant philosopher, although he has yet to publish any significant papers. You should meet him. Perhaps he could help you achieve your dream. His ideas are quite thought-provoking." He rolled his eyes, then grinned. "I cannot believe I said that."

"I cannot believe you said that, either." Though he'd never voiced it in so many words, she suspected he was much too logical and concrete a scientist to be drawn to philosophical musings.

When Rowan flicked droplets in Jewel's face, she shrieked, but Ford only smiled at them absently. "The Royal Society is holding an event next week. A celebration, if you will."

"What are they celebrating?" Violet asked, watching the girl pull a beaker off a shelf as Rowan turned away and became preoccupied by something on the cluttered table.

"Ever since the Great Fire when the City offices were temporarily set up at Gresham College, the Royal Society has been meeting at Arundel House instead."

Only half her mind on Ford's words, Violet saw Jewel scoop water from the pan, partially filling the beaker. He was oblivious, she thought. He could truly pay attention to only one thing at a time.

"But now that the Royal Exchange has reopened and the government moved out," he continued, "we've been invited back. The college is throwing a grand entertainment to welcome us."

With a victorious shout, the girl dumped the water on Rowan's head.

"Jewel!" Ford gasped, finally responding at the sound of Rowan's howl. He whirled to face her. "You must ask before you touch anything in here. That beaker could have had chemicals in it."

He didn't care that his niece had drenched Rowan's hair and shoulders, Violet thought. Only that she might have ruined an experiment.

"It was empty, Uncle Ford," Jewel said.

Clearly struggling for calm, Ford dragged a hand through his hair. "Chemicals can dry and become invisible. And some can burn skin. Worse than fire."

"Oh." Jewel looked chagrined.

And Violet felt the same way, knowing she'd underestimated him. Again.

"Are you burned?" Jewel asked Rowan. "You don't look black."

"He'd be red," Ford said.

"I'm fine." His hair still dripping wet, Rowan poked her in the stomach.

Violet opened her mouth to chide him, then decided the girl deserved it.

"I'm going to plan a prank on you," he promised Jewel, ruining the threat with a mischievous grin.

"You'd best hurry." Ford tossed him a towel. "She's going home next week."

"Home?" Rowan's grin faded. "Can't she just live here from now on?"

"I think her parents would have something to say about that." Ford took the pan and leaned out the window to dump the remaining water. "I heard from my brother this morning. There have been no new measles cases the past week, so if matters there continue to improve, I'll be taking Jewel home on my way to London for the Royal Society celebration."

He paused for a moment, then turned to Violet. "John Locke should be there. Would you like to come as my guest?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Of course you'll go with him."

"Mum!" Violet paced the perfumery. "The celebration is in London."

Chrystabel looked up from the vial in her hand. "So?"

"So we're not in London, in case you haven't noticed. Parliament isn't in session, and you know Father prefers the countryside and his gardens. You don't mean for me to travel to London alone with Lord Lakefield, do you?"

Knowing Violet expected it, Chrystabel did her best to look shocked. "Of course not. But I won't have you miss this opportunity, either." It was a perfect excuse to get Violet and Ford together without the children—just what they needed to make their budding romance bloom. But Chrystabel knew better than to reveal her strategy. "I know that you've dreamed of attending a Royal Society meeting, and I mean to see you go."

"It's not a meeting, Mum. Only a social event."

"And as close as you'll ever get to your dream, unless you disguise yourself as a man." She set down the vial, meeting her daughter's gaze. "Don't even think of it."

"Disguising myself? I wouldn't."

No, her daughter wouldn't try that, Chrystabel supposed—even Violet knew she could never pull off such a prank. Her face might pass for a pretty lad, but her body was very womanly.

If only a man—the right man—got his hands on that body, he would never let go. And Chrystabel wasn't averse to arranging for that to happen. Desperate mothers were sometimes drawn to desperate measures, and she knew for a fact that all would turn out right in the end.

Chrystabel's instincts were as dependable as dew sweetening a rose. And if sometimes it made her a bit uneasy to trust her intuition where her own daughter was concerned, she reminded herself how accurate her feelings invariably were.

Mothering wasn't always a comfortable job.

"Father won't want to leave his flowers," Violet insisted. Thanks to her agitated pacing, her spectacles had slipped down her nose. She pushed them back up. "He grumbles enough about spending the wintertime in London, although he won't shirk his duties to the House of Lords. He won't go in summer."

Wondering if her daughter was going to wear a hole in the carpet, Chrystabel chose another vial. "Then we'll go without him."

"Mum! We've never!"

"There's a first time for everything, Violet." She added a drop to the bottle she was working with, swirling to mix the fragrances. "Your sisters would love a few days in the City—"

"But we cannot travel without Father—"

"Nonsense. We'll take a brace of footmen, and I am certain we'll arrive safe and sound. With Jewel leaving, Rowan will appreciate the distractions London has to offer. And your sisters have been dying to pay a visit to Madame Beaumont's establishment, to see the newest fashions. It will be a lovely holiday for all." She made a notation on Mrs. Applebee's card, then smiled up at her daughter. "Now, have you a suitable gown for this event?"

A nice, low neckline would be suitable indeed.

Of course Violet didn't have a gown. With all the delays, she had yet to be fitted for new clothing, and a ball gown wouldn't have been included in the order in any case.

But suddenly it seemed paramount to Mum—and to Violet, though she only admitted it silently—that she look as presentable as possible for the Royal Society celebration.

So the seamstress and her assistant were fetched immediately, and Violet found herself subjected to an hour of measuring and prodding, accompanied by much babbling in incomprehensible French. This was followed by a second hour, during which Madame presented her with a mind-boggling array of fabrics, along with fashion dolls from Paris, all dressed in miniature versions of the latest gowns.

As though she could be fooled into thinking she'd ever look like one of those dolls.

They ended up deciding on a gown in two shades of purple embroidered with gold thread and pearls. The dress would be started today, and tomorrow the women would be back for what promised to be a day full of tucking and pinning. Madame said she would have to "accomplish zee impossible" to have it ready in time for them to take it to London.

By the time the seamstress left, a headache was throbbing in Violet's temples. She wanted nothing more than to get off by herself for some thoughtful reading.

In the peaceful sanctuary of her lilac-hued room, the pile of new books beckoned. Between Ford's visit to talk to Rose and the afternoon in the laboratory, she hadn't found a minute to peruse the titles.

She sat on the bed and ran a finger down the stacked spines. Thomas Hobbes, Human Nature; René Descartes, Discourse on Method; Aristotle's Master-piece. That was the one. "'Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is truth,'" she quoted under her breath, smiling at Aristotle's words, the perfect expression of her own feelings. She couldn't imagine why she'd never heard of this book, but she was glad she'd found it.

Leaning back against a plump velvet pillow, she sighed and opened the cover. And gasped.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Nesbitt!" The next afternoon, Ford hurried down the gravel path to meet his friend. "It's been entirely too long."

Three years, he realized suddenly. Sad, how friendships suffered when men's lives took them separate directions. But Rand's smile convinced him that things hadn't changed between them.

Lord Randal Nesbitt swung off his black horse, his dark blond hair glinting in the sun. "This had better be important, Lakefield." The words sounded serious, but he strode forward to give his old friend an affectionate clap on the shoulder. "So this is the place, is it?" He squinted up at Ford's house.

"Well, yes." His gaze following Rand's, Ford shifted on his feet. "I'm planning some renovations."

He hadn't been, not really, since his stay here wasn't permanent and he couldn't afford renovations in any case—not without changing his lifestyle. But seeing his home through Rand's eyes made him wonder how Violet must see it.

The paint had worn entirely off the front, leaving bare beige stone. He'd never noticed before that it was a darker color on the left half, which had been added early this century, and a lighter color on the older half. The windows were different, too—four modern ones on the new side, five mullioned ones on the Tudor portion.

The building was sound, but its aesthetics left much to be desired.

"Rand." In an effort to draw his friend's attention from the dismal architecture, Ford touched him on the arm. "I may have found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet."

Startled, Rand's steel gray eyes met Ford's. "That fabled book you used to babble on about? You're jesting."

"I'm not. At least I hope not." He guided Rand up the steps. "I found this book in a shop in Windsor—looked like it'd been there for ages. It has five words in the title and the alchemical symbol for gold on the first page, and it looks exactly as the book has been described. But I cannot read it. Not a word." He led his friend through the entrance hall and around the corner into his study. "Violet's sister—"

"Violet?"

"A neighbor."

Rand plopped onto a faded green chair. "What happened to Tabitha?"

"She eloped with the Earl of Berrescliffe." Incredibly, it no longer seemed important. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"The way you said 'Violet'…"

Wishing not to alienate his friend by sitting behind his massive oak desk, Ford dropped heavily to an iron chest that sat against one wall. "I didn't say 'Violet' any special way."

"Come on, man," Rand said. "I've known you since we were lads. We were at school together, remember?" His quick grin emerged. "I can tell when you're interested in a woman."

Ford leaned back against the dark, Tudor oak paneling. "You don't know me so well anymore."

A tense moment passed while Rand considered that statement and Ford mentally kicked himself for offending an old friend.

"The hell I don't," Rand finally said. When his smile grew even wider, Ford didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed. "What did you want to tell me about Lady Violet's sister? Violet is a lady?"

"She is." Guessing where his friend was leading, Ford sighed. "And her sister is a linguist of sorts. Her younger sister," he stressed, noting the interest that lit Rand's eyes.

He knew Rand every bit as well as Rand knew him.

"How young?" Rand asked, clearly not considering that an impediment. He was younger than Ford by four years—a brilliant student who had entered Oxford early, while, due to his family's exile, Ford had started a little late.

"Seventeen," Ford said. "And a sheltered country miss." Though accurate, the description somehow didn't fit Rose.

Rand ran his tongue across his teeth, a sign of contemplation Ford remembered from their days at Wadham College. "A woman can marry at twelve with her father's consent."

Ford thought of Jewel just six years hence. "A female of twelve is not a woman."

"Point taken." Rand cleared his throat. "So what of this sister?"

"She knows a language or three, you see, and she examined the book." Ford rose, crossing to the desk to retrieve it. "She noticed a word she thought was Italian. For silver," he added significantly as he opened the bottom drawer.

"And that was enough to make you decide it was Secrets of the Emerald Tablet?"

"You think me so simple-minded?" He handed the book to Rand, then sat again on the iron chest. "The moment I saw this book, I suspected it might be the one. Besides the book's appearance and the clues on the title page, it includes diagrams that are clearly scientific. Other than that, though, I couldn't really say why I think this is it. It just…felt right," he added, suddenly feeling foolish.

He'd always trusted facts over feelings. Until now, at least.

"It does look quite ancient." Rand turned the book in his hands, then opened it gingerly, reverently, as such an old book deserved. "You know, Old English is so different from what we speak today, it might as well be a foreign language."

"But I would still recognize a word here or there, wouldn't I? Rose—Violet's sister—thought it might be several different languages. And patterns." His fingers worried the decorative metal strips on the chest. "I'm thinking it might be a code."

Rand looked up. "What is in there?" he asked suddenly, indicating the old iron chest.

"I don't know. It belonged to the previous owners." Ford looked ruefully at the heavy lock. The key was missing, so it would have to be hacked off with an ax. One of the many things he had yet to get around to doing here at Lakefield.

"Don't you wonder if it holds something valuable?"

"They wouldn't have left it had it contained anything valuable. Do you see anything else they left around here that was worth keeping?"

Scanning the shabby room, Rand laughed. "You have a point."

Ford wasn't at all handy with an ax, and the book was much more important. "Rose said some of the lines are written backward. And the letters mirror images."

"Etruscan," Rand said, glancing back down.

"Pardon?"

"Etruscan. A dead language. The people who spoke it lived in what eventually became Italy."

"Raymond Lully, the author, lived in Italy for some time."

Rand nodded thoughtfully. "The Etruscans wrote left to right and then right to left on successive lines, with the letters facing backward and forward." He kept turning pages as he talked. "Etruscan is phonetic and easy to read aloud, but no one's ever managed to puzzle out the words' meanings."

Ford's spirits plummeted. "Does that mean you won't be able to identify the book?"

"Not at all." Rand looked up with a grin. "Your ladylove's sister was right."

Violet wasn't his ladylove, but in his rising excitement, Ford decided to let his friend's annoying ribbing slide. "Right about what?"

"About it being many languages. I've noticed two or three ancient words here—ones I can read. But not together. I believe you're correct that it may be a code."

"And we both know how good you are at cracking those, to Alban's constant aggravation." Alban, Rand's older brother, had been a cruel boy, Ford remembered. Rand had retaliated by constantly outsmarting him. "How is Alban these days?"

"I don't know, actually," Rand said, his eyes still on the book. "I haven't been home in four years."

"I see." Reluctant to subject himself to his father and brother, Rand had often spent school holidays with Ford's family instead. Apparently matters hadn't improved. Ford hesitated to pry, though, as he knew it was a sensitive subject.

He rose and moved to stand over Rand, leaning down to turn back to the first page. "Can you read the title?"

Rand stared at the words for a moment, then frowned. "If this is a code, it's a tough one." He looked up, shutting the book. "Give me some time, man. Can you not feed a fellow before taxing his brain?"

As if on cue, Hilda walked in, holding a folded piece of paper.

"We've another for supper," Ford told her.

"And what makes you think I can provide on short notice?" She walked closer, scrutinizing Rand's healthy physique. "I suppose you eat as heartily as this one?" she asked, indicating Ford.

"Doubtless," Rand said with a smile.

With an exaggerated sniff, she held out the paper to Ford. "Here, I came to give you this." When he took it, she added, "I'll bring your guest some refreshments. For God's sake, milord, you haven't offered him so much as a drink."

"Why do you put up with her?" Rand asked when she had left.

Ford shrugged. "She came with the house. Besides, she's a kitten under the gruff exterior. Read this, will you?" He handed Rand the paper and went to the cabinet where he kept brandy.

While he poured, Rand unfolded the paper. "'Dear Lord Lakefield, The Ashcroft family would be honored to have you and Lady Jewel as our guests for supper this evening. If we do not receive your regrets, we shall expect you at seven o'clock. Yours sincerely, Lady Trentingham.'"

Ford handed Rand his drink. "You'll come along, of course. I'll have Harry carry a note to warn them of the extra guest. Hilda will be relieved."

"Lady Jewel?" Rand sipped, his glance speculative over the cup's rim. "Another woman? Lady Violet isn't enough?"

"Violet isn't my woman," Ford said irritably. "And Jewel is my niece. Long story."

Rand settled back. "I'm waiting to hear it."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A knock came at Violet's door. "Don't you want to come riding?" Lily called through the oak.

"No, thank you." Seated at her dressing table, Violet flipped a page of her book.

"You've been hiding in there for two days." Rose sounded typically impatient. "Are your fittings that exhausting?"

"Yes," Violet called, just as impatiently.

"Violet…"

When Lily pushed open the door, Violet hurried to stuff the book under her bedcovers.

Her eyes narrowed, Rose fisted her hands on her hips. "What were you reading?"

"Nothing."

"I saw it. It was a little brown book." She stalked over to the bed. "Let me see."

Violet pulled it out before Rose could. "Aristotle's Master-piece. Philosophy. Nothing you'd find interesting."

"Aristotle's Master-piece?" Lily breathed. Her blue eyes were round as the moon through Ford's telescope. "Where did you get that?"

Violet's heart pounded. "Why? Have you heard of it?"

"Have we heard of it?" Rose all but snorted. "The ladies whisper behind their fans about all its secrets. I vow and swear, Violet, you need to get out of the house. If you came visiting more often—"

"Does Mum know you have it?" Lily interrupted.

"No." Perish the thought. "You won't tell her, will you?"

Rose's lips curved in a slow smile. "We won't if you share."

"You're too young for a book about…" Violet peeked inside at the title page. "'The Secrets of Generation in All the Parts Thereof.'" She slammed it shut, her fingers clenching on the leather cover.

"I'm not so certain Mum would want you reading it, either." Rose walked closer, and Violet held on tighter. "I think she'd be very interested," Rose taunted, "to hear where you got that book."

There was nothing for it. "Come to the summerhouse," Violet said with a sigh. "We can all read it together."

"How did you get it?" Rose asked when they were safely outdoors in the garden.

Violet knew her father was in the study—they had walked right by him on their way from the house—but she was so used to seeing him out here that she glanced around, half expecting to find him lurking behind a bush.

"Ford bought it for me in Windsor," she admitted finally.

Lily's mouth gaped open.

"It wasn't like that!" Violet rushed to add. "He thought it was a philosophy book. We both did."

"Of course," Rose said with a smirk.

Violet clutched the book to her bodice. "It's called Aristotle's Master-piece. What was I supposed to think?"

Rose looked unconvinced.

"Never mind." Lily's shorter legs hurried to keep up with her older sisters' quick pace. "Is it really that shocking?"

"Well, yes and no," Violet said. "Mostly it's educational."

Rose grabbed for the book. "I need an education."

"Just wait," Violet snapped, snatching it back. She rushed past Father's blue and yellow flower beds, breathing a sigh of relief when they reached the circular red-brick summerhouse. She yanked open one of the small garden building's four doors, and the girls scurried inside, shutting it behind them.

They huddled together on a section of the benches that ran along the wall, Rose and Lily on either side of Violet. She placed the book on her lap. Large, arched windows over each of the doors illuminated the brown leather binding, but they were placed too high for anyone to see in.

A perfect place for illicit reading.

She drew a deep breath. "This was my first clue that it wasn't the sort of book I'd thought," she said and opened the cover.

"Oh, my God," Lily breathed. The frontispiece plate depicted a seated Aristotle with a nude woman standing beside him. "Is the book really by Aristotle?"

"I'm sure not!" Rose stared at the title page opposite. "There's no author listed, no printer's name or date or even place of publication." She gave a delicious shiver. "It must be truly scandalous. What does it say, Violet?"

"Well, the beginning is only advice to parents."

"To parents?"

"Of young girls. Listen." She flipped a page, then cleared her throat. "'It behooves parents to look after their children, and when they find them inclinable to marriage, not violently to restrain their affections, but rather provide such suitable matches for them, lest the crossing of their inclinations should precipitate them to commit those follies that may bring an indelible stain upon their families.'"

"What does that mean?" Lily asked.

Rose grinned. "It means Father and Mum should make certain I marry before I get myself with child."

"Rose!" Lily's mouth hung open in shock.

"Hush," Violet said. "There's more." She swallowed and turned the page. "'For when they arrive at puberty, which is about the fourteenth or fifteenth year of their age, then the natural purgations begin to flow—'"

"They have already," Rose said. "For all of us."

"Rose!" Lily's cheeks stained red as the "purgations."

"Just listen," Violet said. "'…and the blood stirs up their minds to venery: for their spirits being brisk and inflamed when they arrive at this age, if they eat hard salt things and spices, the body becomes more and more heated, whereby the desire to carnal embraces is very great, sometimes insuperable.'"

"Insuperable." Rose nodded. "That's what I am. Insuperable."

Lily huffed, a rare show of impatience. "What does it say after that, Violet?"

"'And the use of this so much desired enjoyment being denied to virgins, many times is followed by dismal consequences—'"

"Dismal," Rose emphasized.

Lily and Violet glared at her.

"'…by dismal consequences, as a green weasel color, short breathings, trembling of the heart, etcetera. Also their eager staring at men, and affecting their company, shows that nature pushes them upon coition, and their parents neglecting to get them husbands, they break through modesty to satisfy themselves in unlawful embraces—'"

"But I want to choose my own husband," Lily broke in. "I don't want my parents—Mum most especially—to get one for me."

"Either way, it must be done." Rose stood and paced the small, round building. "Else can you see the consequences? Your spirits will become brisk and inflamed. The desire to carnal embraces is very great—"

"Sometimes insuperable." Violet could hardly keep from laughing.

"Insuperable, yes." Rose pulled the book from Violet's hands, scanning the words. "Nature will push you upon coition, Lily, and you'll break through your modesty to satisfy yourself in unlawful embraces." She looked up. "We must get Violet married so we can find husbands ourselves."

"Oh, no," Violet said.

"Oh, yes. Otherwise, we cannot be responsible for the consequences—"

"Girls, are you in there?" Father knocked on one of the doors. "Willets said he saw you heading this way—"

Rose quickly sat on the book, folding her hands angelically in her lap while Violet went to open the door. "We're just talking, Father. Do you need us?"

"Do I need what?" Looking perplexed, he scratched his head. "Your mother sent me to find you."

"Why?" Violet asked.

"Lord Lakefield has arrived for supper. With a guest. Lord something-or-other. I failed to catch the name."

"A man? A titled man?" Rose stood and slipped the book to Violet behind her back. "Gemini! We'd better go change our gowns!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

An hour later, Chrystabel set down her goblet. "Violet tells me Jewel is going home tomorrow."

"Yes." Ford sprinkled salt on his spinach tanzy and returned the spoon to its little dish. "I hope she also told you I've invited her to an event at Gresham College."

"She has," Chrystabel said, "and she'll be delighted to attend. Monday evening, is it?"

A tiny gasp escaped Violet's lips. She'd never given Ford an answer, and she'd wanted to do that for herself.

She nudged her mother's foot beneath the table, but Mum pretended not to notice.

"Yes, Monday." Ford took an experimental bite of the rich spinach omelette, then smiled. "I trust you'll be in London by then? I'll need the direction of your town house."

"We're in St. James's Square," Mum answered again for Violet. "In the northeast corner, the house of light gray stone."

"Excellent. The celebration begins at ten, so I'll be by at half past nine."

"Half pastime?" Father murmured.

Nobody paid him any attention.

Violet stabbed a stewed prawn with her fork, a bit more forcefully than necessary. If her mother and Ford kept planning her life as though she weren't around to hear it, she feared she might scream.

Seated between her sisters across the table, Lord Randal Nesbitt gave her a sympathetic smile—a smile nearly as charming as Ford's. It just lacked that hint of the devil that lit Ford's eyes.

Apparently noticing the glance that passed between Violet and his friend, Ford reached for her hand beneath the table.

Faith, what if someone noticed? But it felt good. It reminded her of their stolen kisses.

Feigning nonchalance, she smiled back at Rand. He was nice. He hadn't even mentioned her spectacles. She wondered if that was because Ford had already told him about them, or if he was just very polite.

"Pastime?" Violet's father repeated. He turned to his wife. "What's this all about?"

She flicked a grain of brown rice off his cravat. "Darling, I told you we're going to London, remember?"

"I thought that was to order more gowns for Violet, since she's finally taking interest." Father stirred some of the butter sauce from the prawns into his rice. "From that Madame Blowfont woman."

"Beaumont," Rose clarified loudly, sprinkling cinnamon on her own rice.

Egad, Violet thought, did Ford have to know that she'd never cared for clothes? Nobody would ever call Violet Ashcroft typical, she heard him say in her head—and her family was only confirming it.

She wished she could slide beneath the table. And then melt into the floor. Especially when she caught Ford stifling a grin, indicating he was enjoying this discussion.

"Gowns?" Mum said, trying to come to Violet's rescue. "Of course she needs new gowns, but that's not the focus of our holiday. Everyone knows my eldest daughter's main interest is philosophy, not fashion." She looked to Ford's friend. "You must forgive my husband. He's a bit hard of hearing and often misunderstands."

"What?" Father asked, proving her point.

"Nothing, my love." Chrystabel's musical laughter tinkled through the room, a sound of relief. "See what I mean?"

"Violet did have a new ball gown made," Rowan said in defense of his father.

Ford squeezed Violet's hand.

Rose flashed her dimples at Ford's guest. "What brings you to visit, Lord Randal?" she asked, even though he'd told them all to call him just Rand.

She'd been gazing at the man all evening. Not that Violet blamed her. Like Ford, Rand wore no wig, and he had the most gorgeous mane of long, dark blond hair. Besides that devastating smile, he was tall and lean, with a poet's face and eyes of steely gray—the most intense eyes Violet had ever seen. When he looked at a person, he really looked at her, as though he could see right into her soul.

In response to Rose's question, he was looking at her now, and she seemed to all but swoon beneath his gaze.

Eating single-handed, Ford used his fork to cut a bite of the tanzy rather awkwardly. "I've asked Rand to translate that old book for me, Rose. He's Professor of Linguistics at Oxford—a renowned specialist in ancient languages."

"Languages?" Visibly perking up, Rose batted her long eyelashes, reminding Violet of Jewel.

When Ford squeezed her hand again, she stifled a laugh and stuffed a prawn in her mouth to hide it.

"I'm conversant in a few languages myself," Rose announced. It was the first time Violet had ever heard her sister voluntarily admit her linguistic skills to a man. Still gazing at Ford's friend, Rose spooned some salt from the cellar and started blindly sprinkling her roast chicken. "Perhaps we can work on the translation together?"

Rand lifted his goblet. "Perhaps." His voice matched his looks, smooth and rich. "Ford tells me you've already examined the book."

"Well, yes. But not for very long." Rose was still spooning salt. "Perhaps together—"

"Rose," Lily interrupted. "Do you not think you're overdoing the seasoning?"

Rose looked down and froze, the tiny spoon halfway between the cellar and her food.

Licking orange-flavored butter sauce off her lips, Violet gave her a brittle smile. "You wouldn't want to eat too much hard salt things and spices."

"What?" Father asked.

Mum just looked perplexed.

"I'm afraid you're right." Dumping the salt back into its little dish, Rose released a languid sigh. "I'm experiencing short breathings, my heart is trembling…am I turning green as a weasel?"

"Has anyone ever seen a green weasel?" Rand asked no one in particular.

The children both giggled.

Ford shifted his hidden hand to lace his fingers with Violet's. "I cannot say that I have."

Lily looked down and smiled. "Beatrix, how did you get in here?" Leaning to scoop up a small striped cat, she settled it on her lap.

"Lily," Mum said. "Not when we have company."

"She's lonely." Lily stroked the animal's fur before reluctantly setting her back on the carpet. "She had a bad day."

Rand cocked his head at her. "Pray tell, how does a cat have a bad day?"

On his other side, Rose touched him on the arm, a clear bid for his attention. "Our Lily claims she can feel her animals' emotions. She collects injured creatures. Cats, birds, rabbits, the odd squirrel. She's turned an old barn into a menagerie, or rather an infirmary for damaged beasts. She even has a mouse."

Lily nodded. "His little leg was broken, poor thing."

When Ford scooted his chair closer to Violet's, she felt her blood stirring up to venery. But a quick scan of the table assured her no one was paying attention. To the contrary, the others were all looking at Rand, who in turn was focused on Lily.

Violet noticed a distinct softening in that intense gray gaze. "Cats and mice together?" he asked.

Lily, bless her, seemed unaffected by his charms. "I have but three cats at the moment, and they've been with me since they were kittens. When creatures are raised side by side, they can learn to be brothers and sisters. Even cats and mice."

"Fascinating," Rand said.

"Lily dreams of building an animal home," Rose announced.

"A what?"

"An animal home," Lily repeated softly. Like Violet, she'd never shared her dream outside the family. Reaching a hand beneath the table, she slipped the cat a bit of chicken while measuring Rand's reaction with her steady blue gaze. "A nice clean building where hurt or abandoned creatures can be brought to live. People who work there will care for them until they are healthy enough to return to the wild or they find a home with a family."

Rather than disapproving, Rand nodded slowly. "That's a very nice idea. And innovative, too."

Along with her youngest sister, Violet breathed a sigh of relief. She rather liked Ford's friend. "Our grandfather encouraged us to be innovative," she told him, trying to ignore Ford's thumb tracing circles on her palm. "Or rather to follow our dreams. And, as he put it, leave our marks on the world."

"And what is your dream, my lady?"

"Please call me Violet," she reminded him, stalling for time. Although she'd told Ford her dream and he hadn't laughed, it remained difficult to share with another.

Then Ford moved their joined hands to rest on his thigh, and the shock of that loosened her tongue. "I wish to write a book about philosophy," she blurted, shoving her spectacles higher on her nose. "My own ideas. And use my inheritance to publish it some day and distribute it far and wide. Of course," she hastened to add, "I have a lot of studying and thinking to do before then."

Rand didn't laugh. "Of course. An admirable dream, Violet." He turned to Rose. "And your dream, my lady?"

Rose didn't tell him to drop the my lady. "I…I dream of falling in love," she said, and prettily lowered her lashes.

Rand looked surprised, but Violet wasn't. Rose had never shared a dream with the family, unless one counted dreams of balls and gowns and jewelry.

"Oops!" Jewel dropped her spoon and dove to the floor to go after it. "Pretty kitty," came her voice from beneath the table.

"Jewel…" Ford warned. But she didn't come up. Instead, Rowan slipped off his chair to join her.

An alarmed meow came from somewhere below.

"Poor Beatrix. What are they doing to you?" Leaning down, Lily swept the cat back to her lap. She rubbed its small, furry head with a finger. "Go out now, Beatrix," she said, setting her down again. "I shall come to you later."

Beatrix did go out, stepping gracefully, her striped tail high in the air.

"She obeyed." Admiration lit Rand's eyes. "A cat complied with your command."

Ford played with Violet's hand where it rested on his leg, and she felt herself turning red.

"Holy Christ," came Rowan's voice muffled from below. "Look, Jewel."

The girl's head popped up. "Uncle Ford, are you holding hands with Lady Violet under the table?"

"No!" Ford yelped, yanking up his hands, fingers spread to prove his point.

It was the second time Violet had seen him blush. Knowing her own hue must be scarlet, she was sure the truth was obvious.

Lily gasped. Rose smirked. Mum's mouth curved into a smile.

"What's that?" Father mumbled.

It was a long supper.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Later, seated beside Violet at the round table in Trentingham's library, Ford spread his knees farther apart so one rested against hers. Then he leaned near to whisper in her ear. "I'm looking forward to Monday."

She turned her head slightly, her cheeks prettily flushed, and he hoped that meant she was looking forward to Monday, too. But her eyes suddenly narrowed. "I just want you to know," she whispered back, "that I am nearly one-and-twenty, and my mother doesn't run my life."

He wouldn't challenge that statement for all the gold in England. "I'm certain the decision was yours alone," he assured her. Shifting closer, he held her gaze. "I'm just glad you decided to come."

"Oh," she said, and then, "Oh!" when his arm curled around to rest on her shoulder. Her hands fluttered up to touch her spectacles, which he'd noticed she sometimes did when she was flustered.

Not that she had cause for worry. It was clear as the lenses over her eyes that nobody else in this room was going to take note of their closeness or conversation.

Candles burned, warding off the late-night darkness. Reluctant to say goodbye to each other, Rowan and Jewel had fallen asleep on a corner of the patterned carpet, half twined where they'd dropped in their play. Across the table, Rand and Rose huddled together over Ford's ancient book.

The girl was plainly smitten.

"I'm not sure," she crooned to Rand now, "but do you think this might mean 'mystery'? It's awfully similar to the same word in German."

"Possible." Rand flipped a couple of pages, peering at them critically. "But I don't see much else that looks to be Germanic."

Ford traced geometric figures on Violet's shoulder, smiling to himself when he felt her shiver.

Playing with the ends of his long hair, Rand flipped back to the original page. "Do you suppose the five words might be from five different languages? I've been assuming it's only one."

"That could be." Hero worship flashed in Rose's eyes. "I hadn't considered the possibility."

"Five words?" Ford's attention was finally wrested from Violet. "What five words?"

"The five words of the title," Rose said as though he'd lost his head.

Clearly he had.

Rand frowned at the page, running a finger over the text. "What if this were German, like you were saying, but an older version?" A tinge of excitement crept into his voice. "And this looks Hellenic, perhaps meaning 'emerald,' and this maybe Slavic—"

"Mystery and emerald?" Ford breathed, his heart threatening to hammer right out of his chest.

"Yes, Slavic," Rand murmured, nodding to himself. "And this one…" Quite suddenly he straightened in his chair. "Five words, five different languages. Translating to 'Mysteries of the Emerald Slab."

Ford blinked, feeling blank.

His friend leaned across the table to punch him on the arm. "Secrets of the Emerald Tablet, you fool." A grin spread on his face. "You found the book, Lakefield. It's a bloody miracle."

All the air seemed sucked from Ford's lungs. It was a bloody miracle. And a marvel, and a wonder, and—

He leapt from the chair and swept the four of them into a fierce hug. Then he kissed Violet smack on the lips, right in front of her gasping sister.

He was still grinning the next day when he showed up at his brother's castle.

Colin wasn't grinning when Ford delivered his daughter, along with a still-weak Nurse Lydia they'd fetched along the way.

While Lydia crept off to her bed, Colin's wife, Amy, knelt in the entry and hugged Jewel close. "How did it go?"

"The two of us got along famously." Pleased that Amy seemed fully recovered, Ford turned to his scowling brother. Holding their tiny son in his arms, Colin looked very parental. "What's your problem?" Ford asked.

Colin swayed back and forth in the age-old motion that soothed and rocked an infant to sleep. "You mean to tell me you were alone all this time with my Jewel?"

"Of course not. Hilda and Harry were there, too."

"Those old barnacles?"

"Colin!" Amy set their daughter on her feet and took her hand, leading her from the square entrance hall. "Jewel seems no worse for the wear."

The rest of them followed. "How is Hugh?" Ford asked, referring to their four-year-old son.

Her raven hair shining with health, Amy smiled over her shoulder. "Much better. He's napping now."

He looked to the child in his brother's arms. "And Aidan?"

"Had a very light case," Colin said, patting the baby's back.

"I had fun, Mama." Jewel twirled in a circle, around and around under Amy's arm as they went down the corridor. "Uncle Ford bought me this necklace on my birthday!" Still twirling, she fingered the silver filigree heart she wore on a black ribbon around her neck. "And he let me sleep in his bed. And he paid me to be good!" Reaching the sitting room, she dropped cross-legged to the floor and began digging in her pockets. Shillings fell to the stone slabs with a merry sound.

Amy seated herself in a blue upholstered chair and picked up a small knife. "You're rich, poppet."

"I'm saving up to buy a mi-mi"—Jewel looked at Ford, but he knew better than to help her now—"mi-cro-scope. Uncle Ford showed me a book with pictures. Written by Mr. Heck."

"Hooke," Ford corrected, leaning an elbow against the mantel. "And the book is called Micrographia."

"Mr. Hooke drew pictures of big, icky things. Close-up things." Jewel collected her coins, making a neat stack. "When I buy the mi-cro-scope, I'm going to share it with Rowan."

Settling Aidan in a wooden cradle, Colin raised a brow. "Who's Rowan?"

"My friend from Uncle Ford's house. Violet's brother. I'm going to marry him."

Amy's father had been a jeweler in London, and she'd been raised in the trade. Whittling away on a piece of wax that looked like it might someday become a ring, she appeared to be stifling a laugh. "Does Rowan know you're going to marry him?"

"Of course. I told him. And Uncle Ford is going to marry Violet."

"I am not." Ford's elbow slipped off the stone ledge. "Why, why—"

"Problem, Ford?" Colin drawled, taking the chair beside his wife's.

Ford ignored him, focusing on his niece instead. "What the devil made you say that?"

All innocence, she looked up from her spot on the floor. "I saw you kissing her."

"You did not."

"Did so."

"Did not."

Colin rolled his eyes. "No wonder you two got along. You're as childish as she is. I take it you're over Tabitha, then?"

"Did you think I was upset about her elopement?" Ford vaguely remembered being so, but couldn't fathom why. "She meant nothing to me. No more than a convenient diversion."

"Mm-hmm." Colin crossed his arms, looking less than convinced. "Tell me about this Violet."

"There's nothing to tell." Ford wandered over to gaze at a portrait of some long-dead ancestor. He didn't have anything like it in his house—nothing to personalize his living space, nothing to make it a home.

Jason, his oldest brother, had plenty of paintings at Cainewood Castle. He would ask him if he could spare one or two for Lakefield.

"Lady Violet is simply a neighbor," he told the woman in the picture. She stared back at him blankly, her head poking out of a huge, starched ruffle that looked damned uncomfortable. "Violet brought her little brother over to play with Jewel sometimes, that's all."

"And Uncle Ford is taking her to a ball tomorrow night," Jewel piped up. "In London."

"What ball?" Amy asked.

"Gresham College is throwing a party to welcome back the Royal Society. Lady Violet would like to meet John Locke. He'll be there." Ford turned from the painting. "End of story. It's not a ball."

"Will there be dancing?"

He walked to a chair and plopped onto it. "Yes, I suppose there will be dancing."

"It's a ball, then," Amy said blithely. "I'm sure you'll have a lovely time."

"Do you not think," Colin asked, drumming his fingers against his thigh, "that if you're considering wedding a woman, you ought to introduce her to the family?"

"I'm not wedding her." Ford's hands clenched on the chair's arms. "I'm not wedding anyone. I'm not ready to get married."

"Jason is back from Scotland." Colin's eyes looked contemplative. They were emerald green like Jewel's, and he was just as single-minded as his daughter. "I'm sure he'll be fascinated to hear about this."

"There's nothing for Jason to hear," Ford said. "Are you deaf?"

"And Cait," Amy added, apparently deaf as well. "And Kendra and Trick." Her amethyst eyes sparkling, she smiled down at the wax ring. "They've all just arrived home last week. We'll have to arrange a family visit to Lakefield."

As there seemed to be an abundance of deaf people in his life lately, Ford raised his voice. "I'm busy working on my watch," he ground out. "There will be no visits."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

More lighthearted than ever in her memory, Violet twirled in her new ball gown, a veritable confection of patterned lilac satin.

Monday night had finally arrived. One of her dreams was coming true. She was going to Gresham College to meet members of the Royal Society.

Feeling dizzy, she stopped and held out her skirts. "What do you think?" she asked her sisters. "Will it do for an event here in London?"

Lily smiled. "I've never seen you in anything so fancy."

Rose crossed the bedchamber to tweak one of Violet's triple-ruffled sleeves, then shot Lily a grin. "She's finally coming around."

"What do you mean?" Frowning, Violet tugged up on her bodice. The square neckline hadn't seemed this low on the French fashion doll. She didn't remember it being so daring during the fittings, either. Wondering what had happened, she smoothed her underskirt, deep purple velvet embroidered with gold thread in a diamond pattern. "Coming around to what?"

"Dressing to impress." Rose's grin turned wicked. "I'd wager he'll be very, very impressed."

"John Locke?" Violet walked to the pier glass and straightened one of the fat brown curls that rested on her shoulders. Most of her hair was pulled up in the back, twisted with strands of pearls to match the ones on her underskirt and tasseled stomacher. "I cannot wait to hear his ideas. But Locke is a philosopher. I doubt he cares what I look like."

"Not Locke, you goose. Viscount Lakefield."

"I'm not trying to impress him," Violet said. But, blushing from her hairline to her toes, she feared she must match the deep pink gown Lily was wearing.

Those pink skirts rustled as her sister wandered to the window. "He's here, Violet. The viscount. He's climbing down from his carriage. And oooh, he looks so handsome in the torchlight."

Violet's stomach fluttered. "Let me see," she said, thrilled that with her spectacles she'd be able to. But by the time she hurried over to look, Ford had already mounted the town house steps and disappeared from view.

"I'll go meet him at the door," Rose said. "Wait here, so you can make an entrance." With a swish of her blood-red skirts, she swept out of the room.

"An entrance, Violet," Lily repeated softly. "An entrance!"

An entrance. Contemplating her youngest, most innocent sister, Violet's heart jumped into her throat as it suddenly dawned on her that she was going out alone with Ford.

Until now, she'd focused on the excitement of meeting members of the Royal Society. Yet, for part of the evening at least, she and Ford would be alone. Really alone, not just sort of alone for a minute while the children's backs were turned.

She could hardly believe Mum had condoned it. More than condoned it—pushed it, in fact. But of course that was only because Mum knew how much she wanted to attend a Royal Society function.

Mum would never expect anything untoward to happen. Not to Violet. Plain Violet. Violet, who would just as soon remain invisible.

If only Mum knew that Ford had already kissed her. Five times. Five glorious times.

As she'd done hundreds of times already, Violet couldn't help but replay those kisses now in her memory. And even though she hadn't eaten any hard salt things or spices today—hadn't eaten much of anything, as a matter of fact—her desire to carnal embraces seemed almost insuperable.

This promised to be a marvelous night.

For just this night, she wouldn't care that Ford showed interest in her for all the wrong reasons. For just this night, she'd put her heart into living each moment. For just this night, she'd allow herself to revel in this dream come true of mingling with England's most eminent intellectuals…in the company of a man who made her heart flutter with the merest touch or look.

Rose barged back in. "He's waiting, Violet. I think you should keep him waiting a little bit longer."

"No." She wasn't calculating like her sister. "I'm ready." As ready as she'd ever be.

Although the Ashcrofts' town house in St. James's Square wasn't nearly as massive as Trentingham, it was richly decorated and boasted a grand marble staircase. Violet new red-heeled shoes clicked as she walked down it.

When Ford glanced up, a thunderstruck expression froze his features. His jaw went slack, his eyes widened. "You look…" he started, then seemed at a loss for words.

Moving closer, she smiled to herself. "Different?" she supplied, gliding to a stop in front of him.

"Um…yes." As that incredible blue gaze raked her from head to toe, a devilish grin slowly spread on his face. "And beautiful."

It had taken him too long to add that last bit, and she wouldn't have believed it, in any case. But it was nice to hear, even if it was only a polite fib. For just this night, she would pretend it was true. She'd never expected to hear a compliment like that from a man.

And most especially from such an attractive one. Judging from his normal attire, she'd suspected Ford enjoyed dressing up a bit. She hadn't been wrong.

He looked magnificent. His brilliant blue suit made his eyes appear even bluer. Yards of lace dripped from the cuffs. A diamond pin winked from the folds of a snow-white cravat. The buttons on his velvet surcoat looked to be of real gold, and when he swept off his wide-brimmed hat to make her a solemn bow, a jeweled hatband sparkled in the light of the entry's chandelier.

Mum had loaned her the Trentingham diamonds, but she still felt dull and unadorned in comparison.

"Shall we?" he asked.

From out of nowhere, it seemed, her mother appeared and kissed her on the cheek. "Have a lovely time, dear."

"I will, Mum." As Violet took Ford's arm, she decided it might well be the loveliest evening of her life.

After he'd handed her into his carriage, she was no longer so sure. Egad, she was alone with a man.

She settled herself across from him, fluffing her skirts and offering him a stiff smile. "Thank you for inviting me."

"The pleasure is mine." His own smile looked amused. As the carriage started moving, he patted the seat beside him. "Come here, Violet."

"I'm comfortable over here, thank you."

"I promise I won't bite you. At least, not until later." At her gasp, he laughed. "I was only fooling. I won't even kiss you, I promise. Just come and sit by me. Please."

She did, and he kept his promise not to kiss her, which she found rather disappointing. Especially after he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and swept aside her curls to nuzzle her neck.

"You smell good," he murmured. "Your hair, your skin…"

"So do you," she said breathlessly. He did. There was that hint of patchouli soap again, tonight overlaid by some exotic, very masculine perfume. She wondered if her mother could match the scent, so she could inhale it and remember this evening.

Although the way it seemed to make her senses swirl, perhaps that wouldn't be such a good idea.

As the carriage lurched through the streets, his lips teased the sensitive hollow behind her ear, and his fingers traced a light, shivery pattern on her shoulder. Her flesh prickled, and a hot ache began to spread in her middle.

Like the Master-piece had promised, her body was becoming more and more heated.

"Oh my," she said—the only words she could manage at the moment.

"Shall I stop?" he asked, his breath warm against her throat. The carriage bounced in and out of a rut, his mouth bouncing along with it, landing damp against her skin. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

Rough and raspy, his voice gave her another little thrill. She didn't tell him to stop. Scandalously, his fingers trailed lower, caressing the bareness revealed by her low neckline.

He might have kissed her five times, but he'd never touched her there. No man had touched her there.

Feeling weak, she slumped on the brown leather seat. The carriage's wheels bumped over the cobblestones, the springs squeaked through the traffic-clogged streets—and her labored breathing sounded louder than all of it.

They jarred to a stop, and through her thin satin bodice, Ford's hand brushed her breast.

Then returned and stayed there, lightly caressing.

"Faith," she breathed, feeling the crest swell and tighten in response. Her eyes drifted shut as a corresponding response shot through her body.

Her desire to carnal embraces was very, very great.

The carriage door was jerked open, and she bolted upright, her eyes wide. They'd arrived, and she'd learned that Ford was a man of his word.

He hadn't kissed her.

He'd done something better—and far more dangerous.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Violet had always thought of scientific men as serious and staid, but there was an air of giddy excitement at Gresham College tonight.

Not to mention she was still excited from what had happened in the carriage.

Following Ford through the narrow gatehouse off Bishopsgate Street, she carefully tugged up on her bodice. Surreptitiously, she hoped. She wasn't sure which was worse: being seen in such a scandalous gown, or having someone see her adjust it.

"This was once the home of Sir Thomas Gresham," Ford said as proudly as if the mansion belonged to him. "Founder of the college."

Hand in hand, they crossed a simple courtyard toward the house, Violet's knees feeling embarrassingly weak. Wishing she could switch off her feelings as easily as he apparently could, she tried to concentrate on what he was telling her. After all, this was a place she'd always wanted to visit.

"When did the college open?" she asked.

"At the end of the last century, following Gresham's death and that of his wife. He had no living heirs, you see, so he gifted his home to the people of London. He wished to make scholarship available free to every adult citizen." Pushing open a heavy oak door, he guided her into a large, medieval-looking chamber. "Here is the Reading Hall, where the lectures are given."

"Oh, I wish I knew Latin so I could attend them." Beneath a lofty scissor-beam ceiling painted in dazzling hues of red and gold, rows of wooden benches faced a lectern, behind which rose an exquisite oriel window. "What a lovely place to learn."

"I imagine when the Greshams lived here, this would have been their great hall." Ford walked her through the soaring chamber, their footsteps echoing on the well-worn stone floor. "The college's seven professors have lodgings here at Gresham and are each required to give one public lecture a week."

Whom might she meet here tonight? Breathless with anticipation, she peeked into some adjoining rooms, a bit disappointed when she found them unoccupied. "It just looks like a big, old house."

"It was, remember. But you will see in a moment that although his family lived here for years, and his widow afterward, Gresham had a college in mind when he built it."

Another small courtyard lay outside the Reading Hall, leading to an arched passage that opened into a massive, grassy square with colonnaded buildings on all four sides.

"See?" Ford said. "It's essentially a college quadrangle."

Flaming torches bathed the space in a warm glow. Musicians were tuning up in one corner. Talking animatedly in small groups, guests dressed in every color of the rainbow crowded the enclosure, their chatter filling the air.

She was here. Finally, she was here. A serving maid handed her a goblet of canary, and she sipped the sweet wine, turning in a slow circle, imagining the area solemn, shut off from the hubbub of London by the buildings all around.

"I can picture it quiet," she said, "students leisurely crossing the grass, or perhaps hurrying if they're late."

"Can you picture it paved over and crammed with shopping stalls?"

She looked down at the fresh green grass beneath her feet. "Was it?"

"Until recently. After the Great Fire, the whole administration of the City moved into the buildings, and the tenants of the Royal Exchange set up here in the quadrangle until it was rebuilt. A hundred small shops."

People strolled by, men alone and some couples, nodding acknowledgments without interrupting their conversation. "How long has the Royal Society been meeting here?" she asked.

"Since 1660, save during the past seven years. We were incorporated under Royal charter in 1662. On the fifteenth of July. So something good happened that particular St. Swithin's Day," he mused. "It must not have rained."

She shot him a sidelong glance. "What do you mean?"

"Never mind." A faint smile curved his lips as he started walking her around the perimeter, pointing out all the professors' lodgings. There were professors of music, physics, geometry, divinity, rhetoric, astronomy, and law—and by the time she heard about all of them, she was feeling dizzy with new information.

Or maybe dizzy with something else. She tugged up on her bodice again, then dropped her hand when a spark of humor lit his eyes.

"Do you like to dance?" he suddenly asked. The musicians had commenced playing. A lilting tune wafted over the quadrangle. A temporary floor of wood had been constructed over a patch of the new grass.

Although she'd had lessons along with her sisters, Violet had never danced much. At the many balls her family had dragged her to, she'd always done her best to fade into the background.

But this was a magical night—a night that called for her to rise above her normal fears. In her whole life, she might never see a night like this again, and she was determined to make it memorable.

"I cannot say I have much experience," she heard herself saying. "But I wouldn't mind giving it a try."

Immediately she thought about taking back the words, but clamped her lips tight. Handing their goblets to a passing serving maid, Ford led her closer to the music.

The tune ended and another began. A minuet. Taking her by both hands, he swept her onto the makeshift dance floor.

She knew the steps, and for the first time in her memory, she didn't worry about tripping. He danced with an uncommon grace for a man, and her feet seemed to know what to do. The music matched the staccato beat of her heart. She could scarcely believe she was here at Gresham College, dancing with the most handsome member of the Royal Society.

Cool night air brushed along the skin that he'd heated in the carriage. She met his eyes, and her cheeks flushed at the boldness of his gaze. Here beneath the stars, he seemed different, in his element. Not that he was shy and retiring in any circumstances, but she'd expect a man of science to be more like her, preferring solitude to social occasions. Which just went to show how little she could trust her preconceived notions.

They turned, and when his heady scent wafted to her nose, she found herself enjoying this particular social occasion more than she'd thought possible. For once, she had no desire to hide out, no wish to stay safely at home.

They rose on their toes, and he pulled her closer. Closer than the dance required, close enough to make butterflies flutter in her stomach. He was touching her. Just his hands, but he was touching her. Even though this sort of touch wasn't as intimate as his caresses in the carriage, she still felt that lurch of excitement. That frisson of awareness. That building heat in her middle that seemed to illogically weaken her knees.

From just a touch. The Master-piece hadn't prepared her for that.

Men outnumbered women by double or more, and the dance floor was surrounded by clusters of them absorbed in conversation. More than a few glances were aimed her way. Violet suspected people were wondering what she was doing here with Ford.

And wondering about her spectacles. No sooner had she and Ford made their way off the dance floor than they found themselves approached by curious men.

"Trentingham's eldest, are you not?" One of them offered her a courtly bow. "I'm pleased to meet you," he added. "Christopher Wren."

Christopher Wren. Mathematician, scientist, architect…the man currently engaged in rebuilding all of the City's churches that had burned in the Great Fire. She was surprised to find him no taller than she.

"Violet Ashcroft," she returned. "I'm glad to make your acquaintance."

"Are those a new sort of spectacles?" he asked without further preliminaries. Not at all the serious, dour man she had imagined him to be, he seemed cheerful and open. She guessed him at a decade older than Ford. "May I see them?" Before she gave permission, he reached toward her eagerly.

She slipped them off and handed them to him. "Lord Lakefield made them for me."

"I'm not surprised." Wren turned them in his hands, then raised them to his own sparkling brown eyes and blinked. "Do they help you to see?"

"Very much. They've changed my life."

Wren nodded thoughtfully, his wavy brown periwig moving along with his head. Beneath a patrician nose his mouth curved pleasantly, as though he smiled often.

He turned to Ford. "This frame to hold them on the face, it's brilliant. Why didn't I think of it myself?"

Ford laughed. "You've thought of plenty. Give another man a turn."

Someone else walked up. "What have you there?"

"Spectacles," Wren told him. "Designed by Lakefield here, with a clever frame to hold them on the face." Leaning forward, he gently slid the eyeglasses back on Violet.

"Lovely," the newcomer said. "Both the spectacles and the lady." A few years younger than Wren, the man topped him by but a couple of inches. His physique somehow looked crooked, his face twisted and much less than beautiful. But his large, pale head was crowned with a wig of dark brown curls so delicate they made Violet jealous.

"Robert Hooke," Ford introduced him. "May I present Lady Violet Ashcroft?"

"I've read your book Micrographia," Violet gushed, overwhelmed to find herself chatting with such a great intellect. "It's marvelous."

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." Hooke's gray eyes smiled along with his thin mouth, but in contrast to Wren's, his face crinkled in a way that made Violet think he rarely grinned. "The gardener's eldest, are you not?"

She couldn't remember ever meeting these people, but they seemed to know her. That was what came of hiding in corners, she supposed. "Is my father's hobby so well known, then?" she wondered aloud.

"Legendary." Hooke shifted his awkward form, looking loath to say more. "Charming man, though," he finally added.

"Mr. Hooke is Gresham's Professor of Geometry," Ford told her. "He lives here, right under that new observatory they're building." He indicated a corner of the quadrangle, where a small, square tower poked up from the roofline, surrounded by scaffolding.

"Convenient," Hooke said. "If I fall down stumbling drunk, I'm close to my bed."

They all laughed.

"How go the plans for St. Paul's?" Ford asked.

Hooke and Wren exchanged a glance, the kind shared by friends with secrets between them. Odd to think that a curmudgeonly man and such a cheerful one would be close.

"I'm working on a model," Wren said carefully.

Hooke let out a snort. "Twelve carpenters are working on it, and he's sunk five hundred pounds into it already. We can only pray the king likes it and the clergy give their approval."

"Approval for what?" someone asked in a voice with an Irish lilt. And before she knew it, Violet was introduced to Robert Boyle, a tall, thin man who also wanted a look at her spectacles.

No sooner had he finished exclaiming over them than another man walked up. Boyle handed him the lenses, and without them on her face, all Violet could tell about the newcomer was he was short and a bit stout.

"They belong to you, my lady?" he asked after examining them closely. He returned them with a bow. "Isaac Newton, at your service."

"Lady Violet Ashcroft," Ford introduced her. "The Earl of Trentingham's daughter."

With the spectacles safely back in place, Mr. Newton looked to be Ford's age, or perhaps a year or two older. Although gray hair peeked out from beneath his wig, he was a handsome man. Beneath his broad forehead, brown eyes were set in a sharp-featured face with a square lower jaw.

"We're pleased you remembered to come," Boyle teased him.

The men's laughter confused her, and her expression must have shown it. "Mr. Newton is known to be a bit absentminded," Ford explained.

"That," Hooke said, "is an understatement of the greatest magnitude." More laughter rang through the quadrangle as the assembled men evidently agreed. "He once entertained me for supper and went off to fetch more wine. An hour later I found him in his study, working out a geometrical problem. He'd completely forgotten I was there."

"It was an important problem," Newton protested good-naturedly. Violet couldn't help noticing that, compared to the other men, he looked rather slovenly. His suit was finely made, but so wrinkled she wondered if he'd slept in it.

Wren rubbed his chin. "Tell her about that time you rode home from Grantham."

"That could happen to anyone."

"I think not." Wren turned to Violet. "He dismounted to lead his horse up a steep hill, and at the top, when he went to remount, he found an empty bridle in his hand. His horse had slipped it and wandered away unnoticed."

Even Violet had to laugh at that.

And so an hour passed while it seemed she met most every man connected with modern-day science. Between examining her spectacles and regaling her with stories, they talked casually of their various projects.

The king's most favored architect, Wren had recently written a paper explaining how to apply engineering principles in order to strengthen buildings. He'd also patented a device for writing with two pens at once, and invented a language for the deaf and dumb, using hands and fingers to "talk."

Besides Hooke's improvements on the microscope that had allowed him to research and write Micrographia, he'd developed astronomical instruments that revealed new stars in Orion's belt. Ford whispered that he'd show her them one night. Hooke had also formulated a new law of physics, asserting that the extension of a spring is proportional to the force applied to it. A lively discussion broke out over his proposal to introduce the freezing point of water as zero on the thermometer.

Since Hooke often assisted Robert Boyle, the two talked about their experiments with the new air pump Hooke had built. Using it to create a vacuum, Boyle had proven that the pressure of a gas is inversely proportionate to its volume.

"That is now called Boyle's Law," Ford told her.

Violet drank it all in, thrilled to be in their company. Although some of the men were aristocrats, many were not. Here, dukes rubbed elbows with commoners. The Royal Society was open to men of every rank and religion, so long as the proposed member held an interest in promoting discovery and science.

As each new arrival exclaimed over the genius of Violet's new spectacles, Ford basked in celebrity. And she didn't feel uncomfortable wearing them at all. Being the center of attention wasn't nearly as bad as she'd thought.

But as more eminent scientists gathered to praise Ford, she began to wonder if showing off his brilliant invention had been his real motivation for bringing her here. Disappointment took her by surprise, making the canary seem to sour in the pit of her stomach. While it was true Ford had never implied they were attending as a romantic couple—he'd invited her as a kindness so she could meet John Locke—she suddenly realized that, somewhere deep inside, she'd begun to hope he really liked her.

Ford's offer to introduce her to Locke had been no more than an excuse to put her spectacles on display for his celebrated friends, she finally decided. She was a fool for falling for his meaningless advances, for forgetting that if he wanted her at all, it could only be for her inheritance. The realization was an ache, a heaviness in her chest. It didn't matter that she should have known the truth all along. No amount of telling herself so worked to allay the hurt.

"Is Locke here yet?" Ford asked the ever-growing assembly.

"Inside," Boyle said, waving to a chamber off the quadrangle. "Holding court."

"Excuse us, gentlemen."

Now that she was actually about to meet the esteemed John Locke, a knot formed in Violet's middle. "I was enjoying that conversation," she said as Ford drew her away. If this was her only chance to ever mingle in such company, she was determined to make the most of it.

"And they were enjoying you." He smiled down at her, seeming warm and sincere as ever. "We'll talk to them again later."

Her head spun with confusion.

The chamber Boyle had indicated turned out to be the refreshment room. Along one wall, long tables were laden with bottles of canary, Rhenish wine, and claret. Guests filled their plates from platters piled with fine cakes, macaroons, and marchpanes. Splendidly dressed men and women chatted while they ate, seated at small round tables. At one of these, a man stood with one foot perched on a chair, talking to a large group that had gathered around him.

"John Locke," Ford said, nodding in the man's direction. Tall and slim, there was little in his appearance to suggest greatness. Although his speech was animated, his eyes looked melancholy, set in a long face with a large nose and full lips. Like Ford, he wore no wig, but his hair was straight and pale. His hands moved when he talked, his long fingers waving from the ruffled cuffs at his wrists.

As they drew close, she could hear his words. "Government," he said, "has no other end but the preservation of property."

A squat, balding man crossed his arms. "How can you speak such blasphemy? I've never heard such a thing."

"New opinions are always suspected, and usually opposed, without any other reason but because they are not already common."

"He's quite busy now," Ford whispered. "An introduction must probably wait for later."

"Oh, but may I stay and just listen?" She waved an arm toward the tables bulging with refreshments. "Go get yourself something to eat and drink. I'll be right here."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Ford smiled as he moved toward the refreshment tables. He appreciated a woman who understood a man's stomach came before a philosophy debate, although he had to admit Locke's ideas were more intriguing than most.

However, not nearly as intriguing as what he was bound to learn from Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.

"Why the grin?" Newton asked while filling a plate at the bountiful buffet.

Gresham College was certainly welcoming the Royal Society back in style. Deliberately nonchalant, Ford picked up a plate for himself. "No reason."

"I'm not that oblivious." Newton studied a strawberry before adding it to his selections. "It's that woman, I'd wager. Lady Violet? Lovely, isn't she?"

"No. I mean, yes, of course she's lovely." Violet did look lovely tonight, and it wasn't only the spectacular gown. The excitement in her eyes lit her whole face. He'd never thought to meet a woman excited by science, or anything much academic. Tabitha certainly hadn't been.

Thinking about that, Ford chose radishes and slices of musk melon. "But I wasn't smiling about Lady Violet."

Newton bit into a macaroon. "What, then?"

"I…" Dying to share his good fortune with someone who would truly understand, Ford leaned close and whispered, "I've found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet."

"You found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet?" Newton fairly bellowed.

"Hush! It's yet to be translated. I'm not ready to announce—"

But it was too late. Heads had turned, and a speculative murmur ran through the room.

Hooke rushed over. "Is it true? Secrets of the Emerald Tablet exists? You have it in your possession?"

"Not at the moment," Ford hedged. But at the sight of Wren and Boyle approaching, he gave up. They'd find out soon enough, anyway. "I've given it to an expert to translate. But yes, I found it, and I own it."

More men pressed close to hear the incredible news. "How much did it cost you?" someone asked.

"A shilling." As a stunned silence filled the room, he felt a grin stretch his face. "The bookseller thought it worthless," he added.

"I'll buy it for fifty pounds," a man offered.

Hooke raised a hand. "A hundred."

Normally the most polite man Ford knew, Wren elbowed his good friend out of the way. "I'll pay you five hundred."

"I'll double what anyone else offers."

Silence reigned again as they all turned to look at Newton. His wrinkled suit notwithstanding, the man could well afford to honor the bid. He was wifeless, childless, and his father had died three months before his birth, leaving a tidy estate to his only son. Newton had inherited land from a subsequent stepfather as well.

He sounded sincere, and no one moved to say he wasn't; the man was known to sometimes take offense when none was intended.

"It's not for sale," Ford said at last. "Not at any price."

"Well." Newton held his cup of Rhenish aloft in a toast. "I trust you'll let me know if ever you change your mind."

Conversation broke out in a deafening babble as people exclaimed over the find and maneuvered toward Ford to pump his hand and offer congratulations. The room turned hot and close as more guests made their way inside to join the crowd. Spirits were passed hand to hand from the tables to the back of the chamber, and soon everyone was clinking goblets to celebrate the discovery of the decade.

An hour flew by before Ford managed to work his way through the throng and into the corner where he'd left Violet. Along with the rest of Locke's audience, she was gone. The area had been overtaken by people marveling over Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.

Light-headed with success—and more wine than he customarily drank—Ford hurried outdoors to the improvised ballroom. But the colonnaded courtyard was sparsely populated, and only a few couples graced the dance floor. It seemed every member of the Royal Society was in the refreshment room.

Though another chamber blazed with light, a peek into it nearly had him backing away. It was crammed with chattering ladies—all those deserted, he supposed, by the men in the other room. He pushed his way in, not really expecting to find Violet. She didn't strike him as the social, gossipy type.

He was correct.

Stopping three times to acknowledge congratulations, he crossed the quadrangle and walked through a building, finding the door to a small, deserted piazza.

The little courtyard looked dark and peaceful, especially after the excitement elsewhere in the college. He stepped outdoors, breathing deep of the fresh night air. Then, suddenly struck by an idea—perhaps not as brilliant as the spectacles, but clever nonetheless—he headed back inside to talk to one of the serving maids.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Half an hour later, Violet entered the quadrangle and nearly bumped into Ford. She smiled when his hands went to her shoulders to steady her, although it hadn't been necessary—these days, with her spectacles, she hardly ever tripped.

"Fancy meeting you here," she quipped, feeling a loss when he let go.

He failed to return her smile. "I've been looking all over for you."

"We had to escape that room."

"We?" he asked, looking a bit vexed as he eyed her low bodice.

She yanked up on it. "Mr. Locke and I. Whatever was happening in there drew everyone's attention, and suddenly I found myself alone with him."

His eyes filled with an odd mixture of relief and concern. "But I hadn't made an introduction."

"None was needed." Locke had introduced himself without even making mention of her spectacles, simply accepting her as she was. "It seems he recognized a kindred soul. We wandered off and talked and talked…" She frowned suddenly. "Where were you all that time?"

"Word got out about me finding Secrets—"

A bewigged gentleman came toward him with an outstretched hand. "Heard of your astounding luck, Lakefield. Congratulations. If ever you want to sell it—"

"I don't." Ford pumped his hand. "But I thank you."

"Just let me know."

As the two of them watched the man walk off, Ford sighed. "It seems everyone has to congratulate me—or make an offer to buy it. And Newton has offered to double anyone's bid. Can you imagine?"

What she couldn't imagine was him passing that up when he so obviously needed money. She measured his clear blue eyes. "You were serious, then, when you claimed you wouldn't sell at any price."

"I meant it. Considering the book went missing for so many years, it seems magical that it should end up in my hands. No matter that I don't believe in such things, it feels like fate."

She did understand how he felt. If ever she should find an ancient philosophy book, handwritten by one of the masters, she'd be reluctant to sell it as well. And she supposed it would feel like fate, too.

"Maybe it was fate," she said softly. "Do you believe that sometimes things are meant to be ours?"

He only smiled, a mysterious smile that for some reason made her uneasy.

She reached up to adjust her spectacles. "Well, I'm happy your announcement provided a distraction," she said by way of changing the subject. "I expect without that I'd never have spoken privately with Mr. Locke, and oh, we had the most lovely conversation."

"Tell me about it." When another well-wisher approached, Ford impatiently took Violet's arm. "I know a place where I can listen without interruption."

He led her across the quadrangle, where the dance floor seemed to be filling now that men and women were filtering out of the buildings and meeting up with one another. She noticed Wren with an apple-cheeked, brown-haired lady. Hooke, ungainly and awkward, danced with a beautiful, willowy woman quite a bit taller than himself.

Ford took Violet through a building and pushed open a door. And they stepped into a veritable wonderland.

Candles sparkled everywhere—perched on the sills of the windows surrounding them, sitting on the benches around the perimeter, scattered on the patterned brick paving. Their flickering flames warded off the night, bathing the small piazza in a romantic glow. In the center sat two chairs and one of the small round tables from the refreshment room, offering a selection of sweets and savories. A pair of goblets rested side by side, an open wine bottle nearby.

Gasping, she turned to Ford. "How did you know all this was here?"

"It wasn't." The door shut behind them with a soft thud. "I arranged it."

Though there were buildings all around, their windows were all black. They were alone. She and her brilliant country neighbor were alone in a piazza in London. A piazza he'd had prepared especially for her.

Stunned, she shifted her gaze to meet his. "This isn't like you."

He gestured at her gown. "This isn't like you, either."

Heat rose into her cheeks as he reached to gently remove her spectacles. He curved an arm around her waist, drawing her close. "Perhaps," he continued, "we bring out the best in each other." And she felt the length of him pressed against her as he bent his head to meet her lips.

This wasn't a stolen kiss, impulsive and rushed while the children's heads were momentarily turned. This was sweet and unhurried. The lightest brush of his mouth, first on her bottom lip, then the top. Over her cheek and across her forehead and down to her chin. He cupped her face in his hands and ran a thumb over her lips before he finally covered her mouth with his own.

She felt…cherished. Her eyes closed. Her breath caught. Her heart seemed to stop, then began pounding in her chest. She hadn't known it could feel like this, hadn't thought she wanted a man. But suddenly she did, with every fiber of her being.

Oh my, the Master-piece had been right. Her mind was definitely stirred to venery.

Still gentle and slow, he deepened the kiss, coaxing her lips to part. She was floating, whirling. His tongue slipped inside to mingle with hers, and it was shocking, but glorious, too. Soft, sweet, tasting of the wine of celebration. His hair smelled lightly of soap and fresh air, his skin emitted that exotic, spicy scent. It felt so good to be held. Her head spun with the wonder of it all.

When he pulled away, she just stood there, swaying for a moment, and then she opened her eyes. All around them, the candles flickered, gilding his features in a pale, golden light.

"Thank you," she whispered.

As he slid the spectacles back on her face, the beginnings of a smile curved his lips. "You're entirely welcome," he said.

He sounded sincere. Was she wrong, then, about his intentions? He'd claimed to have invited her expressly to introduce her to a man who could help make her dream come true. Then he'd gone to great trouble to whisk her off to this romantic hideaway when they could be with his friends instead, showing off her spectacles and celebrating his miraculous book discovery.

His kiss had transported her to another world, a place where she'd felt cared for and wanted. Could he actually want her, plain Violet…for herself?

No. She couldn't allow herself to forget his words in the heat of a kiss. To forget his beliefs about women and money. To forget why he'd really brought her here.

She shook her head to clear it, but it didn't quite work. And why should it, really? For this one magical night, a night of dreams come true, she would let herself live a fantasy. For just this night…

She fluffed her satin overskirts, gazing at him while she willed herself to believe she was a fair lady in the company of a man in love with her.

"I'm famished," he said, and she laughed, breaking the tension. He led her to the table and seated her, then poured two goblets of wine. While she sipped, he moved the other chair close to hers and sat.

He lifted a strawberry and raised it to her mouth.

Oh my, he was feeding her.

"What did he talk about?" Ford asked.

"Who?" A berry had never tasted so delicious.

"King Charles."

For a moment, she looked around in confusion.

Then he laughed. "I meant John Locke, of course."

"Oh." A little giggle threatened to escape, so she sipped more wine. "He's brilliant."

He swiped a spear of asparagus off a plate piled high. "More brilliant than I?"

She cocked her head, making a show of considering. "In a different way." Sipping again, she warmed to her subject. "Do you know what he told me? He said all mankind should be equal and independent, and no one should have the right to harm another in his life, health, liberty, or possessions."

He bit the end off his third asparagus. "Not even the king?"

"No one." It was so radical a thought as to be startling, but so clear the way Locke had explained it. "There should be a standing rule to live by, common to everyone, and made by legislative power—a liberty to follow one's own will in all things where one does not harm another, and not to be subject to the arbitrary will of another. Arbitrary power, he said, becomes tyranny, whether those that use it are one or many."

"I wouldn't discuss this with Charles," Ford said, handing her a marchpane.

She bit into the sweet almond confection. "I've never discussed anything with him, but if I ever get a chance, I just might."

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Damnation, what have I started?"

"Locke says every man has property in his own person, and no one has any right to that but himself. The labor of his body, the work of his hands, are his, and the only reason for men to unite and put themselves under government is the preservation of their property."

"You're excited by these ideas." He'd finished the asparagus. From yet another plate, he spooned up a bite of cheesecake blanketed in rich puff pastry. "I can hear it in your voice," he said, holding out the spoon.

Enjoying the traces of nutmeg and mace, she allowed the creamy cheese, somehow both sweet and tart, to melt on her tongue. "I am excited. These are new things to think about. A new way to look at our world." She drained her goblet, feeling woozy from not only the wine but the ideas spinning in her brain. "Thank you so much for bringing me."

"Thank you for coming." He reached to refill her cup, then leaned even closer, brushing her mouth with a feather-light kiss. "You enjoyed hearing about the scientific discoveries, too, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Very much." Her lips tingled. "I surprised myself."

"I'm surprised to find the philosophy interesting as well. So we're even this night."

"This night." Just this one night. She sighed, taking pleasure in the wine and the company, the candlelight, the music that drifted through the air, the stars in the clear summer sky. Knowing it had to end. "Can you hear the laughter from the quadrangle? I think everyone must be out there now." But she didn't want to join them. She didn't want to leave this magical, private place.

Afraid he might assume she wished to rejoin the party, she changed the subject. "Is Hooke really a drunkard?"

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Whatever makes you think that?"

"He said living here is convenient, because when he falls down stumbling drunk, he's close to his bed."

His face cleared. "Don't let his dry humor fool you. Far from being a drunkard, I think he and Wren are addicted to coffee, if anything at all. Best of friends they are, too."

The faint music from the quadrangle stopped. Another burst of laughter sounded. "Their wives must be proud of them," Violet said.

"Wren's wife is very kind." With one finger, he traced little circles on the back of her hand where it rested on the table. "Hooke has yet to marry, though."

She hid a delicious shiver. "Well, then, whom was he dancing with?"

"Why did you assume she was his spouse? You're here with me, and we aren't husband and wife."

"Of course we aren't," she said quickly, and if the tone of his voice implied he wanted them to be, she had to remind herself why she didn't. Still, her face heated at the thought, and she was thankful for the concealment of the night.

"The Gresham professors are required to be bachelors," he explained, still lazily teasing her hand. "Hooke calls that woman his housekeeper."

"She lives with him?"

"Mm-hmm."

She grinned. "You don't dance with Hilda."

"Hilda doesn't look like that." He raised his hand and ran a warm fingertip alongside her face. "And she's a real housekeeper."

"Oh." Her skin tingled wherever he touched. "Oh. You mean she's really a—oh."

"Yes. Oh," he repeated with a devilish lift of one brow.

All at once, the door was flung open and the sounds of laughter grew louder. A few couples spilled out into the piazza.

"We've been found," Ford said with a groan.

"There he is," one of the women said, drawing a man to where Violet sat with Ford.

"Ah, yes." The middle-aged man shot the woman a rather impatient look before he addressed Ford more neutrally. "We've heard you found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet."

"I have." Ford reluctantly rose, bringing Violet up with him and curling an arm around her waist. "John Evelyn," he said by way of introduction. "May I present Lady Violet Ashcroft."

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." Evelyn had a lean, thoughtful face, shadowed by his own graying hair. "My wife, Mary."

Mary was much younger, a pretty woman with a round face and curly hair that brushed shoulders left bare by a neckline even lower than Violet's. She smiled and bobbed a curtsy, her large pearl earbobs bobbing along with her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, my lady."

"The pleasure is mine," Violet said.

Introductions concluded, the woman turned to Ford. "Would Secrets of the Emerald Tablet be for sale, my lord?"

"I'm afraid not." His words sounded genial enough, but Violet felt him tense. "And you'd have to fight Mr. Newton for it, anyway."

"It's just as well, my dear," Evelyn said.

The tone of his voice confused Violet. She turned to look up at Ford.

"I think," he said, "that we'd best be on our way." And he drew her out of the lovely piazza he'd created, leaving the others to enjoy it.

"What was that all about?" Violet asked as they walked back through the building. "I would think he'd be pleased she wanted to buy him the book."

He dropped his hand from her waist, linking his fingers with hers instead. "She wants it for herself. Her husband calls her a 'kitchen scientist.' Not fondly, I might add."

"I could tell." The quadrangle was quickly emptying, the musicians packing up. "Does he not approve of her interests, then?"

"He believes housekeeping should be her priority. His wedding gift to her was a calligraphy copy of his own treatise on marital duties. The ladies at court think his wife must be the unhappiest woman in the world."

"I cannot blame her," Violet said, stepping carefully in her heeled shoes as they crossed the dew-damp grass.

"Her husband would say she has her children to console her."

"And you would say?"

He shrugged, squeezing her hand. "I know only that were I to be deprived of my scientific interests, I would be unhappy, too."

"Then let us hope your wife is more indulgent than Mary Evelyn's husband," she heard herself say.

Egad, how could she bring up his future wife?

But he only laughed, drawing her through the passage that led back to the Reading Hall and entrance. In the arched tunnel, he stopped and turned to face her. "I'm hoping my wife will be very indulgent, indeed," he said in a husky drawl.

"She'd have to be." A nervous giggle escaped her lips. "Are we leaving now?"

"In a minute." He stepped closer, backing her against the stone wall. "There will be a long line for the carriage this late."

The evening had flown. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Does it matter? Your mother mentioned no curfew. I think she must approve of me." Her heart raced as he slowly drew off her spectacles and slipped them into his pocket. "The church bells rang one o'clock quite a while ago."

"Oh. I wasn't listening."

"I wonder why," he mused with a smile, skimming his hands up and down her sides. She was finding it hard to listen now. Everywhere he touched felt so warm, so tingly, so aware.

He lowered his head, his mouth inching toward hers, and she waited, waited, her breath catching when he finally found his target. His lips were gentle but insistent, and despite all her reservations, she returned his kiss with reckless abandon.

"Violet," he murmured, his mouth turning urgent, the caress deepening until his tongue mingled with hers. His hands continued their explorations, stroking her shoulders, gliding around to her back, trailing down to cup her bottom and pull her close.

Though she was shocked, her body arched toward him instinctively. Buffeted by new sensations, she moaned, a soft sound of capitulation. Pleasure streaked through her, sweeping her from the tunnel to another place where only he and she existed…

…and all the while he still kissed her.

He tasted of berries and wine, and she wanted more. Her own hands reached under his coat to explore his body the way he was touching hers. Firmness against her softness, warmth against her palms. She pressed closer, molding herself to him, feeling a hardness down below that, according to the Master-piece, meant he wanted her.

Right or wrong, whatever his reasons, he wanted her. Her, Violet Ashcroft. The realization stole her breath, robbed her of thought—

Laughter burst through her pleasurable haze as two other couples entered the passage, clearly in their cups.

"'Night, Lakefield," one of the men called facetiously. "Sweet dreams."

Ford pulled back with a groan, snatching his hands from her posterior. "'Night, Hartwell," he mumbled. His labored breath seemed to echo in the tunnel as he waited for them to clear the other end.

When they were alone again, he smiled at her, a rather dazed smile that made her heart lurch. He leaned close, angling his head. His lips trailed her forehead, her cheek, her throat. In the sensitive area afforded him by her scandalous neckline, he nibbled and kissed, his tongue tracing a shivery line to her cleavage. Her hands clenched his shoulders, she sagged back against the wall—

And three more men stumbled into the tunnel.

"'Night, Lakefield," they called in drunken unison.

"Let's line up for the carriage," Ford said with a sigh. "At least there we'll be able to find some privacy."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Violet rode in a carriage, crossing London on roads so impossibly smooth it felt as though she floated. The sidelight illuminated a crimson velvet interior, rich, plush, decadent. And upon this upholstery she reclined…while Ford kissed her senseless.

Knock-knock-knock.

A soft moan escaped her lips, half passion, half annoyance. Some very rude person was rapping on the carriage door.

Knock-knock-knock!

"Don't answer," she whispered to Ford. To be sure he complied, she threaded her fingers through his hair and held his mouth captive to hers. He responded with a violent passion, his lips devouring…

Knock-knock-knock!

With a growl borne of frustration, she bolted upright, wrenched unwillingly from the dream. Her eyes popped open, but all was pitch black.

"Who is it?" she forced through gritted teeth.

Knock-knock-KNOCK!

"Who is it?" She swung her legs off the bed and pushed open the hangings, reaching for the floor with her bare feet. Feeling blindly for her spectacles, she managed to locate them and shove them on, but of course they didn't help.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!

"Who is it?" she yelled, padding toward her door and fumbling in the darkness for the latch. When her fingers finally closed on it, she jerked it open.

It didn't open very far.

Bang! Like a gunshot, the noise came across the corridor, accompanied by a feminine shriek. Then the latch was yanked from Violet's hand, as—

SLAM! her own door flew closed.

Her frustration mounting, she opened it again.

Bang!

SLAM!

Bang!

SLAM!

She paused for a moment, shaking the last dregs of sleep from her head. After drawing a deep breath, she gingerly opened her door again, just a crack.

And heard the sound of a young boy's giggles.

"Rowan!" she admonished, but her own laughter bubbled up, neutralizing the sternness she'd intended.

Her hand was still on the latch, and something pulled on the door, though it didn't slam this time. A steady pull.

"Rowan?" Rose's voice called.

From down the corridor came the sound of another door opening, then Lily's sleepy voice. "What's all this noise?" she said through a yawn.

"I got you!" Rowan crowed. "I got you both. It worked!"

"What worked?" Violet asked suspiciously. A soft flare of light illuminated the corridor as someone—Lily, she guessed—approached with a candle.

"Rowan, I cannot believe what you did!" Lily exclaimed. Instead of disapproval, admiration tinged her voice. "You clever boy!"

"What?" Rose snapped, apparently still trapped behind her door and as mystified as Violet. "What did he do?"

Lily's laughter echoed in the corridor. "Wait a minute." Violet heard the small clink of the silver candlestick landing on a table, then a rustling, scratching sound as Lily did something with her door.

A moment later, it opened wide. "He t-tied your doors together with r-rope," Lily said, the words tumbling out between giggles. "So you were slamming each other's open and shut."

Directly across the corridor, Rose opened her now-free door and glowered at their brother. "You're lucky you didn't wake Mum."

Rowan shrugged. "Mum's room is too far away in this house. Besides, she'd find it funny, don't you think?"

"I ought to murder you, you rapscallion."

His little chest puffed out proudly. "I had to knock forever to wake you. But it was worth it. Jewel said it would work. Too bad she wasn't here to see it."

Violet's heart squeezed at the melancholy look that stole across his face. "You miss her, don't you?"

"I do. And I don't know if I'll ever see her again." A sheen of tears brightened his eyes. "I didn't think I'd like a girl, but she's not like any girl I ever knew. She's more like a boy."

Violet suspected pretty Jewel wouldn't remind him of a boy a few years down the road. "You'll see her again, I'm sure. And in the meantime, don't forget we're going home tomorrow, and Benjamin should be home by now, too."

"Benjamin!" Benjamin and he had grown up together, close as two neighbors could be. With a boy's short attention span, Rowan forgot Jewel immediately. "I'm going to sleep now, so tomorrow will come faster." And with that, he took off down the corridor, to his own room across from Lily's.

"What a rude awakening," Rose said.

Violet sighed. "He yanked me from the most wondrous dream."

"Did he?" Lily picked up the candle and swept past Violet into her room, Rose right on her heels. She lit Violet's bedside candle from her own and set them both on the night table. "What was your dream about?"

When Violet didn't answer immediately, her sisters exchanged a look, then sat in unison on the edge of her bed. "Tell us," Rose said.

Violet's cheeks flushed hot. She shut the door, cocooning the three girls together. "It was nothing, really."

Rose crossed her arms. "You said it was wondrous."

"Oh, all right." She dragged the stool over from her dressing table and sat facing them, setting her hands on her knees. "We were coming home—"

"We?" Lily interrupted.

"Ford and myself. From the Royal Society reception."

"How did that go?" Rose asked. "I tried to stay up to hear, but you returned home so late—"

"Hush," Lily said. "The dream first."

With all this squabbling, the dream was fading fast. In an effort to recover the mood, Violet shut her eyes. "We were riding home in his carriage, but it seemed to be floating—"

"Floating," Rose echoed, and though Violet's lids were closed, she could swear she saw her sister's head shake knowingly. "Floating in a dream is supposed to be carnal in nature."

"Rose!" Violet's eyes flew open. "You are only seventeen. You're not supposed to think about that."

"Oh, rubbish. Father and Mum have been hanging all over each other since the day I was born. And you're the one who showed me that book. Aristotle's Master-piece."

"I didn't show it to you. You barged in on me reading it."

Rose raised a brow. "Let's read it some more."

"Not now," Lily said, giving Rose a little shove. "I want to hear the rest of the dream."

"All right." Violet swallowed and rubbed her suddenly damp palms against her night rail-clad knees. "Ford's carriage is rather ancient, as you know, but instead of the hard leather, the interior was all plush red velvet. And I was leaning back against it, and he was kissing me—"

A romantic sigh came from Lily. "Did he kiss you really?"

"He already kissed her," Rose said. "In the library."

Lily turned on the bed to face her. "That doesn't count. You described it to me in detail, and it was a quick kiss, not a real kiss." She shifted back to Violet. "Did he give you a real kiss in the carriage?"

"Well," Violet hedged. "Not then. Not on the way home. Lord and Lady Ailesbury begged a ride home, and since they only live around the corner, we had no time alone together."

"But after you dropped them off?" Rose pressed.

"The street out front is very rutted, you know—the springs in that old carriage might as well be nonexistent."

"But he tried." Rose's gaze was much too piercing for Violet's comfort. "Or he kissed you earlier, didn't he? At the ball. Or later, when he saw you to the door."

Violet looked away.

"Or both!" Rose concluded. "I knew it!"

Lily laid a graceful hand on the white cotton that covered her chest. "Goodness." A theatrical sigh escaped her lips. "How did it feel?"

"I never said he kissed me."

Her two very different sisters fixed her with matching, demanding glares. Rose spoke for both. "Let's hear it, Violet."

"Oh, all right." Violet crossed her legs and leaned forward conspiratorially. "It was very nice."

"Nice?" Rose folded her arms.

"It was more than nice. It was wonderful." Warming to her subject, Violet's voice gentled. "The most amazing feeling. It made my knees weak, and my head seem to spin, and when he touched his tongue to—"

"Violet!" her sisters interrupted together.

Even Rose looked scandalized.

"Well, you did ask." Violet swallowed hard, wondering how she could have shared such a thing.

"Gemini." Rose fanned herself with a hand. "I must find someone to kiss. Tomorrow."

Violet reached out and caught her wrist. "No, you won't. You must care for someone before you kiss him."

Lily's eyes softened to a hazy blue. "Oh, Violet, that's so romantic."

That was taking things a bit too far. "It's over now. We're going home tomorrow, and he's staying here to meet with his solicitor. And even after he returns to Lakefield, Jewel has gone home, so there's no longer any reason for me to visit."

"But you care for him. You just said as much. And since he kissed you, he'll be asking you to wed him, will he not?"

"It doesn't work like that, Lily. Men don't put such store behind a kiss. The Master-piece says a woman is truly more moist than a man."

Lily frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not sure. But he won't be asking me to marry him."

"But if he did?" Rose pressed. "That would be wonderful, wouldn't it?"

"No," Violet said flatly. "If he's making a show of courting me, you can be certain it's because of my inheritance. And I won't marry for anything less than true love."

"But Violet." Concern filled Lily's earnest gaze. "You must care. Or you wouldn't have kissed him. You said a woman must care for a man before she—"

"I'm not looking for one-sided love, Lily. If I cannot have a love like Mum's, then I'd rather live life on my own." She turned to Rose. "And you can stop worrying—I don't care if you marry before me. I don't care if I marry at all." And because that suddenly wasn't true, she made a big show of yawning. "It's very late. I have much to tell you both about the ball, and especially Mr. Locke, but it will have to wait until morning."

Lily rose and kissed her softly on the cheek. "I would love to hear it all, Violet."

Rose's kiss wasn't nearly as sweet. "I don't care about Mr. Locke," she said, "but you should marry Lord Lakefield."

Long after her sisters had left, Violet lay awake, her mind and heart in turmoil.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Lakefield House was quiet. Too quiet.

Hilda and Harry knew better than to disturb Ford when he was working, but Jewel had never quite mastered that bit of etiquette. Now Ford found his gaze straying toward the door, waiting for his niece to burst through, a grin on her heart-shaped face and a ribbon clenched in her fist.

Or an insect. One never quite knew what to expect from Lady Jewel.

But the one thing he hadn't expected was to feel this sudden loneliness. Emptiness. Bloody hell, he missed her.

Ford Chase missed a child.

Whoever would have thought? Mere weeks ago he'd been sure that having a family was the last item on his list of priorities. Though he'd known he'd have children eventually, he'd never really envisioned them in his life. But now, instead of finishing his watch, he found himself daydreaming. A girl and a boy, like Jewel and Rowan. And a mother for them, of course.

Violet would be perfect.

Gears fell from his hands as that thought took root in his brain. He dropped to his knees to reach one that rolled beneath his workbench, then bumped his head as he came back up.

Rubbing where it hurt, he sat on the floor to analyze when and how he had fallen in love with Violet Ashcroft.

He'd always thought he wanted someone like Tabitha. Effervescent, confident, sophisticated, a lady whose looks stopped men in the street. Violet was none of those things. But she listened to his ideas and challenged him with her own.

He'd never imagined a woman like Violet existed.

Perhaps it was logical, after all, for a man like him to find himself attracted to a lady with Violet's odd qualities.

But it was illogical for him to pursue the matter. He couldn't ask for Violet's hand when his estate and finances were in such sad shape. The meeting with his solicitor had not gone well. There were bills to be paid and no funds to settle them.

The man had presented two options. One, turn Lakefield into a working estate and see that it prospered. Two, sell the damned place. Only a small portion of the land was entailed. Selling the rest—including the house—would raise enough money to support Ford for years to come, allowing him to pursue his scientific interests.

As a third son, Ford should never have had a title, and while he enjoyed that part of it well enough, he wasn't cut out to be a landowner. True, he'd assisted his brother Jason with Cainewood's never-ending responsibilities—he knew the ins and outs of running an estate. But that wasn't the life he wanted.

Working the land, caring for tenants, collecting rents. It was all so tedious and nonproductive. At the end of a typical peer's life, one's legacy was naught but more of the same passed down to an heir. Nothing new to contribute to knowledge and mankind.

His life had always been in London with his experiments and the Royal Society.

But now his heart was here.

Agitated, he rose to his feet and tossed the gear into the mess on the table. What did it matter where his heart was? Regardless of how much Violet's parents might seem to like him personally, they were unlikely to bless their daughter's marriage to an impoverished viscount. Under normal circumstances, the fact that Violet came with a sizable inheritance as well as a dowry might mitigate the situation, but nothing about Violet was normal. Knowing her feelings about men marrying for money, he was sure he'd have a hell of a time convincing her he wasn't after her fortune.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them. It was hopeless. He might as well put her out of his mind. And he knew just how to go about that, too.

For once he was happy that he seemed unable to concentrate on more than one thing at a time.

He wanted to invent a watch with two hands. That was why he had come to Lakefield in the first place. Without Jewel to distract him, he ought to be able to achieve his goal at last.

It was a good thing he'd taken time to analyze the situation, because these lofty romantic aspirations had nothing to do with his life. Nothing to do with his plans.

He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and got to work.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Ashcroft girls rushed into the summerhouse and shut the door behind them. "Now," Rose said, "where did we leave off?"

Violet sat in their now customary spot with her sisters on either side. She opened the book, flipping pages. "We were reading about what should be eaten to induce erection."

Lily's hands went to her cheeks. "I cannot believe we're reading this."

"You can leave," Rose said pointedly.

Lily didn't.

Having found the correct passage, Violet cleared her throat. "'The desire of coition, which fires the imagination with unusual fancies, may soon inflame the appetite. Eat such meats as are of good juice, that nourish well, making the body lively and full of sap, to cause erection, as hens eggs, pheasants, wood-cocks, young pigeons, partridges, capons, almonds—'"

"Almonds aren't meat," Lily interrupted.

"Hush." Rose leaned across Violet, narrowing her eyes at their hapless younger sister. "Do you want to learn what to feed your husband or not?"

"Go on," Lily said with a sigh.

"All right, then." Violet resumed reading. "'Almonds, pine-nuts, raisins, currants, all strong wines, especially those made of the grapes of Italy. But erection is chiefly caused by parsnips, artichokes, asparagus…"

She paused, thinking of a plate piled high with asparagus in a piazza twinkling with lights. And later in the passage, when Ford had pressed against her, and she'd felt—

Faith, the Master-piece was right.

"Violet." Looking concerned, Lily touched her hand. "Why did you stop?"

Violet blinked. "No reason," she said, her cheeks burning. "Sometimes my mind just wanders."

"Let me read instead." Rose grabbed for the book.

Violet held tight. "No." To focus better on the words, she slipped off her spectacles and set them on her lap. "'Asparagus, candied ginger—'"

"Enough with the food," Rose said. "We will never remember this long list, anyway. What comes after that?"

Violet turned to the next chapter and read the title. "'Of the Genitals of Women.'"

Rose nodded. "That sounds good."

"Lily?" Violet looked to her youngest sister.

Though Lily was red-faced, she nodded, too. "It sounds like something we should know."

"All right, then." Having read this section already in the privacy of her room, she took a deep breath before sharing with her sisters. "'Those parts that offer themselves to view at the bottom of the belly, the fissura magnaor with its labia or lips, the mons veneris, and the hair, are called by the general name pudenda.'"

A frown creased Lily's smooth young forehead. "These parts have names?"

"Of course they do, you goose." Rose leaned in closer. "Go on."

"'The clitoris is a substance in the upper part of the division where the two wings concur, and is the seat of womanly pleasure, being like a yard—'"

"A yard?" Lily asked.

"That's what they call a man's…"

"Oh. That." Her blue eyes widened. "It's not actually a yard, is it? I mean, when it's—"

"Erect?" Judging from the single breathy word, Rose seemed to be lacking her customary aplomb. "Good God, I hope not. It couldn't be. It's not really a yard, Violet, is it?"

"Why do you think I would know?" But her face heated as she remembered feeling that hardness. "No, of course it isn't," she said as matter-of-factly as she could manage. "It wouldn't fit if it were, would it? And it would show, don't you think? When men just walked around? I'm certain it's not a yard."

"Probably men call it that because they wish it were a yard," Rose said dryly.

Even Lily giggled at that.

Violet blinked hard and continued reading. "'The clitoris…being like a yard in situation, substance, composition and erection, growing sometimes out of the body an inch, but that never happens except through extreme lust.'"

Rose harrumphed. "So a man gets a yard and we get an inch."

"Oh, Rose," Violet groaned.

"Keep reading," Lily said.

"All right." Violet flashed Rose a look of warning. "'By the neck of the womb is the channel which receives the yard like a sheath, and that it may be better dilated for the pleasure of procreation, in this concavity are diverse folds, wrinkled like an expanded rose.'"

"A rose?" Rose harrumphed again. "That 'concavity' looks nothing like Father's flowers." When her sisters gaped at her, she bristled. "Well, it doesn't. I've looked. With a mirror." She narrowed her gaze. "Don't tell me you haven't."

Violet just cleared her throat. "'The hymen, or claustrum virginale, is that which closes the neck of the womb relating to virginity, broken in the first copulation. And commonly, when broken in copulation, or by any other accident, a small quantity of blood flows from it, attended with some little pain.'"

Silence descended on the summerhouse.

"Little pain," Lily whispered finally. "That doesn't sound too bad, does it?"

"I'm sure it's not," Violet said firmly.

But they all took a deep breath in unison.

"All right, then." Violet turned the page. "Listen to this." She swallowed. "'There are many veins and arteries passing into the womb, dilated for its better taking hold of the yard, there being great heat required in such motions, which become more intense in the act of friction, and consumes a considerable quantity of moisture, which being expunged in the time of copulation, greatly delights the woman.'"

"Greatly delights the woman," Rose breathed. "Gemini. We have to get married. Soon."

Suddenly they heard a jaunty tune being hummed outside. "Oh, God!" Lily exclaimed. "It's Mum!"

Leaping up, she ran for the door and jerked it open, Rose at her heels. The two of them pushed through at the same time, all but stumbling over each other.

"Good afternoon, Mum," Rose said. "Come along, Lily. Father is waiting."

"For what?" Mum asked, frowning at Violet as her younger daughters practically trampled her and ran for the gardens.

Shrugging, Violet snapped the book closed and set it face down on the bench. "What are you doing out here?"

Unlike Father, Mum avoided the outdoors, especially on a nice, sunny day like this one. She worried for her creamy complexion. Now she was wearing a big straw hat and carrying a basket over her arm, filled with stale bread. "I thought I'd just take some air," she said. "And feed the swans."

When Violet stood, her spectacles tumbled from her lap to the red-brick floor. She bent to retrieve them, hoping her mother wouldn't notice the book on the bench. "Shall I come with you?"

"That would be lovely."

She slipped the frames on her face as they crossed the wide, green lawn to the river. A multitude of daisies sprouted among the blades of grass; God forbid Joseph Ashcroft leave any part of his land free of flowers.

Chrystabel bent to pick one as they went. She twirled the white and yellow posy in her fingers. "Is the book you were reading interesting?"

Egad, she'd noticed.

"It's philosophy." Well, it was. In a sense.

"What is it called?"

"Um…" Violet felt her face heat, but the title certainly wasn't a giveaway. "Aristotle's Master-piece."

Stepping onto the bridge, her mother threw her an arch look. "And is it?"

Her heart stuttered. "Is it what?"

"A masterpiece."

"Oh." Halfway across the bridge, Violet stopped and turned to the rail. She focused out over the river. "It's Aristotle, you know. I'm sure you've heard me jabber enough about him." She reached into her mother's basket and broke off a bit of bread, tossing it out to the lone swan nearby. "I don't expect you'd find it very interesting."

"You might be surprised."

Violet wondered what her mother meant, especially considering the tone of her voice, but she didn't want to ask. She had a feeling she was better off not knowing.

More swans glided near, and Chrystabel tossed a few crumbs. "You miss him, don't you?"

Him. Mum had to mean Ford. But Violet had never admitted to any interest in him, so how could Mum know?

"Miss whom?" she asked.

"Lord Lakefield, of course. Don't be coy, Violet. For weeks you saw him every day, but now that Jewel is gone, you have no excuse to visit. I know you're fond of him."

"He's a nice man," Violet said carefully.

"You don't allow a man to kiss you just because he's nice."

Violet's jaw dropped open. She closed it, along with her eyes, then opened them and turned to her mother. "Wherever did you get the idea he kissed me?"

"One of your sisters." Chrystabel held up a hand. "No, I won't tell you which one, because it doesn't matter."

"It matters to me! It was Rose, wasn't it?"

"I won't be saying. Because it doesn't matter. It's acceptable to experiment. Do you imagine I never kissed your father before we married?"

Despite her outrage, Violet had to bite back a smile. Mum had done more than kiss Father. Violet knew she'd been born impossibly "early"—the girls had calculated the dates years ago.

But that was beside the point. "I'm not marrying him, Mum."

Below them, the swans squawked, and Chrystabel broke off more bread. "Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, he hasn't asked me. And for another, I wouldn't agree if he did."

"Can you explain why?"

"Why?" To avoid meeting her mother's eyes, Violet took a hunk of bread and faced the graceful white birds. "Why should I? With or without my spectacles, I'm not blind. I know I'm no beauty. If he asked for my hand, it would only be to get my ten thousand pounds—God knows he needs it, as Rose has pointed out countless times. And I won't marry for less than true love, Mum. I…I suspect marriage isn't all it's purported to be, anyway."

She wished she could still believe that with the fervor she once had. But she wasn't quite so sure any longer, not since reading the Master-piece. Now, late at night, she lay in bed alone, wishing the feel of the sheets on her body were the feel of a man's hands instead. Wondering if the sensations were as wonderful as the Master-piece claimed.

And Ford's kisses had done nothing to convince her differently.

Great heat…in the act of friction…greatly delights the woman. Her very limited experience notwithstanding, she could believe it.

Chrystabel threw the last of her crumbs to the swans. "I see."

Violet didn't care for the way Mum had said that. Tossing the rest of her own crumbs, she turned to face her. "You're not going to try to match me up with him, are you? Because—"

"Heavens, no! I want you to be happy, Violet. Married or not—whatever makes you happy."

Mum sounded sincere. But on the way back to the house, Violet couldn't help but wonder.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Chrystabel loved the nighttimes.

In the quiet of the master chamber, her dear Joseph could always hear her. It didn't quite make sense, which was why she sometimes teasingly accused him of selective listening. But he said it had to do with competing sounds. That during the daytime, there were noises, always noises: the servants going about their work, the animals in the fields, birds in the skies, dishes and silverware at mealtimes, and children talking all at once. He claimed that with more than one sound, he couldn't distinguish any of them.

But within the thick, solid walls of their room, the nighttimes were blessedly quiet. And he also claimed that her voice was the one he could hear most easily, especially when were no competing sounds. The perfect pitch.

That did make sense to her. Because they'd always, always been perfect together.

But now he had nodded off, though she'd expressly asked him not to. She leaned over the bed and poked him. "I told you to stay awake."

Rolling over, he yawned and forced open his eyes. "Has Violet fallen asleep yet?"

"Yes. Finally." She tapped the book she'd just placed on her night table. "I got it."

"What?" He rubbed his face, then struggled up onto his elbows to see better. "What in blazes is this all about?"

Before answering, she lifted the covers and slid languidly between the sheets. When she spoke, her voice was low and seductive. "Aristotle's Master-piece."

"Holy Christ. The marriage manual?" Both his face and tone radiated his shock. "Where the hell would Violet get such a thing?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, but I'm glad."

"Glad?"

"Don't be such a prude, Joseph. I know this book is supposed to be scandalous, but frankly, I hope she reads it from cover to cover."

She saw no need to mention their other daughters were reading it as well. Dear Joseph wasn't always as open-minded as she. Often he needed some time and guidance to come around to her way of thinking.

She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "If Violet finds the book stimulating enough, perhaps it will make her give up this ridiculous notion that she doesn't want to marry." Deliberately, she wiggled closer to her husband. When he put an arm around her, drawing her against his warm body, she looked up at him coquettishly. "Marriage has its benefits, darling, wouldn't you agree?"

He gave her a long, slow kiss before he answered, the sort of kiss that had been making her senses spin from the very day they met. "Perhaps," he allowed huskily, "if you put it that way."

She nodded her woozy head. "It's not as though we were saints before we wed. Violet is about to turn one-and-twenty, a woman grown." At only one-and-forty herself, Chrystabel could well remember a young woman's naïveté. "It will do her good to know a bit of something before she lands in her marriage bed. And this book might be our only hope of ever getting her there."

"Hmmph." Narrowing those green eyes that always made her melt, he rubbed his chin. "As Violet's father, I believe it's my responsibility to approve her reading matter." He reached across her body toward the book. "Let me see it."

"I was hoping we could read it together. It could be…what did I call it?" She licked her lips. "Stimulating."

"Stimulating." A slow grin spread on his face. "Now, Chrysanthemum, we've never needed outside stimulation. But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a look. For curiosity's sake."

As he opened the book, she snuggled happily under his arm. "For curiosity's sake, of course."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

An impatient knock came at the laboratory door before Hilda's voice called through it. "Will you be wanting breakfast, milord?"

Ford blinked and then carefully, reverently, set aside his watch. Still in somewhat of a daze, he rose and went to admit her. "Is it morning already?"

His housekeeper's hands fisted on her hips. "Have you not bothered to look out a window lately?"

He turned to the one right over where he'd been working. The sky was blue. Birds were chirping, the perfect accompaniment for a beautiful, sunny day.

"Did you stay up all night again?" Hilda demanded.

"What is it with the questions?" Ford shook his head, refusing to let her disapproval ruin his ebullient mood. "Come, I have something to show you."

She followed him to his workbench, weaving around a water bath and flicking her dust rag as she went. "If you'd let me in here to clean once in a while, this wouldn't be such a skimble-skamble mess."

Accustomed to her lectures, he ignored this one and reached for his watch. "Here it is," he said with a broad smile. "I'm finished."

"It's very nice." She raised a glass funnel and wiped it off.

Nonplussed, he stared at her. "I know it's not fancy, but do you see here? It's different from other watches. It has a minute hand, like a clock. So you won't have to guess how far into the hour it is by looking at only the single hand."

"Well, that is very nice, my lord." She smiled, but her faded blue eyes didn't sparkle with the enthusiasm he was seeking. "Although you have clocks enough around here for me to tell the time, I expect for some this will be quite convenient." She set down the funnel and glanced around the attic, sighing at the clutter and dust. "Will you be wanting breakfast now, then?"

He was silent a minute before mutely ordering himself to shrug off the disappointment. "Breakfast would be nice. I'll be down shortly."

He watched her calico-clad back as she picked her way through the maze that was his sanctuary. Convenient. She'd called his watch convenient. Although he supposed it was, that hadn't been the reaction he was hoping for.

After years of planning and experimenting, he'd finally managed to come up with something that could benefit mankind. He wanted excitement, appreciation. A bit of hero worship wouldn't be amiss, either. Suspecting Jewel would have reacted more to his liking, he found himself missing her all over again.

Luckily, another enthusiastic female lived not so far away.

An hour later, having bathed, shaved, and gulped down some breakfast, Ford found himself in the galleried entry of Trentingham Manor, proudly holding up his watch for Violet's inspection.

"Oh my," she said, her brandy-colored eyes wide with unabashed admiration. "It's amazing. I cannot believe it! Can I just stand here a while and watch it work?"

Ford laughed, finally feeling that flush of success, wanting to hug and kiss her for giving it to him. "If you'd like. But if you'd care to invite me into a room with chairs, you can sit and watch it instead. That would be more comfortable, don't you think?"

"Oh. I'm so sorry." Holding the book he'd given her, she turned and started down the corridor. "I've forgotten my manners."

He walked beside her. "I'd forgotten how lovely you are."

In his single-minded focus on his watch, he had forgotten. Intentionally forgotten. But she blushed prettily at the compliment.

"Besides," he added, "I'm the one who's socially inept. I should have exchanged pleasantries before shoving my invention in your face. Your manners, by contrast, are impeccable."

She flashed him a smile that might as well have been a stab to his heart. Damnation, he shouldn't have come. Neither she nor her parents would ever agree to a match, and here he was, falling in love all over again.

It was akin to torture.

She was wearing a yellow gown today, and her matching heels clicked on the corridor's polished oak floor. "Would you show my family the watch? I'm certain they will be just as impressed as I."

Remembering Hilda's reaction—or rather, lack of one—Ford wasn't so sure.

"Mum is in her perfumery," Violet told him, and he shrugged and followed her to the left, through a study he hadn't seen before. Unlike the pretty feminine desks in the library upstairs, this room's desk was heavy and utilitarian. There were papers all over it, and a pile of ledgers that looked ready to topple. He figured this was where Joseph Ashcroft ran his estate. It was obviously hard work—an onerous job Ford had no desire to tackle for Lakefield.

But that's exactly what he'd have to do if he were to have a prayer of winning Violet.

He looked away from the desk, preferring instead to gaze at her back as he followed her through the house. The yellow silk flared over shapely hips and nipped in at her waist above. Even as his hands itched to span that waist, he sighed to himself.

The entire Church of England could pray on his behalf, and it would make no difference at all. He'd never win Violet.

His watch was finished. He really should go back to London.

Like many old houses, Trentingham had few corridors, most of the rooms simply opening on to the next. The adjacent chamber was tiny, more or less a closet. But it would do as the storeroom for a laboratory. The walls were lined with row upon row of shelves, upon which rested vials of liquid. Chemicals.

He stopped dead, looking around.

"Mum is through here."

He blinked. Violet was gazing at him, the red-covered book he'd given her clutched to her chest. "I'm coming," he said.

The next room was a laboratory.

True, it was nothing like his. While his had but a single small window over his work space, Lady Trentingham's large windows afforded glorious views of the gardens and the river. While his had only one wooden chair for him to sit and work, hers had six upholstered ones, arranged in pairs with elegant inlaid tables between them. Clearly this room was used for socializing as well as work. But it was a laboratory nonetheless.

Forgetting the watch in his hand, he found himself drawn to the center of the chamber, where Lady Trentingham stood at a large, rectangular table, plucking flower petals and tossing them into some sort of contraption.

"Good morning, Lord Lakefield," she said, beaming at him as though he were her long-lost son.

He wished.

"A pleasure to see you again," he told her.

"Yes, it's been a while, hasn't it?" If he wasn't mistaken, her tone was slightly critical. "What is it you've brought us?"

"He hasn't brought it for us, Mum, not exactly. Just to show." Violet shoved her spectacles up on her nose, looking a bit flustered, and Ford wondered if that was due to her mother's attitude. It certainly surprised him.

Perhaps the Ashcrofts would be more amenable to a match than he'd thought.

Violet set the book on a table. "Give me a moment to fetch the rest of the family."

The room seemed immeasurably emptier after she left. Listening to her fading footsteps, Ford set his watch on another of the small marquetry tables. "What is that?" he asked Lady Trentingham, indicating the odd device.

Favoring him with a smile, she tossed a final few petals into the bowl. "Joseph has given me the last of this year's roses. I'm about to make essential rose oil. Would you care to help?"

"Certainly." He wiped his palms on his breeches, approaching the crude apparatus. "What is it you'd like me to do?"

"Just hold the bowl while I pour boiling water, then quickly set this other bowl on top. Upside down." She demonstrated. "Ready?"

"Pour away," he told her, gripping the bowl while she turned to take a kettle from the fire. He watched while she poured, noting how much steam escaped before she finished and he was able to place the second bowl over the rising vapors.

"It's called distillation." Replacing the kettle, she swiped the back of a graceful hand across her brow. "When the drippings cool, they separate into water—rosewater, in this case—and essential oil." She indicated the tray below.

"I see," he told her. It was a still. But although he could tell it would work, it was like no other still he'd ever laid eyes on. Her process would be more efficient with the heat supply directly beneath, the water and petals contained in a flask so the vapors couldn't escape. And with tubing and a water-cooling method, the oil—

"Violet said you invented a new watch," Rose said, walking into the room with her two sisters in her wake. Rowan came close behind, making a beeline for the table where Ford's invention waited.

"Uh-uh-uh," Violet said before he could touch it. She reached to clasp his wrist. "Wait until Father arrives."

"But, Violet—"

"Here." She fetched the book Ford had given her. "Lord Lakefield brought you this from London."

"Micrographia," he breathed, opening it to the middle. "Look at this." He shoved a picture in Rose's face.

"Ewww." She wrinkled her nose. "What is that?"

"A blue fly up close."

Violet smiled. "I met the author at Gresham College."

The sudden blush on her cheeks made Ford wonder if she was remembering their kisses that night. He hoped so, which was positively absurd.

"That was very nice of Lord Lakefield," Lady Trentingham said. She was beaming in Ford's direction again. "What do you say to him, Rowan?"

Before Rowan could offer his thanks, Violet's father barged in, his hands full of colorful flowers.

Lilies? Violets? Ford recognized only roses, and there were none of those.

"What's this all about?" Lord Trentingham asked.

"Lord Lakefield has designed a new watch," Violet said.

"Lord Lakefield has resigned? Resigned from what?"

The three sisters giggled.

"Quiet, everyone." Lady Trentingham set down the bottle she was holding and walked over to her husband. "Thank you, darling." She took the flowers and stuffed them into a vase she took off a shelf, one of many. "Lord Lakefield has an invention to show us. Would you care to see?"

"A new sort of watch." As Ford lifted it, everyone else moved to huddle around.

"Look," Violet said. "There's an extra hand to mark the minutes, so you no longer have to guess. Isn't it amazing?"

"Very impressive," Lord Trentingham said.

"Brilliant." His wife beamed, and Ford once again had the impression she might really approve of him.

"I want one," Rowan said.

"Let me see," Rose demanded, and Lily chimed in more softly with "Me, too."

Ford handed over the timepiece, watching to make sure they'd be careful with it. But then his gaze was drawn to Violet. He hadn't seen her in a week. Hadn't touched her in a week.

Damnation, he still wanted her.

Their eyes searched, met, locked. Sparkling behind the lenses he'd made, hers were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. An unspoken message passed between them.

"If you've no objections," he said slowly, "I would like to take your daughter for a walk."

"Go ahead, dears," Lady Trentingham said. "We're watching the time pass!"

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Watching time. How much time, Violet wondered as they strolled toward the river, until Ford returned to London?

This last week had been so monotonous while he'd been holed up working on his watch. She could hardly remember what she used to do with her days before he'd arrived with Jewel in tow. But now the girl had gone home, and he was finished with what he'd come to do. Soon, he'd be leaving. He'd probably asked her out here to tell her that.

She crossed her arms and hugged herself.

"Cold?" he asked.

"Not really." The August day was breezy yet warm, and the grass felt springy beneath her shoes. As they approached the bridge, she bent to pick one of the daisies that dotted the green. Idly she plucked the white petals.

He loves me, he loves me not.

But of course he didn't. The new yellow gown she was wearing might be fancier than her old ones, but a dress couldn't make her pretty. Since the reception at Gresham College, she may have been allowing Margaret to coax her hair into fashionable ringlets, but the curls didn't hide the overly intellectual brain hiding beneath.

The only thing she had that a man would be attracted to was her money.

She tossed the daisy at the foot of the bridge as they started across. "Have you missed Jewel this past week?"

He gave her a melancholy smile. "I've surprised myself by missing her something fierce. I've written her two letters already. She loves getting mail."

In the middle of the bridge, she stopped and turned to face him. "How thoughtful."

He shrugged. "It's partly selfish, to be honest. I'm hoping for letters in return." Water flowed under the boards beneath their feet, and two swans glided near, but she had no food to toss to them. "I missed you this past week as well," he said quietly.

Had he? She searched his brilliant blue eyes. "It felt odd not to be heading for Lakefield in the afternoons."

"Then you missed me, too?"

She couldn't deny it. But what good would it do to confirm? Admitting her feelings would change nothing.

Reaching to raise her chin, he looked deeply into her eyes. Without closing his own, he moved in to kiss her. Tender and sweet, no more than a fleeting touch of lips. "I care for you, Violet. I've been trying to analyze why. But I think—no matter how much it pains me to admit this—there are some things one cannot analyze."

She didn't know how to respond, but her lips tingled. His fingers felt warm on her skin. When he moved toward her again, her gaze darted up to the perfumery's windows. Her family lurked behind the glass, probably still exclaiming over Ford's invention. A pale oval appeared behind a pane, then disappeared. She'd bet the Master-piece it was Rose, spying.

He raised that devilish brow. "Afraid we're being watched?"

"I wouldn't put it past my sisters."

He nodded, and they strolled across the bridge and along the far bank of the river. Cattle grazed in the fields beyond, and a hawk circled lazily overhead. As Ford slipped his hand into hers, her gaze flicked once more to the window, and he chuckled beside her.

They walked in silence, listening to the whinnies of the horses in the field and the songs of two lovebirds in a tree. Violet focused on the feel of their joined hands, startling when he slipped his thumb inside to play upon her palm. The sensation sent a little thrill through her.

If only she could believe it was the same for him.

A small wooden gate marked the entry to the woods, and they paused only long enough to open it.

Here were new sounds: twigs crackling beneath their feet, leaves rustling overhead. Still playing with her hand, Ford led her to a tree stump and sat upon it, drawing her down to his lap.

It was most improper, but she didn't want to move. Though they weren't actually far from the house, the canopy of trees made this place feel secluded and private. She shifted sideways to face him, noting the faint circles under his eyes. "Looks like someone's not sleeping," she said quietly.

"I was up all night finishing the watch." He raised their joined hands to brush his lips over her knuckles. "Didn't even realize it was morning until Hilda offered me breakfast."

"You should have slept, then, after you were done."

"I couldn't. I was too excited. I wanted to show it to someone." He paused, pressing a slow kiss to the back of her hand while slanting a glance up at her. "I wanted to show it to you. Only you, Violet."

Her breathing shallowed at the thought. Faith, she wanted to believe him. "I'm sorry, then, that I brought my family—"

"No. I enjoyed showing it to them, too." Still holding her hand, he used his free hand to sweep the hair off her neck. "But you were the one I truly wanted to share it with." He bent his head, his warm lips grazing her nape.

Pleasure rippled through her.

She wanted this. Whenever he touched her, especially like this, she wanted him. It was as though she had no control over her own body.

His mouth trailed the back of her neck, her collarbone, her shoulders revealed in the wide neckline of her new gown. She felt his breath, the heat of it sending a shiver down her spine. He drew off her spectacles and set them on her lap, then placed his hands on her cheeks. His mouth met hers, his thumbs gently stroking as he kissed her.

She was undone. Resistance fled, and she twisted to more fully face him, slipping her hands beneath his coat. His mouth turned wild and demanding, his tongue fencing with hers, an impassioned bid for possession.

And oh my, she thought with what little ability to think she had left, she wanted to be possessed. She strained closer to him, wanting. That curious warmth was spreading in her middle.

Great heat…greatly delights the woman.

He threaded his fingers into her hair, cupping her face in his hands as he tilted it back. His lips traced a path down her chin, her neck, a hot, damp swath of sensation. Then his tongue crept out, licking, stroking, dipping into the valley between her breasts. A bolt of excitement streaked through her, straight to a place she hadn't had a name for until last week.

Her seat of womanly pleasure.

"Ford," she breathed, her hands tightening where they gripped his sides. "What are you doing to me?"

Although she hadn't meant him to answer, he stilled and raised his head to meet her eyes, a dazed expression in his own. "It's you, Violet. You make me lose my head. I know I shouldn't be doing this."

He drew a long breath and slowly let it out. With a small, wry smile, he reached beneath his coat to remove her hands from his body. He set the first in her lap and lifted the second to his mouth, kissing her fingertips before he placed it atop the other.

"I think I may have fallen in love," he confessed in a husky whisper.

Her world skidded, then righted itself. It wasn't quite "I love you," but close. He was saying all the right things, in just the right way to make her question all her old insecurities. When he looked at her like that, with those incredible blue eyes, she wanted to believe him more than she'd wanted anything, ever.

She just didn't know whether she could.

She slipped her spectacles back on, determined to regain her control, to focus her mind on other, more practical things. "Where will you sell it?" she asked quietly.

His eyes cleared, a concern stealing into them, a disappointment in her lack of response. "Sell what?"

"Your watch."

"My watch?" He sighed, then bent his head, his hair flopping forward like a young boy's.

A hot stab of love sliced through her.

"I'm not planning to sell my watch," he said. "I'm not equipped to manufacture watches."

Stunned, she sat up straight and felt him tense in response. "Well, then," she asked, "what do you plan to do with it?"

He straightened, too. "I'll bring it to the next Royal Society meeting. I'm certain it will be a sensation."

"And then…"

"That's it. I have other projects I'm working on—"

"You're serious, then?" She couldn't believe it. "You have no plans for the watch?"

"I invented it. That was my plan." When she tried to rise, his arms tightened around her. "I'm not a businessman," he said softly. "I have no knowledge of that world. The creation was a satisfying end in itself."

"I don't understand you," she said. True, the aristocracy in general saw trade as beneath them, but only a rich man had the luxury of doing what he pleased without thought to profit.

Or a man who planned to rely on his wife for income.

She didn't want to think that of him. His words to her had sounded too sincere, his admission about the watch too uncalculated. She'd seen how much he cared for Jewel; she knew his heart was a good one. His steady gaze looked honest, not deceitful, and she no longer believed all his kisses were only a ruse.

But she couldn't help wondering.

He stared at her for a long, silent moment. A bird fluttered from one tree to another. A cow lowed in the fields beyond the woods. She heard her blood pounding in her ears.

"I don't understand me, either," he agreed, and finally let her rise.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

"Have you and Ford had a fight?" Sitting cross-legged on Violet's bed that night, Lily patted May-dew on her face from a bottle she'd purchased in London. "He didn't seem very happy when he came back for his watch."

Violet paced her bedchamber, restlessly touching things at random. "No, we didn't fight."

She had no idea how to explain what had happened in the woods, because she hadn't yet figured it out. The two of them had walked back in silence, as though they had nothing left to say to each other. But Ford hadn't seemed angry. Before they'd reentered the house, he'd even brushed a kiss across her forehead at the door. And then sighed before he opened it.

She sighed now. "I still cannot believe he isn't going to do anything with the watch."

Rose played with her hair, examining herself in the mirror at Violet's dressing table. "Not everyone is as ambitious as you are, Violet." She turned from her reflection, her tresses twisted up high. "Do you prefer it up or down?"

"Up," Lily said at the same time Violet said, "Down."

"Some help you two are." Rose stood, fluffing her white night rail. Violet was struck anew by her younger sister's stunning beauty, but quickly suppressed the stab of envy. "It's not like you can change him," Rose told her. "And why would you want to, anyway? You keep insisting you're not interested in him."

Violet plopped on her bed so hard the ropes creaked a protest beneath the mattress. "I just find it hard to believe he can invent something so important and not be interested in selling it. Or patenting it, at least. At the Royal Society event, I heard that Christopher Wren patented a device for writing with two pens. If anyone uses his idea, they have to pay for it."

Lily scooted nearer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Why is this bothering you so, Violet? It's not your invention."

"I just hate to see such brilliance go to waste."

Blinking, Lily shifted to face her. "Perhaps Ford isn't motivated by money, but it's not as though he's lazy. It's only that he does things for other reasons than you would. He might invent something to make someone happy, or create something he hopes will be a benefit to mankind. His values may be different than yours, but that doesn't mean they're inferior."

Violet wondered when young Lily had become so wise. "I never thought of it that way," she murmured, more confused than ever.

Her two sisters exchanged a glance. "Did he kiss you again?" Rose asked.

"Maybe." Violet stood and resumed pacing. She could feel her sisters' gazes following her as she trod back and forth. Facing away from them, she stopped. "All right, he did."

"And was it as wondrous as before?" When Violet failed to answer, Lily rose and came up behind her, settling her hands on her shoulders. "If you love him," she said softly, "why won't you consider marriage?"

"He hasn't asked me." Violet twisted out of her sister's grasp. And because Ford had as much as said he loved her, something in her middle twisted as well. "And even if he did ask me, I would wonder if it were only for my inheritance. I'm not a woman who inspires love."

Compassion flooded Lily's deep blue eyes. "We love you, Violet!"

"You're my sisters. That's different."

"Now I see why you're so upset," Rose said. "You wish he would sell watches and make a lot of money. Because if he still seduced you then, you'd know it was for yourself."

That could be so, Violet realized, though she hadn't thought of it in that way before. Rose was entirely too shrewd for her comfort.

Lily stepped closer. "Or is it your dream of publishing you don't want to give up? Are you afraid that if you marry, your money will go to your husband instead of your dream?"

"No. Not that." Maybe she would have agreed with Lily last month. But although she still wanted to write a philosophy book, she had new dreams now.

Yet she was sure, deep down, that if Ford were suddenly showered with gold, those new dreams still wouldn't come true. And it irritated her that she'd even started dreaming. She used to be content with her lot, and that had been much easier.

"My own money has nothing to do with it," she said. "I just hate to see wasted potential. It disagrees with the practical in me."

"But Violet," Lily said quietly, "what is it you really want?"

Good question, Violet thought. She didn't know anymore. "Maybe we should talk of something else."

Rose shrugged, then grinned. "We could read more of the Master-piece." She snatched the book off Violet's bedside table. "Where did we leave off?"

"Here, give it to me." With a sigh, Violet took the book and climbed into bed.

Lily ran around to the other side, and the three of them huddled together beneath the covers. "Just like old times," Lily said. "Do you remember when we couldn't read yet, Violet, and you used to read to us at night?"

"Read to us again, big sister." Rose smiled with scarcely a trace of the innocence from their childhood. "We were learning about women's parts. Is there a chapter on men's parts, too? That's what I want to hear about."

"There is, but we need to finish this first." Violet opened the book to Chapter Fourteen, "A Description of the Womb's Fabric." "'In the lower part, where the lips are widest and broadest, for which reason women have likewise broader buttocks than men—'"

"We do not," Rose interrupted.

"Some of us do." Picturing Ford's slim hips compared to her own, Violet cleared her throat. "'The womb's figure is in a manner round and not unlike a gourd. There are diverse little nerves, placed chiefly for sense and pleasure. As for the neck of the womb, it is of an exquisite feeling.'"

"Goodness." Using a hand, Lily fanned herself.

Rose reached over to turn the page, showing no surprise or discomfort. "We're learning so much, aren't we?"

"Absolutely," Violet said dryly. She looked back down at the book. "'The externals are designed to receive the yard, and by their swelling up, cause titillation and delight in those parts. The action of the clitoris in women is like that of the yard in men, and the seat of the greatest pleasure in conception.'"

"Goodness," Lily repeated.

"It sounds wonderful," Rose said, "but what about the men's parts?"

"Oh, very well. I think that's Chapter Sixteen." Violet flipped ahead. "'Of the Organs of Generation of Man.'"

"That sounds like the chapter I want to hear."

"You would," Lily said.

"Hey—" Rose started.

"Just listen," Violet interrupted. She couldn't face an argument. Not tonight. "'The instrument of generation in man,'" she rushed on, "'commonly called the yard, and in Latin, penis a pedendo, is long and round. When the nerves are filled with animal spirits, and the arteries with hot and spiritous blood, then the yard is distended and becomes erect.'"

"Have you seen one erect?" Lily asked nobody in particular.

"No." Violet was fairly sure she'd felt one pressed against her, but that wasn't the same as seeing it.

"I've seen more than one," Rose said.

Both Violet and Lily swung to stare at her.

"Covered by breeches," she added, "but I could still tell."

"You shouldn't be looking there." Violet snapped the book shut. "It's not polite."

"Well, I cannot help it. And I cannot help it if men get like that around me, either."

Her two sisters groaned in unison.

With a sigh, Violet reopened the book. "'At the end of the yard is the glans covered with a very thin membrane, by means of which and its nervous substance, it becomes more exquisitely sensitive, and is the principle seat of pleasure in copulation.'"

"Do you think it's as pleasurable for men?" Lily asked.

"More," Rose said. "Else why would they always be after it?"

Her sisters gasped.

"Well, they are," she said defensively. "No sense glossing over the matter."

Lily yawned. "Is there more?"

"The hour grows late," Violet hedged, thinking that Rose didn't need a book and Lily had heard enough.

"Let me see." Rose grabbed the Master-piece. "There is more on men's parts." She scanned the page. "About testiculi and something called a scrotum. And the next chapter is…" She paused to turn the page. "'A Word of Advice to Both Sexes, Being Several Directions Respecting Copulation.'"

"We must read that," Lily said.

"Not tonight." Violet had already read it several times. There were sections she didn't understand, but she suspected they weren't fit for the tender ears of her younger sisters. Or at least one of her sisters. "We're finished for tonight," she said.

Lily yawned again. "All right."

Rose threw back the covers. "I suppose we should all get our beauty sleep so we can catch men and try what we've learned."

Lily groaned and whacked her on the shoulder as the two of them padded off to bed, closing the door behind them.

Violet removed her spectacles and leaned to blow out her candle, then lay beneath her sheets, staring into the darkness.

Every word of the Master-piece seemed to make her think of Ford in new and delicious ways.

And every word made not having him hurt even more.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

For the dozenth time, Ford turned over in his lonely bed. His project was finished, but for some odd, annoying reason, he still found himself sleepless in the wee hours of the morning. Or perhaps it was because his project was finished.

It was time to leave Lakefield.

Tabitha's elopement was behind him. Far behind him. So far behind him, he wondered what he'd ever seen in the woman—on the rare occasions he thought of her at all.

His watch was done, and although he had another idea to add a chime to wake the watch's owner at a certain time of the day, he could work on that at Cainewood, or even in London. With the Royal Society settled back in its old home, the meetings would be more regular. He wanted to attend them.

But even though he knew Violet would never be his—even though he'd cursed himself a hundred times since this afternoon for not just leaving her the hell alone—he still found himself oddly reluctant to leave.

He levered up on an elbow and stared into the darkness at nothing in particular. When he grew bored with that—which was more or less immediately—he climbed from the bed and wrapped himself in a robe. As long as he couldn't sleep, he might as well start designing the wake-up bell.

On his way up to the laboratory, he bumped into Harry coming down. "Pardon, my lord." Holding a candle in one hand, Harry rubbed his bald head with the other. "I was just sneaking down for a midnight raid. I wouldn't be averse to some company."

"Midnight raid?"

"On the kitchen." The houseman patted his round belly. "Hilda is always nagging me not to eat, so I don't much. Not so she can see it." He grinned. "She baked bread before retiring."

As usual, Hilda's offerings this evening had been less than enticing. Feeling his own stomach rumble, Ford followed Harry downstairs and drew a stool up to the big table in the cavernous kitchen.

Harry swiped a fresh loaf off the counter and reached for a knife. "Quiet around here since Lady Jewel left, if I may say so."

"It is." Ford watched him slice the coarse brown bread. "She's a charmer."

Scooping butter from a crock, Harry slathered it onto a piece. "She is that. And Lady Violet, too."

"Lady Violet?"

"Don't tell me you haven't any interest."

Ford accepted the buttered bread. "Bloody hell, you're as meddling as your wife." But unlike Hilda, the man managed to probe without asking a single question. "What business is that of yours?"

The man didn't so much as bristle. "Just wondering how long you'll stick around here is all, my lord."

"As I've no excuse not to leave, most likely I'll be heading to London soon." He bit into the chewy bread. "Or not," he added around the mouthful.

"Just," Harry said, buttering his own hunk of loaf, "as I thought." He took a hearty bite. "Those Ashcrofts have made you feel right welcome."

"They have," Ford admitted. In a few short weeks, he'd begun to feel like Violet's family belonged in his life. Even her parents, which surprised him.

His oldest brother had been fairly simple to manipulate, and he'd always imagined real parents would be a nuisance. But Violet's were rather amusing.

He swallowed and nodded. "I find myself shouting at Lord Trentingham with the rest of them now. And earlier today, I helped Lady Trentingham make essential oil."

Harry drew a pitcher of ale and grabbed two goblets off a shelf. "Sounds like a messy business."

"Not particularly, although she has a disaster of a distillery." Ford watched while the man poured. "Perhaps I could make her a new one," he mused. After all, Lady Trentingham had been the soul of kindness and had even allowed his attentions to Violet, regardless that he was unworthy. He owed her a world of thanks—and a new, sophisticated distillery would be just the thing.

"Sounds like a good enough excuse to stick around," Harry observed.

Ford raked back his hair. "It has nothing to do with that. Lady Trentingham deserves it, as a token of my thanks for her hospitality."

"Of course." Harry's brown eyes twinkled as he raised his cup. "Drink up, my lord."

Ford did, his mind already occupied by how to best arrange the copper tubing.

Other than the odd squeaks and groans emitted by any old house, Trentingham was deathly quiet. By candlelight, Violet sat at her desk in the library, chewing on the end of a quill.

Nodding to herself, she dipped it into the ink and began writing.

Dear Mr. Wren,

It was a pleasure meeting you at the Royal Society function last month, and it is my hope that we renew our acquaintance sometime in the future.

The quill's scratch sounded loud in the empty room.

In the meantime, I am requesting your assistance with some information. You had mentioned patenting an invention, and I would be grateful to know how to go about doing so. A few lines of instruction would be most appreciated.

Yours truly,

Violet Ashcroft

Simple and straightforward. She read it over twice before folding it, adding a seal, and addressing it to the Royal Society for delivery. Surely someone there would see it reached Christopher Wren's hands.

Now to the more important letter. She had already addressed the backside of the paper to Daniel Quare, Watchmaker, Fleet Street, London. She'd found the information engraved on the backs of two of her father's watches.

Dear Mr. Quare,

I have invented a new watch with an additional hand to mark the progress of the minutes. I am querying your interest in producing and selling the design, a vast improvement on all current watches. I am certain you can envision the profits as patrons must replace their old watches with this newer one, which could very well allow you to dominate the market. I have patented the design—

She removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. That wasn't quite a lie—she did intend to see it patented.

—so there is no sense in your own craftsmen attempting to duplicate my idea. I am asking—

She hesitated again, then took a deep breath.

—twenty-five thousand pounds for my sketches and the working sample, plus a royalty percentage to be negotiated. You have two weeks in which to answer, after which time I will offer my invention to Mr. Thomas Tompion. I hope to hear from you in the affirmative, with a contract ready to be signed.

Yours truly,

For a third time she stopped and closed her eyes. Then she opened them, redipped her quill, and etched the name.

Ford Chase, Viscount Lakefield

If he had no ambition for trade, she figured she had enough for them both.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

"Move aside, if you will. Please. This is heavy."

At the sound of Ford Chase's voice, which she hadn't heard for far too many days, Chrystabel looked up to see Violet scurry into her perfumery. Ford and a footman followed close behind, an enormous machine held between them.

At least, she thought it was a machine.

"What is that?" she asked.

With some effort, the men maneuvered it to her worktable and set it down. "My thanks," Ford said to the footman, who bowed and took his leave. "It's a distillery, my lady."

"A distillery?" The machine wasn't like any distillery Chrystabel had ever seen. Well, besides her own, she hadn't seen any distilleries other than the one her aunt Idonea had used to teach her how to make perfume. Which had looked very much like the one she owned now. Two wooden bowls, a wooden block, a wooden tray beneath it all.

But this…this was all metal and glass and copper tubing. It positively gleamed.

And she hadn't a clue how it would work.

"You're sure that's a distillery?" she couldn't help asking.

He stroked the thing, very much like Lily petted her beloved stray animals. "I'm certain. I assure you there's nothing radical about the design."

"He has a much bigger one in his laboratory," Violet said.

Ford nodded. "And at Cainewood, yet another that dwarfs that one. But they all work on the same principles." He smiled at Chrystabel. "I hope you'll enjoy using it."

"Enjoy using it?" Her head swam with confusion, an unusual state of mind for Chrystabel Ashcroft. "Do you mean…can you mean to give it to me?"

He blinked. "Of course. I made it for you. Why else would I bring it here?"

"Why…" She felt speechless, another atypical condition. "That's so generous, I…I don't know how to thank you."

"No thanks are necessary. I saw a need, I filled it. One does that for friends."

Unsure which she appreciated more, his declaration or his gift, she came forward to take both his hands. "Then I'm fortunate to be counted among your friends," she said warmly, her gaze drifting to Violet.

Chrystabel hoped to be more than Ford's friend; she hoped to be his mother-in-law. But she was clever enough to keep her mouth shut lest she thwart her plans. One wrong word from her lips, and her skittish daughter would go running the other direction.

Her best bet was to keep throwing the two of them together until Mother Nature did her work. Chemistry—she'd wager that was how Ford thought of it. And she knew it was only a matter of time before those natural urges got the better of these two, the same way they had with herself and her dear Joseph.

Very few mothers would plot to compromise their own daughters, but Chrystabel feared it was her only hope. Violet was too particular and too stubborn for her own good.

She squeezed the viscount's hands before dropping them. "I do thank you, whether you feel that's required or not."

Her daughter circled the large table, ostensibly examining the distillery. "Will you show us how to use it?"

"Of course," he said, following Violet. A mating dance, Chrystabel thought with an inward smile.

"This container down here is for oil." He lifted a lid. "Not your essential oils, but fuel, if you will. I've filled it for now, but you'll need to add more as you use the still."

"That makes sense," Chrystabel said, watching her daughter move away again.

He shifted closer to replace the lid, which had a hole in the middle. "Make sure the wick is thick and long at the top," he instructed, inserting one he pulled from his pocket. "You'll want the flame high enough to boil the water. At home, this part of my still is brick—a proper oven. But for your purposes, this should do fine."

For the next step of the dance, Violet crossed back to Chrystabel's side of the table. "It looks very complicated."

A large glass bulb sat in a frame, and a second glass bulb was attached by a tube. Smaller, it was designed to rest on the tabletop.

"Put your petals in here," Ford said, coming halfway around again to indicate the larger bulb. "Then fill it with water. There's room here beneath the cover for the steam to collect, you see, but not too much room. Soon it will be forced down the tube, and on the long way down, away from the heat, the essential oil will condense and collect in this second receptacle." He showed them how to remove it. "Does that make sense?"

Still amazed that he'd gifted her with this, Chrystabel nodded. "It does!"

"It will take a bit longer than your original method, but you won't be losing any steam. Your oil will be purer and stronger."

"It will," Violet said with a smile. "It's quite obvious, and quite brilliant."

Overjoyed, Chrystabel rounded the table to impulsively wrap Lord Lakefield in a hug. "You're a genius!" she exclaimed. "And so generous."

And so perfect for her Violet.

His face was flushed when he pulled back. "It's nothing, really."

"It's everything," Violet disagreed from across the table, leaning forward on both hands. "Few men would take a woman's hobby seriously, let alone devise ways to improve it. Most would be like John Evelyn with his 'kitchen scientist' wife Mary."

Chrystabel hadn't the slightest idea who John Evelyn was, but Violet's eyes were filled with admiration. Her daughter was falling for Ford, she was sure of it. However, things weren't progressing as quickly as she'd like. The man had a disconcerting habit of disappearing for days at a time while he invented one thing or another.

"Violet's birthday is tomorrow," she told him. "We're having a family celebration. I'd be pleased if you would join us."

"Mum—"

"I'm delighted to accept," he interrupted smoothly. "But I was planning to ask if Violet might take supper in my company tonight."

A little gasp came across the table. "Alone?" Violet asked.

"Well, Harry will be there, and—"

Violet opened her mouth.

"I'm sure she'd be pleased," Chrystabel rushed to say before her daughter could decline the invitation. She just managed to suppress a grin.

"Shall I come for her at six, then?"

"Wait." Violet raised both hands, palms forward, looking altogether defensive. "Have I no say in this?"

"Of course you do, dear." Chrystabel fixed her with a steady gaze. "I just couldn't imagine you refusing such a request after Lord Lakefield went out of his way to make this new distillery."

Ford walked around the table, stopping nose to nose with her daughter. Or they would have been nose to nose, if he wasn't so much taller. The dance had ended. As Chrystabel watched him capture Violet's gaze with his own, her heart sang to see her daughter's eyes soften.

Surrender.

"Would you rather not come?" he asked quietly.

"I…"

"Please say you will."

Silence for a heartbeat. "All right."

A less than enthusiastic response, but Ford looked as happy to receive it as Chrystabel was to hear it. This was exactly the sort of opportunity she'd been hoping would come along.

"I'm looking forward to it." He bowed to both ladies. "Until six, then."

No sooner had Ford cleared the door than Violet's sisters rushed in to see what he'd brought.

"He made this?" Rose dumped an armful of flowers on the table. "He really and truly made this without you even asking?"

Mum laughed. "How could I ask? I had no idea such a thing even existed."

"That was nice." Lily ran a finger down the gleaming copper tube. "Very nice." She turned to Violet. "You should marry him."

Violet's mouth gaped. Though she'd discussed the subject with her sisters, she had trusted them to be more discreet. Especially in front of Mum. They had their pact to maintain a united front against any matchmaking.

"Has he asked you to marry him?" her mother asked with widened eyes.

"No," she said shortly. That, at least, was true.

Lily bit her lip, looking to Violet in apology. "I was just teasing her, Mum. But it was very nice of him to make this. I cannot wait to see you use it."

"And she should marry him," Rose put in.

"Oh, do hush up," Violet said, dropping onto a chair. She raised her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, then pushed them back into place to focus on her mother. "Why did you invite him to my birthday celebration? It was supposed to be a private party. Family." The day would be disconcerting enough without celebrating it in public. "You're not trying to match me up with him, are you?"

"Of course not." Mum waved a dismissive hand. "He'd just brought me a gift. I felt it necessary to reciprocate in what little way I could."

That made sense. Maybe. "Then what is your explanation for encouraging me to join him for supper? Alone, Mum? Harry and Hilda don't count."

"You're twenty-one years old now, a woman grown. I'm sure I can trust you."

Violet wasn't sure she could trust herself.

"Besides, it was very much like I said, dear. He'd just done me an enormous favor, and I didn't feel it would be right to refuse him a boon. It's naught but a couple of hours in his company—surely you cannot find that too onerous."

"But you really should marry him," Rose said again.

Violet turned on her. "Why? So you can start your own husband hunt?"

"No." Rose actually looked hurt, which made Violet feel terrible for lashing out. "You just seem perfect together. Mum, don't you agree?"

Chrystabel's fingers played over the flowers scattered on the table, picking out the white jasmines. "I promised you girls I would allow you to find your own husbands."

"That doesn't mean we don't want your opinion," Lily said.

"Yes, Mum," Rose agreed. "What's your opinion?"

Violet didn't want to hear anyone else's opinion. If she thought she could get away with it, she'd slink from the room.

Mum lifted the lid off the new still and began plucking jasmine petals, tossing them in as she talked. "I think he is brilliant."

Rose began collecting carnations, doubtless planning another floral arrangement. "Which makes him perfect for our Violet, doesn't it?"

"I didn't say that, Rose."

"But you thought it."

Violet gritted her teeth. "Rose, would you hush up?"

"Girls. Stop bickering. It's up to Violet to choose her own husband. I said from the first I thought Lord Lakefield was too much of an intellectual, and I haven't changed my opinion."

"But he's so nice," Lily said.

Violet's fingers clenched on the chair's arms. "You think so? Then would you marry him?"

"I'm not looking for a man like him," Lily protested. "I'm looking for a man who shares my love for animals."

"You're too young to be looking at all," Mum said.

Rose rubbed a pink bloom across her lips. "I like looking."

"We all know that by now," Violet said, rolling her eyes.

"Viscount Lakefield is very nice to look at."

"You think so?" Violet repeated. "Then why don't you marry him?"

Rose tossed her gleaming chestnut ringlets. "I'm looking for a man who appreciates my femininity. Your Ford looks right through me."

"Not too difficult, since you're so shallow."

"Violet!" Her eyes wide, Mum stopped plucking.

"I'm sorry," Violet muttered. She hadn't meant to be mean; she was just tired of being pressured. "It's only that Rose is so intelligent, yet she tries so hard to hide it."

Rose turned to pull a vase from the shelf. "I've told you, men aren't interested in intelligence."

"Lord Lakefield is," Lily said.

"And that," Rose declared, plopping the carnations into the vase, "is why he's so perfect for Violet."

A sigh escaped Violet in a rush. How long will you abuse my patience? she paraphrased Cicero in her head, but the familiar quotation did nothing to help her regain her own.

This discussion was going nowhere at all, and if she heard one more time that she should marry Ford—from her mother, her sisters, anybody—she feared she would scream.

She rose and headed for the door. "I need to go get ready."

Lily came to block her way, her blue eyes concerned. "Don't you want to see the distillery work?"

"Perhaps tomorrow," she said, skirting around her sister. "Today I have no time."

Thanks to Mum's meddling, she had a supper date in less than three hours.

CHAPTER FORTY

"Violet!" her father called from over by a border of pink candytuft. "Where are you going?"

Walking through the garden with Ford, she cast him an apologetic glance. "I'm off to Lakefield House for supper!" she shouted. "Did Mum not tell you?"

As they drew close, Ford took her hand. Father's gaze focused on their linked fingers, and a smile flirted on his lips. Apparently he wanted her to marry Ford, too.

Egad, just what she needed. More family pressure.

"Have a pleasant time, dear." Father leaned to kiss her on the cheek. "Be back by supper."

"Supper?" Ford repeated. "Lord Trentingham—"

"Forget it," Violet told him. "We could stand here all night. Mum will explain when I'm not at the table." She gave her father's arm a squeeze, knowing he hadn't heard her low comments. "I'll see you later, Father."

"What?"

"I'll see you later!" she shouted with a smile. "Sorry about that," she said to Ford as they walked away. "We yell a lot in this family, but we never mean anything by it."

"If you're thinking that will put me off, you're wrong. My family yells, too. And none of us are deaf." Still holding her hand, Ford led her around the corner.

And there was that silly, old-fashioned barge.

She stopped in her tracks. "Where is your carriage?"

"It's a beautiful evening," he said, pulling her along. "I thought to spend it on the river."

His sudden smile was disarming. She was speechless as they crossed the lawn, and although she hadn't tripped in weeks, she nearly did as she stepped onto the barge. Nodding to Harry and the stable hands to cast off, Ford drew her into the unsuitable cabin that had nothing but a bed.

Only it wasn't quite so unsuitable now. A little table and two chairs were also crammed into the cozy space. And the whole of it was lit by dozens of flickering candles.

He'd made a wonderland for her again, this time on his elegantly decrepit barge. The table was covered by a soft pink cloth, and silver domes hid various dishes. While she stood gaping, he leaned forward and swept one off.

"Supper," he said. "Since Hilda's culinary skills are a mite lacking, I had Harry fetch it from the cookshop in the village. I only hope it hasn't all gone cold."

Butterflies erupted in Violet's middle. She laid a hand on her blue moiré stomacher. At this moment, more than any other, she wished she were a conventional beauty. Sure of herself, confident the man in front of her could have feelings for her that were real.

Because what she was feeling now was becoming rather overwhelming.

"Are you all right?" he asked, looking concerned.

"I'm fine."

This was ridiculous. She'd been alone with him on the way to Gresham College, not to mention in the piazza while they were there, and nothing much had happened. Kisses, that was all.

But there had also been that moment in the passageway at Gresham. And that day in the woods. And snatches of the Master-piece kept running through her head.

And her entire family wanted her to marry him.

Two goblets sat on the table, the red wine in them gently swaying in rhythm with the barge's movements. She reached to raise one to her lips and took a gulp for courage. "I…I thought we were dining at Lakefield."

He drew out a chair and waited for her to sit, then pulled the door shut. "I never said that. I only asked if you might take supper in my company tonight." He seated himself across from her. The table was so small their knees touched, yet it and the chairs filled every inch of available space. "Don't you think this is more romantic?"

She wasn't certain she wanted romantic. His knees felt warm against hers, even though her skirts. Her gaze kept straying to the bed, so close she could easily touch it.

"Where are we going?" she asked. They were moving at a good clip already.

He shrugged one blue-velvet-clad shoulder. "Nowhere. Up, then back. We scientists call that perpetual motion," he added with a grin.

She shifted uneasily. "Nowhere?"

"Just you and me and the river, food, heady drink, candlelight…is it not enough?" In the flickering light, his eyes looked dark and earnest. He leaned across the table and took her hands, white lace falling away from his wrists. "I love you, Violet. I'm out to persuade you to love me back."

There it was. I love you.

"Violet, did you hear me?"

Of course she'd heard him, and she wanted so much to believe him. She'd dreamed of someday hearing those three words—especially from someone as handsome and intelligent as Ford Chase.

But she remembered too many balls where she'd hid in corners and no man had ever tried to coax her out. And before that, when she was younger, those torturous Sundays after church, when boys would huddle around her little sisters while she sat nearby with a book, pretending not to care. Faith, even when she was just five, and Rose and Lily still babies, strangers would coo over them while she stood by unnoticed.

When she failed to respond, Ford rose and turned to stick his head out the window. "Johnnie, my lady is not yet persuaded. We need music."

Almost at once, the strains of a violin reached her ears.

Despite her distress, a laugh bubbled out of her. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Almost everything. I forgot about the cold night air. Wouldn't want you to be chilled." He closed the window's shutters and reseated himself with a smile.

He was smooth, too smooth for her to handle. Her senses were spinning already, and he hadn't even really touched her. And she knew what would happen the moment he did that.

She would want him. Her mind would be stirred up to venery.

No, more than that. Because she loved him. Because she so desperately wanted to be loved in return.

He was a study in contradictions. Part logical scientist, part romantic rake, part responsible uncle, part irresponsible boy. And she loved every confusing facet.

He dressed like a prince and lived like a pauper. He was the most generous man she'd ever known. He'd made her spectacles; he'd made her mother a distillery.

He was out to persuade her to love him back, but God help her, she already did.

And yet…before he'd managed to close the shutters, she'd glimpsed Lakefield House as they glided by. In the shadows of the waning day, it had looked even more shabby than she remembered, reinforcing her fears. She couldn't help but wonder if his ever-more-frequent kisses—and his declarations of love—were only because of…

She didn't want to think about that now. Thanks to her mother's meddling, she was alone in a cabin with a man who claimed to love her. A man who could make the heat pool deep inside her with no more than a look.

Tomorrow she would turn twenty-one. Tomorrow she'd become a spinster. Tonight she intended to enjoy herself.

"Will you eat?" he asked, uncovering the rest of the platters.

As she'd expect from a country cookshop, the supper was simple. A lamb pie and a sweet potato pudding. And parsnips and asparagus.

Erection is chiefly caused by parsnips, artichokes, asparagus…

Violet thanked her lucky stars that artichokes, at least, weren't on the table. Enjoyment was one thing, unbridled lust quite another. She piled parsnips and asparagus on her plate, determined to see that Ford not eat more than his share.

She raised her cup to her lips, then froze.

…all strong wines, especially those made of the grapes of Italy.

"Is this wine Italian?"

He blinked. "No. It's French."

"Oh, good," she said, gulping a swallow. Flowing down her throat, it felt warm and seemed to relax her.

The sweet potato pudding was smooth and tasty, swimming in butter with eggs, nutmeg, and dark sugar. The lamb pie was flaky and delicious. As they dined, they discussed the books they'd recently read—excluding the Master-piece—and the latest discoveries in science.

No other man had really listened to her, or spoken to her as though she were his mental equal. Violet slowly came to realize that those weeks when Ford was gone, working on one project or another, it wasn't just his kisses she'd missed. Even more so, she'd missed their conversations.

He didn't touch her during supper, didn't so much as nudge her foot with his. But all the time he talked, he gazed into her eyes in a way that had her heart beating erratically, a way that said he'd rather be kissing her than making pleasant conversation.

In the face of that banked passion, she found it hard to eat, but she finished all her parsnips and asparagus.

When his plate was empty and she was only picking at hers, he refilled her wine cup. "Violet?" He reached across the tiny table and gently pulled off her spectacles. "May I kiss you now?"

He'd never asked before, and she didn't know what to say. In the flickering candlelight, he looked blurry. But he must have seen her answer in her eyes, because he rose from his chair, taking her hands to bring her up with him. He leaned across the table, and she caught her breath as his lips met hers—

And a pewter platter crashed to the floor.

"Everything all right in there?" came Harry's voice through the shutters.

Violet jerked back.

"We're fine," Ford called to Harry, looking a bit shaken as he bent to retrieve the platter. He set it back on the table, then ran a hand through his hair. Raggedly. "This won't work," he told her, softly enough that Harry couldn't hear. "Do you suppose I can coax you into joining me on the bed?"

She gasped.

"On it, not in it." She couldn't see him very well, but she thought he raised a devilish brow. "There's a difference."

"Of course there is." And there was nothing for it, really. There were men outside on the deck and no room in the cabin save for that broad expanse of bed. If she didn't join him there, they might as well sail for home.

And she did want another kiss. She'd been waiting all through supper for a kiss, and the one he'd just pressed to her lips hadn't been satisfying in the least.

Her gaze locked on his, and they moved as one toward the bed. The table was shoved up against it. She sat primly on one side of it, he sat heavily on the other.

The barge rocked gently, a soothing motion. Violin music drifted through the shutters. Ford's gaze trailed over the bodice of her new blue moiré gown, which she suddenly realized was cut much lower than it had seemed at her last fitting. Again. She made a mental note to have a talk with that seamstress.

All at once there was a flurry of movement, and the next thing she knew, she was flat on her back.

Shocked, she tried to struggle up, but Ford hovered over her, his hands gently pressing her shoulders to the mattress. The look in his eyes made her heart leap. "I just want to kiss you, Violet. May I?"

Swallowing hard, she nodded.

And when his mouth met hers, everything changed.

He had kissed her before, but never like this. This was wild, primal, a meeting of lips and teeth and tongue the likes of which she'd never even imagined. And she'd never imagined the effect such a kiss would have on her, either.

Desire shot through her, stole her breath, her thoughts, her will to resist. Her spirits became brisk and inflamed, and her blood was most surely stirred to venery.

She threw her arms around him, her hands frantically wandering his back, and he broke the kiss long enough to rise and tear off his surcoat. And then his cravat. He leaned closer, his fingers working at the laces at his collar until they loosened, exposing a neat V of bare chest.

Skin. Her heart racing, she reached to touch it. Her fingertips first, and then her whole hand flat against him. Warm, impossibly warm. Her thumb felt the pulse in his neck. Strong and fast.

His blue gaze darkened. With a groan, he lowered himself, his lips meeting the sensitive hollow of her throat. She tilted her head to allow him access. Deprived again of his skin, her hands moved to tug at his shirt, pulling and pulling until the whole long thing finally slipped free of his breeches and she was able to slide her hands up underneath.

He gasped at her touch, as though he'd been unaware of what she'd been doing. Her fingers skimmed his back, his sides, his shoulders, feeling his strength, the softness of his skin over the hardness of sinew and bone. He smelled of soap and patchouli, the warmth of his flesh emitting a fragrance uniquely his. His muscles twitched beneath her questing hands, and his mouth trailed lower, tracing a warm, damp pattern down to her cleavage.

Thank goodness scandalous necklines were in fashion. She revised her mental note about talking to the seamstress—the lower the better.

"Violet," he breathed, one of his hands following his lips. He slipped a finger beneath her bodice and rubbed the tip of her breast, and she gasped so loud she was sure Harry had heard it.

"Faith." She'd never dreamed her body was so sensitive. She was feeling those short breathings she'd read of, and tremblings of the heart, and—

Suddenly his fingers were fumbling with the tabs on her stomacher.

She knew she should stop him. But oh, she burned to feel the things the Master-piece had promised. She burned to feel them with Ford. Before she could even think it through, he'd dropped her stomacher to the floor and loosened her laces. He spread her bodice wide.

Instinctively, she arched, as though she were a wanton offering herself for plunder. But she felt no shame. And when he fastened his lips on one peak, tasting her through the gossamer fabric of her chemise, her short breath got even shorter, her heart trembled even more, and—

He tugged down on the chemise, and suddenly his mouth was on her bare breast. Hot, wild, wonderful, he licked and nibbled and suckled until she was certain she'd go out of her mind. Her arms clenched around him, her body straining for something she couldn't put a name to.

Pleasure, delight…extreme lust.

Even the Master-piece's words failed to describe it.

Thrilling at the new sensations, she shifted restlessly against him. Oh my, she could feel…well, apparently when she hadn't been watching he'd eaten quite a lot of parsnips and asparagus.

And part of her—that part of her that would receive him like a sheath—wanted him. There. Now.

"I want you," she whispered.

His head shot up, his eyes hazy and disbelieving. "Are you sure?" he asked in a broken whisper.

She was sure. She was breaking through her modesty to satisfy herself in unlawful embraces, but she couldn't have cared less. Tomorrow she'd become a spinster, but at least she wouldn't be a lifelong virgin. She'd experience the Master-piece's mysteries before she resigned herself to lonely years studying philosophy.

Oh, forget all those rationalizations. She wanted him.

"I'm sure," she said. "I want you."

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

I want you. The one phrase Ford had despaired of ever hearing from Violet's lips, whispered in a tone so fierce, he had no doubt she meant it with every fiber of her being.

He thought—he hoped—her parents approved, regardless of his dismal financial situation. He was positive her mother liked him, at least, and her father had smiled when he'd seen them holding hands. He knew he was taking an enormous chance, but if Violet herself wanted him…

His heart soared as though it glided above the Earth on da Vinci's flying machine. He'd brought Violet here hoping to convince her he loved her, but this was more, much more than he'd dared hope for. She would be his. His wife. Mother of his children. And if they joined together tonight in anticipation of their wedding, it couldn't be wrong. Nothing that felt as perfect as this could be wrong. She was already his wife in his heart.

When had that happened? He didn't know. He knew only that, slowly but surely, she'd woven her way into his life, until she was as much a part of him as his hands and his feet and his analytic brain. Until he found himself building distilleries as an excuse not to leave her side.

He gazed into her brandy-wine eyes, which were glazed with passion. For him. The thought made something squeeze painfully in his chest.

"My love, are you very, very sure?" Though the ladies at court thought nothing of sharing their bodies for sport, he knew Violet had been raised differently. And he knew, too, that was one of the things he loved about her. Her differences.

Besides, this wasn't sport. Not even close. This was something that transcended sport to a degree he'd never imagined back in the days he'd considered bedding women a pleasant diversion.

This was a melding of hearts.

He buried his nose in her hair. She smelled of flowers, sweet Violet flowers…

"Are you sure?"

She arched toward him. "Oh, yes!"

He crushed his mouth to hers as his hand made its way down to her shoes. He wanted to make this first time slow and special for her.

He feared he couldn't.

Like in her dream, Violet seemed to be floating. But this was so much better than the dream. Slowly, slowly, Ford drew off her shoes and rolled down her stockings, his fingers leaving fiery trails along the length of her legs. She clenched his shoulders to keep from crying out.

He raised her skirts, and his hand skimmed her calves, her knees, her thighs, raising goose bumps in its wake. She slid her fingers into his hair, kissing his temple, his cheek, his nose. Frantic. And then his mouth covered hers, and his fingers were there.

At her seat of womanly pleasure.

They teased her, so gently she wondered she could even feel it. But feel it she did. The most exquisite sensation ever. The rocking of the barge added to her dizziness as he stroked her until a whimper escaped her throat and her hips shot off the bed.

"Has no one touched you here?" he asked in a whisper tinged with amusement.

Was he jesting? She shook her head wildly, incapable of forming words at the moment.

"Good," he grated out and jerked away, rising on his knees to struggle out of his clothes.

Yes, it was good. Even better when his elegant clothing had hit the floor.

He was magnificent. And it wasn't a yard. Plenty long, but—thank goodness—nowhere near a yard. She didn't have much time to muse on that, because he hurried to help her rise, wiggled her out of her gown, and pulled her chemise over her head.

"You're beautiful," he breathed, his hands reaching out to skim her sides, her hips, her legs. In the glimmer of the candles his eyes looked the deepest blue, and for that moment, she believed him. And then they were together on the bed, skin to skin.

She'd never imagined such perfect bliss. His hands went everywhere, tantalizing and teasing while he kissed her so thoroughly she thought her head might spin off and fly away. Near her seat of womanly pleasure, an ache was building, and a heat, an exquisite heat.

He stroked where she ached, kissing her, kissing her, kissing her until she didn't know where she ended and he began. The violin music grew faint as the blood rushed through her ears. Her hazy mind seemed to remember the Master-piece saying a man was exquisitely sensitive, which meant she should be able to give him the same incredible pleasure he was giving her.

She reached down. His gasp made her pulse leap as her fingers closed around hardness encased in soft velvet. Warm velvet. She stroked experimentally—

"No," he forced out through gritted teeth. "This time is for you. I cannot—No—"

Alarmed, she let go. And he slipped a finger inside her body.

Her world tilted.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, to tell him how he was making her feel. But no words came out.

The externals are designed to receive, and by their swelling, cause titillation and delight in those parts.

Unbearable delight, the book should have said.

Her desire to carnal embraces was absolutely, positively insuperable.

"I need you," she whispered.

"I know. I need you, too." He still seemed to be gritting his teeth. "Are you sure?" he asked again

When she nodded, he raised her knees and moved over her, settling himself between her thighs. She felt him there, at the neck of her womb, and it was indeed of an exquisite feeling. And then she felt him slowly pressing, herself stretching, opening…

Attended with some little pain…

She sucked in a breath, but the Master-piece had been right. The little pain was fading already. Her sisters would be relieved to hear it, except she would never, ever tell them.

Then he moved in her, and her sisters were the last thing on her mind. Her entire world was filled with him. He moved again, and she moved with him, learning the rhythm of love. It built and built, until she was certain she couldn't stand more. The great heat, the friction, and yes, the considerable quantity of moisture, which being expunged in the time of copulation—

She cried out, lost in the wonder. Then suddenly she felt herself convulsing around him, wave after wave of spectacular pleasure. She'd thought it would be a momentary thing, but it went on, intensifying when he groaned and shuddered and she felt him spill inside her.

He collapsed against her, and she held his dark head, stroking his hair while she struggled to catch her breath. The barge was still rocking, and the violin was still playing, a lazy, lilting tune that matched the utterly exhausted bliss she was feeling. The Master-piece hadn't prepared her. Or maybe she hadn't quite believed it. But "greatly delights the woman" struck her as an abysmally weak description for what she'd just felt.

It had been so much more than that. She actually felt tears of emotion prick behind her eyes.

"Is it like this for everyone?" she wondered.

"No." Not knowing how to explain, Ford shook his head, feeling her fingers slide in his hair. "It's hardly ever like this. At least it's never been like this for me."

He kissed her eyes, her nose, her forehead. She was everything he hadn't known he wanted in a woman. And she wanted him. He was the luckiest man in the world.

"Violet?"

"Hmm?" She stretched beneath him, warm and languid.

He kissed her chin, her cheek, brought his lips close to her ear. "I cannot wait to get married."

He felt her stiffen and lifted his head to meet her gaze.

"I never said I would marry you," she said, her brandy eyes filled with confusion. "Why…you haven't even asked me."

"Oh." Of course. She wanted to be romanced. He rose to his elbows, brushing fingers alongside her face, fingers that had brought her such pleasure minutes earlier. Then he gave her his famous smile. "Will you do me the greatest honor I can imagine and become my wife, Violet Ashcroft?"

Her eyes looking bare without her spectacles, she blinked. "No."

"What?" It had never occurred to him that she wouldn't wed him after surrendering her virginity. She was no courtier, but a sheltered country miss. And the only woman he'd ever met who didn't make him feel thickheaded.

Until now.

He must have heard her wrong. "I…I thought you said you wanted me."

"I didn't mean it like that." He saw her jaw set and felt a pit opening somewhere in his gut. "Did you do it on purpose, then?" she asked. "To secure me as your bride?"

"No!" He sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. "I didn't intend for this to happen. You said you wanted me, Violet, and I couldn't resist you—because I love you. That's what tonight was all about."

"Seduction," she said.

"Well, yes. But not this far. Just supper, candlelight, music…and then I meant to propose."

"I'm not angry, Ford."

The words were said much too calmly. After what they'd just shared, there ought to be passion in her voice.

He turned to face her, his gaze sweeping her lush body, still aglow from their lovemaking. "How could you not be angry? I misunderstood you, and I…I've ruined you. And now you won't let me make you an honest woman."

"I'm a bit more enlightened than to believe that. Honesty has nothing to do with this. I honestly wanted you. And I don't regret what we did. But I'm not prepared to say I'll marry you."

At least I'm not prepared to say I'll marry you wasn't an outright refusal. But he couldn't understand, would never understand, how she could not regret their lovemaking and yet not want to marry him now.

Even though he'd felt that way with other women.

This had been different. This had been more than mere lovemaking. And with every fiber of his being, he was sure it had been as special for her as it had been for him.

"Question Convention," he quoted woodenly.

He was beginning to understand what she'd meant when she said the Ashcrofts weren't a conventional family…but he wasn't at all sure anymore that he liked it.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Ford was sitting at his desk the next morning, struggling to make sense out of a mound of Lakefield's neglected paperwork, when his family showed up.

And showed up, and showed up—three carriages worth of them.

He'd known, of course, when he'd ordered Colin and Amy not to visit or bring the rest of the family, they were going to ignore him. But that didn't mean he had to be happy about it. Especially on a day like this.

Lucky for him, most of them stayed outside while his twin, Kendra, came into the study, wearing an all-too-cheerful yellow gown.

"We're here!" she announced, as though they'd sent notice ahead.

"I deduced as much when I heard the children shrieking." All seven of the precious angels. For the first time in weeks, he was pleased at the sorry state of his garden—at least there was little they could do to harm it.

Kendra stopped beside his chair, her dark red hair glimmering in the too-bright sun that streamed through the window at his back.

He scowled up at her. "Who invited you?"

She leaned down to give him a hug. "I've missed you, too."

"Right," he grunted without rising.

Backing off, she went to find a seat. He'd piled ledgers on the only extra chair, so she perched on the old iron chest he'd never managed to open.

"How was Scotland?" he asked her grudgingly.

"Beautiful. Hamish is in good health, and Niall has done wonders with Duncraven." He'd never met these people—her husband's family—but felt he knew them from her lively descriptions over the years. "And Cait's family is well, too. Cameron and Clarice had another baby."

"That's good." And no surprise. Everyone connected to the Chases seemed to have plenty of babies. Assuming it would be the same for him, he thought amidst another round of shrieks that perhaps Violet's refusal had been for the best.

"Well." Kendra crossed her legs, the foot on top swinging up and down with its red-heeled shoe. "We've come to meet Violet, so enough of the pleasantries."

"Have I been pleasant?" Ford wondered.

Her green eyes flashed with all-too-familiar annoyance. "What's wrong with you, anyway?"

"Besides the fact that the woman I love won't agree to marry me?"

"Colin said you were over Tabitha," she said, frowning, and then, "Oh. Oh! It's this Violet, then, isn't it? Oh, my God. I cannot believe you admitted that. Ford Chase in love, wanting marriage." The annoyance faded from her eyes, and they flooded with compassion instead. "Why on earth won't she have you?"

"Look around," he said, gesturing toward the peeling walls. "I believe you'll begin to get the picture."

"Well." Now her eyes filled with outrage. "If she values gold above love, then she doesn't deserve you, anyway."

"It's not like that," he said with a long-suffering sigh. "She's more interested in books than material comforts. But she has money of her own, and she's convinced herself no man would want her save to have it. I'm afraid the condition of this place has done nothing to reassure her my motives are otherwise."

When Kendra came to hug him this time, he rose and let her wrap him in her arms. "Poor Ford. You've always managed to get everything you've wanted before, haven't you?"

Everything but Violet. Torn between taking comfort and bristling at his sister's patronizing view of him, he opted for the comfort. "I guess so," he mumbled into her lavender-scented hair.

"Where is she?" Kendra demanded, pulling back. "I'll talk to her and explain that your intentions are sterling. The sort of man you are—"

"Violet is busy today," he said quickly. The last thing he needed was his family poking their noses in—which was exactly why he hadn't wanted them here. Violet's family might be unconventional, but his was mad as a cell full of Bedlam inmates.

The words Violet had left him with were I'm not prepared to say I'll marry you. One glimpse of the family she'd be marrying into, and her answer would be an unequivocal no.

"Are you sure?" Kendra asked. "We've come all this way—"

"I'm positive." He plopped back onto his chair, willing to discuss anything to get off the subject of Violet. "Sit down and catch me up on the gossip."

She wandered back to sit on the chest. "Cait is with child again."

"What took her so long?" he asked dryly. "It's been nearly two years since their last." Jason and Caithren had two boys already. "And you?"

"Oh, two girls are enough."

"Trick isn't wanting an heir?"

"If one comes along, he wouldn't mind, I suppose…" The faint blush on her cheeks told him she and her husband Patrick were trying to conceive. She looked down, her fingers tracing the decorative metal strips on the chest. "You know," she said, also a master at changing the subject, "this chest has always reminded me of the treasure chest Trick and I found and brought to King Charles. Every time I see this one, I wonder what might be in it."

"I've always wondered that myself."

Her head whipped up. "You don't know?"

He shrugged. "It came with the place, and there's no key for the lock, and—"

"I'll have Trick open it, you fool. Let me go get the others." Before he could respond, she'd shot out the door.

While he waited for the invasion, he leaned his elbows on the desk and dropped his head into his hands, shutting his eyes against all the paper. Bills, letters, a notice from his mortgage holder that a payment was overdue. If only he had enough money to settle it all, get a fresh start…

He would have to see how Rand was coming along with the translation. But even if Secrets of the Emerald Tablet did hold the key to making gold, it could take months or possibly years to get the formula to work…

He jerked upright, staring at the chest across the room. He'd always assumed it wouldn't have been left here if it contained anything valuable, but what if Kendra were on to something? The chest she and her husband had found for King Charles had been filled with precious metal and jewels, and for all Ford knew, this one could be stuffed to the brim with gold.

The solution to his problems might have been sitting here all along: the means to pay the debts, the proof to convince Violet he didn't need her for her inheritance.

His heart was racing by the time the family trooped in. Colin led the regiment with Amy, holding Aidan in her arms. Ford's oldest brother, Jason, followed behind with his wife, Caithren. Kendra brought up the rear, her husband Patrick—or Trick, as they all called him—by her side with their baby girl.

Their remaining collective five offspring burst in after them, racing around Ford's desk, hanging on his back, climbing on the chairs and the iron chest.

Whatever had made him think he wanted a couple of these wild creatures? Then Jewel climbed up on his lap in greeting, and as she pressed a damp kiss to his cheek, he suddenly remembered why.

"Here it is," Kendra said, leading her tall, golden-haired husband to the chest. She plucked her nephew Hugh off of it and plopped him on his feet.

The boy looked up. "Can you open it, Uncle Trick?"

Trick grinned, displaying a front tooth with a slightly chipped corner. "I wasn't a smuggler in my prior life for nothing, you know." Handing his baby daughter to his wife, he pulled out his knife and dropped to one knee to get to work.

While his brother-in-law probed the heavy lock, Ford rose and set Jewel down, taking her hand as he walked closer. As though the chest were a magnet attracting metal shavings, everyone else drifted near and gathered around, until they were all hanging over it in anticipation. An expectant quiet descended on the room. Even the children stopped playing.

Ford's heart hammered against his ribs. This could be the answer—

A rusty click shattered the silence. Trick twisted the old padlock from the hasp. Ford held his breath as the man's hands went to the heavy lid and lifted it.

As one, the family exhaled.

Jewel tugged on Ford's breeches. "It's empty, Uncle Ford."

"I can see that." Concealing a sigh, he lifted his niece and buried his nose in her fragrant little-girl hair.

It would have been such a nice, neat solution. But he'd always known there was nothing of value in that chest. Otherwise, he'd have hacked off the lock years ago.

He might be slightly desperate, but he'd never been stupid.

Kendra reached to touch his arm. "I'm sorry."

At that, Colin sighed. "Were you expecting this to solve all your problems?"

Ford's jaw tensed. "Who says I have problems?"

Giggling nephews and nieces were clambering into the empty chest. Jason moved closer to hold the lid safely open. "You're always looking for the easy way out." The compassion in his brother's voice didn't cut the sting of his words for Ford. "One of these days, you're going to have to face life and learn to deal with it."

Ford's arms tightened around Jewel. Would his family forever see him this way? He'd made several important scientific discoveries, and he'd changed, hadn't he? He'd fallen in love and wanted to get married.

"Who invited you here to pick on me?"

"We need no invitation. We're family. Do you ask for an invitation before coming to Cainewood?"

"That's different. I live there."

"Do you?" Jason raised a brow. Maybe he sensed the changes in Ford, after all.

And Ford wondered, where did he live? At the Chase town house in London? Or the big castle at Cainewood? Or here?

He wanted to live here, he realized. Not in bustling London near the Royal Society and all his friends, not at his brother's castle with his family. Here, in the staid countryside. With Violet.

Bloody hell, love changed a man more than he'd thought possible.

Amy and Cait exchanged a sympathetic glance. "Ford—" they started together.

"Milord, do you not think you should have left for Lady Violet's celebration already?" Hilda bustled into the room, a steaming pie in her hands. "I've made a tart for you to bring. Cherry, the young viscount's favorite."

"A celebration?" Kendra's eyes lit. "What is it for?"

"Her birthday," Ford said shortly. "And none of you are invited."

"But Uncle Ford." Jewel turned her little face up, her eyes pleading. "Mama promised I can see Rowan."

In the face of an argument like that, there was no hope in fighting this battle. Already, he had lost.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Twenty-one. It felt no different than twenty, which Violet found amazing, especially considering she'd also graduated from girlhood to womanhood last night.

Standing before her dressing table, she peered into the mirror and straightened one of the bright green ribbons that Margaret had woven through her hair. She squinted and moved closer, removing her spectacles. Shouldn't there be fresh lines around her eyes? A new sophistication in her features? As she thought about the bed on the barge, a melting heat spread from her middle down her legs, making her sit suddenly on the tufted velvet stool.

When a knock came at her door, she shoved the spectacles back on. "Come in."

The door opened a crack. "Violet?"

"Yes, Mum." She swiveled on the stool to face her. "Is it already time for the celebration?" A glance at the clock on her mantel—an old one with just a single hand—told her only in the vaguest terms. "It would be nice to have one of Ford's new watches, wouldn't it?"

"It would. And yes, it's time." Mum came in, closing the door behind her. "I've come to tell you that your father spotted Ford's barge heading down the river."

"That silly barge again?" Memories flashed of last night on that barge, and her face heated.

"Are you quite all right, dear?" Oh, no. Could Mum tell? Just by the blush on her cheeks? "You've been hiding up here all day," she added, much to Violet's relief.

Violet forced a laugh. "You know we older women take longer to get ready. To create the illusion of youth." She rose and wandered to the window, nervous about seeing Ford, half surprised he was still coming after she'd refused his proposal last night.

The barge hadn't arrived yet. "I'm fine, Mum. It's only that these fancier gowns take forever to get on properly."

Clearly not falling for those excuses, her mother joined her at the window. "Did something happen last night? I waited up for you, but you went straight to bed without saying goodnight."

"Well…"

Violet had never hidden things from her mother—at least not anything that counted. But there were some things one didn't share. She could come clean with part of it, though.

She paced back to the center of her room, more comfortable with some distance. "Ford asked me to marry him."

Chrystabel turned to face her, hope in her eyes. "And what did you say?"

"I told him no," Violet said, and watched that hope fade.

Regret filled her heart. Faith, she wished she'd said yes. At the moment she'd refused him, she'd been feeling closer to him than she'd imagined possible. Closer to him than she'd felt to any other person ever. She'd wanted to believe his offer was from the heart, that he loved her as he claimed, unreservedly.

More than anything, she'd wanted to say yes. A loud, enthusiastic yes.

But he'd just finished seducing her, after all. Having taken her maidenhead, only a bounder would fail to offer a wedding in return. So all she could think at the time was that his offer hadn't come from the heart—that it had come from duty instead. That she would be foolish to believe their lovemaking had changed anything.

"I told him no, Mum," she repeated. "Don't you see? I want a marriage like you and Father have, or none at all."

"What makes you think you wouldn't have that with him?"

She wished she could explain it, but it was all too confused in her head. Maybe she could have that with him. She just didn't know for sure, and until she did…

Mum was staring at her, waiting for an answer. An answer she didn't have. "You and Father won't make me marry him, will you?"

"I'm a good judge of people," Mum said quietly, "which is why I'm so good at arranging marriages. I believe Ford is a good man. I also believe that he truly loves you. I've seen it in his actions and on his face. However, your father and I would never make you marry anyone. I thought you knew that."

Tears sprang to Violet's eyes. She felt relieved and frustrated all at once. A tiny part of her wished her parents would make her marry Ford, but that wasn't the thinking part, the part of herself she trusted.

"Your father and I raised you girls to think for yourselves," Mum continued. "A folly for which we've suffered ridicule all our days. But the Lord knows, after all these years, we'd be fools to make you do anything now. You're not likely to put up with it, and your sisters would stand beside you."

Despite Violet's mood, a crooked smile curved her lips. No matter their constant bickering, her sisters would always be there for her. It was comforting to know some things never changed.

Tomorrow all this fuss over turning twenty-one would be finished. And now that she'd refused his proposal, soon enough Ford would leave for London, probably not to return for months or years.

Everything would go back to the way it had been—except for Violet herself.

Mum turned back to the window. "He's here. No, they're here."

"Who?" she demanded. "Mum, have you invited someone without telling me?" She didn't even want to see Ford today, and not only because she was sure she'd feel awkward with him after last night. She didn't want to face anyone but her family on this, the official first day of her spinsterhood.

"I would never have invited anyone else without asking you first. But there are others on the barge, too."

"Harry," Violet said with not a little relief. "And the stable hands." She headed for the window. "He uses them as crew—"

She broke off, staring toward the river.

"Egad," she breathed. Horror struck her heart. "Who are all those people?"

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

By the time she made it downstairs and into the gardens, Violet was shaking—from frustration, anger, fear, or maybe a combination. She wasn't sure. But when she saw Ford, she stopped and stared.

A little girl rode on his shoulders, a little boy hung on his leg, and a baby lay cradled in his arms.

Her heart suddenly hurt. He would make such a good father. And God knew—she knew after last night, she mentally amended with a blush—she would certainly enjoy making babies with him.

Her mother was right. She should have said yes.

The shaking stopped, replaced by trembling of another sort. If only he would still have her, she would say yes. And she wanted to tell him that now. Whoever they were, she wanted all of these people gone. Despite her fears of awkwardness with Ford, she wanted to talk to him. She needed to know if she'd ruined her chances last night—

"Violet!" Spotting her, Ford came closer with an apologetic smile, dragging the clinging little boy behind him. "This is my family."

His family. If she'd been thinking clearly at all, she would have realized that, of course. He proceeded to introduce everyone, and she smiled and exchanged pleasantries, trying to memorize names and faces.

The two dark-haired men were his older brothers, the redhead his twin sister. Although Ford was the only one of the four siblings blessed with those incredible blue eyes—the rest had eyes of green—they all bore a marked resemblance to one another, and she thought she might be able to keep them straight.

Their spouses and all those children, however, were another matter altogether.

And she wanted to make a good impression. Suddenly that seemed very important.

"Are those spectacles?" one of the women asked. The raven-haired one. Egad, who was she?

Disgusted with herself, Violet removed the eyeglasses and forced a smile. "They are. Ford made them for me and designed these frames to hold them on my face." She handed them to the lovely amethyst-eyed lady. "The members of the Royal Society were all very impressed."

As had happened at Gresham College, they passed the spectacles around, exclaiming over them and trying them on and praising Ford for his brilliance. Watching with a plastered-on smile and a sinking heart, Violet realized she couldn't remember who anyone was except Jewel. Too many names, too many faces. Too many people at a party that was supposed to have been private.

She wasn't happy about that, but she was happy to be by Ford's side. Belying her expectations, he was treating her with the same mix of teasing respect he always had. Perhaps he did still want her.

She needed to know. She wanted nothing more than to slip away and lose herself in his arms. She wanted to tell him she would be honored to become his wife. But his family was here. And hers.

The sun was hurting her eyes, or maybe it was all these people making her head ache. Her blurred gaze wandered to the summerhouse. One of the doors stood open, and it looked blessedly dim and peaceful inside. Maybe…

Her mother rang a bell, and everyone looked to her. "My husband wishes to speak," she called.

Egad, Violet thought, Father was going to embarrass her in front of Ford and all his family.

One of Ford's sisters-in-law returned her spectacles, and she shoved them back on her face. Everyone began moving to where her father stood by a table covered with a bright white cloth. As they walked, Ford slipped an arm around her waist, and she glanced around to see who might have noticed, catching the eye of one of his brothers. Jason or Colin? Whoever he was, he winked at her, and despite everything, a smile burst free on her face.

With all her heart, she wanted Ford's family to like her.

When her father cleared his throat, she turned.

"Due to the terms of my own father's will, the age of one-and-twenty holds unusual significance in our family. And I've two special surprises," he announced, "to celebrate our Violet's birthday."

Theatrically he whipped off the cloth, revealing a table covered in an artistic arrangement of fruits and fancy sweets, plus one homely cherry tart set off to the side.

"A pineapple?" Lily gasped, staring at the centerpiece, a prickly brown fruit raised on a pedestal. "Is it real? Wherever did you get a pineapple?" Pineapples were so rare in this part of the world, King Charles had had himself painted with one.

"May I try it?" Rowan yelled. "Oh, please, please!"

"Please, please!" four other children echoed, taking up the chant. "Please!"

"There isn't enough for everyone," Ford said loudly, sweeping his siblings with an accusatory glance before looking back to the young ones. "You weren't invited here, remember?"

"Nonsense," Father said. "Yes, it is real, and yes, everyone may try it. A bite, at least. But first"—he paused and looked toward the door—"here comes the second surprise." Four housemaids and two footmen approached, each holding a thick green bottle in one hand and stemmed glasses in the other. "The new French champagne. Who will have a taste?"

"Me!" Rowan yelled. "Me! Me!"

"Me! Me!" Ford's nephews and nieces joined in.

"You're too young," Rose told Rowan. "Champagne is too costly to water down."

Father looked to Mum. "Wash her gown in champagne?"

"Water down the champagne, darling. But we won't be doing that." Mum scanned the gathering. "Rowan may certainly have a taste," she announced, "as may any other children whose parents agree."

The maids poured while the footmen bore the esteemed pineapple back to the kitchen to be sliced.

Father handed the glasses around and raised his in a toast. "To our Violet, on the anniversary of her birth." The center of attention, Violet felt her face burn. "May she live in health and happiness another one-and-twenty years times four."

"Here, here," everyone said, smiling in her direction.

Whoever they all were.

She looked down and took a cautious sip. "It's like drinking stars," she breathed. She'd never tasted anything like it. It tickled the back of her throat.

Rowan spewed his mouthful onto the grass. "Zounds, I've got bubbles up my nose. Ick." Violet cringed at her brother's lack of manners, but at least no one had to worry about him drinking too much, since he immediately set down his glass.

"It's an acquired taste," a man told him. The golden-haired one. Trick, Violet remembered, congratulating herself.

Well, that was one memorable name.

Lily looked awed. "Have you tried it before?"

He nodded. "It's all the rage at court."

"Have you been to court, then?" Rowan asked.

Jewel elbowed him. "Of course he has, you goose. He's a duke!"

Rose sighed. "I've never been to court. Father won't allow it. He says it isn't a place for nice, unmarried girls."

"A wise decision," Ford said dryly. He dropped his voice to whisper in Violet's ear. "The bucks there would have an innocent like her for supper."

Though she suspected Rose could handle herself, her eyes widened at this news.

"Have you never been, either?" he asked.

Sipping the sparkly drink, she shook her head. "Is it beautiful?"

"Whitehall is magnificent. Court itself can be amusing or boring, depending on who deigns to show up that particular day. But I was raised with the court in exile…I imagine you would find it exciting."

She'd felt more at home among the Royal Society than she'd expected. "Maybe now that I'm twenty-one, Father will take me someday."

"I was thinking I could take you," he said with that devilish smile. "After we're wed."

He sounded terribly confident, which normally would have irked her. But this time, her heart sang instead. Despite her refusal last night, he hadn't given up on her. Held captive by his gaze, she remembered how it had felt to lie with him, skin to skin, heart to heart. A rush of warmth shuddered through her.

She wanted to tell him yes. Here. Now. Her gaze went wistfully to the summerhouse again, but this was no time to sneak away, not while she was the center of attention.

Yet she was dying to tell him, and if he had whispered a private message to her, she could do the same…

She leaned up on her toes. "Ford—" she began quietly.

"The pineapple!" Rowan squealed, and the moment was lost. They all turned to see a footman approaching, bearing a silver bowl filled with small cubes of yellow fruit. "I hope I like it better than the champagne," Rowan said as the man put it down.

"Have you tried this already?" Rose asked Trick.

He shook his head. "Never."

"I've seen pineapples before at parties, but only as a decorative centerpiece," Ford's sister said. "I suspect someone is making a fortune renting the things so people can impress their friends."

Mum laughed at the idea. "Do you expect they actually spoil before anyone eats them?"

"I imagine so," said one of those dark-haired brothers. Jason, Violet thought as he curved his arm around the waist of the sister-in-law that had long tawny hair. "From what I understand, most of them rot on the way from the islands. But this one looks perfect."

"I hope it is," Father said. "I've heard it said that if I dry the crown for a couple of days, I may be able to plant it and grow pineapples, providing I can keep the bush warm during the winter. They're supposed to have pink flowers that look like a pine cone." He lifted the bowl and held a spoon out to Ford. "As our guest, will you honor us by trying it first?"

"But this is Violet's day." Ford took the spoon, scooped up a cube, and moved it toward her lips.

He'd fed her in the piazza at Gresham, and now, as then, it seemed a most intimate act. Her gaze darted around to see how their families were reacting, but everyone just looked expectant. And the moment the fruit touched her tongue, she forgot to be self-conscious. Flavor burst in her mouth.

"Oh my," she said, chewing slowly. "It's the sweetest thing I've ever tasted!"

Everyone else scrambled to try it.

"Do you like it?" Violet asked Rowan.

He grinned, yellow pulp in his teeth. "It's much better than champagne."

"Now, that I'm not so sure of." Lily daintily sipped from her glass. "The champagne is light and delicious, while the pineapple is sweet but…"

"Acidic?" Ford suggested.

"Well, I'm not exactly certain what that means, but it sounds about right."

He smiled and grabbed a bottle to refill her glass. "Acids react with a base to form a salt."

Jewel looked up to the sister-in-law with the beautiful raven hair. "Uncle Ford is smart, isn't he, Mama?"

"I assume your Uncle Ford is very smart," the woman said with a smile, "since I understand only half of what he says."

Jewel's mother. Violet committed that to memory, trying to figure out which man was her husband. Probably the one who laughed now, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Colin. She remembered Ford telling her Colin played practical jokes, so of course he would be Jewel's father. It was all coming together.

Rowan grinned at Jewel. "I'm glad Violet had such an important birthday."

"Me, too," Lily said, sipping more champagne.

"Me three," Rose added, all but gulping hers.

If Violet didn't miss her guess, her sisters were getting a bit tipsy.

Striving to relax, she looked around at everyone drinking champagne and chatting amiably. The sister-in-law with the straight tawny hair caught her eye and smiled. Jason's wife, she thought happily, glad she was finally figuring out who was who. She liked them. They seemed friendly.

Then once again, Father cleared his throat. When nobody took heed, he raised Mum's bell and gave it a shake. Violet winced, sure something else embarrassing was about to come out of his mouth.

"This is quite a momentous occasion. As the oldest, our Violet is now the first to come into her inheritance. I hope you will save it and spend wisely, my dear daughter."

Violet sighed. She'd been right. Sometimes Father could be so—

"She can use it to buy a husband!" Rose announced with a tipsy giggle.

Violet wished the earth would open up and swallow her.

"Now, Rose," Mum chided, reaching to brush a bit of pineapple off Father's surcoat.

"It was but a jest!" Rose poured herself more champagne. "Can you people not take a jest?"

But Rose was absolutely right; most women would use a large inheritance to buy into a highly ranked family, and most men would be happy to accept that bargain. Violet took a gulp of her own champagne, but she wasn't feeling tipsy, just sick.

To think, mere minutes ago, she'd nearly told Ford yes. Now doubts niggled at her again. She tilted her head back, letting the rest of the bubbly drink run down her throat, wishing it could restore her world to balance.

She was so confused. If she could just spirit Ford away from this crowd and talk to him, maybe she could tell whether he was sincere. After sharing her body with a man, a woman ought to be able to tell, oughtn't she?

With a sigh, she reached to pour herself more champagne.

"I think you may have had enough," Father said, gently prying the glass from her clenched fingers. "Come with me to the summerhouse for a moment."

"Not now, Father."

"Always arguing." He shook his head. "Chrysanthemum, Violet, Rose, and Lily…my lovely flowers always argue. Except for the ones in my garden. No wonder I like them so much."

Violet couldn't help but smile. He grabbed a bunch of grapes off the table and started toward the summerhouse, leaving her to follow.

After shutting the door, he gazed at her fondly and wrapped her into a hug. It was quiet in the summerhouse—quiet enough that he could hear without her yelling. Quiet enough that she could hear her own heartbeat as she felt herself calming in his arms.

"How's my eldest flower?" he asked, pulling back. "You looked upset there, for a bit."

She couldn't stay vexed with him. His speeches might have been embarrassing, but they were well intended, after all. To outsiders, he might seem rather addlepated, but that was only because he couldn't hear well enough to participate in many conversations. Those close to him knew he was wise.

She gave him a crooked smile. "I'm well, Father. Sort of like fine, old wine, aged but better for it."

"You're not so old," he said, sitting down on one of the benches that lined the curved red-brick wall. "Don't go consigning yourself to spinsterhood yet."

She saw the truth in his face. "Mum told you Ford proposed."

"You know we share everything." He pulled four grapes off the bunch. "That's what I want for you, Violet. Someone to share your life with."

"I was sure I'd never have that. But now…"

"Yes?" He popped one of the grapes into his mouth.

"I don't know. I'm confused. Socrates said the unexamined life isn't worth living. But I'm driving myself mad examining and reexamining."

Chewing on the grapes, he rose and wandered back to the door. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "we just have to take a leap of faith. When the time comes, you'll know."

Would she? She felt inadequate to make such a decision. Philosophy, after all, taught one to question everything. And the single thing she'd been sure of all her life—that she would never find true love—she'd now caught herself rethinking.

She felt like she didn't know anything anymore.

He handed her a grape. "Now go back out there and smile at your guests."

They weren't her guests, but as he opened the door, she decided that, for once, she'd be the flower that didn't argue.

Besides, she really wanted to get Ford alone here in the summerhouse.

She stepped outside, blinking in the bright sunshine. Everyone had scattered. The children had organized themselves into a game of duck-duck-goose, and Jewel was "it." On the far side of the garden, Ford was picnicking beneath the giant oak with his brothers and their wives, both of the women with babies on their laps. He looked over and waved, and she waved back, noting the others watching. They were discussing her, she was sure of it. She'd give up Aristotle's Master-piece to hear what they were saying.

Fairly certain one of the two babies belonged to Ford's sister, Violet looked around, then blushed to see the fiery redhead in the shadows of a tree-lined path, passionately kissing her husband.

Once upon a time, she would have averted her eyes, but now the sight made her warm inside. She wanted that for herself, and she wouldn't allow Rose's thoughtless remark to change her mind. She wouldn't let her old insecurities haunt her. No matter what her sister said, she wasn't buying a husband. Ford had told her he loved her, and she believed him.

She was ready to take that leap of faith.

With a new determination, she headed past the children toward Ford.

"Duck, duck, duck—" Rounding the circle, Jewel broke off. "Rowan, why do you keep scratching?"

He scraped his fingernails on his shirt. "I don't know," he said, raking his leg, then the back of one hand.

Jewel stepped into the circle and gasped. "Gads, you have red spots all over your face! Measles!"

Violet detoured into the circle, knowing her brother was entirely too lively to have measles. "Let me see." She bent and peered into his face, wiping the remnants of cherry tart from the corner of his mouth. "Rowan, did you drink chocolate?"

"Just a little," he squeaked. "The champagne was icky."

"Oh, Rowan!" Exasperated, she hauled him to his feet. "You know chocolate gives you hives. Now you'll be scratching for days."

"He looks funny," a little girl said with a giggle.

"Funny, funny!" The other children took up the chant.

Jewel stepped closer and poked him on the chest. "You goose!" She burst out laughing.

Clearly mortified, Rowan ran for the house. All the adults rushed over to see what had happened, except for Mum, who followed Rowan.

This birthday was turning out every bit as miserable as Violet had feared.

She just wanted to be alone with Ford. Over the giggling children's heads, she met his gaze, and a silent communication passed between them. She inclined her head toward the summerhouse, signaling him to meet here there.

Seeming to appear out of nowhere, his sister touched her arm. "May we have a word with you, Violet?" Her two sisters-in-law stood behind her. "Do you mind if we call you Violet?"

"I…of course not. Not at all." She sent Ford a questioning glance, but he just shrugged apologetically.

There was nothing for it, she thought with an inward sigh. She couldn't rebuff his family. Her answer to his proposal would have to wait a bit longer.

She tried to muster a smile. "Shall we talk in the summerhouse? It's quiet in there."

As they followed her silently, she braced for what she was sure would be an unpleasant barrage of questions as they assessed her worthiness for their brother.

When the door closed behind them, Ford's sister returned her tentative smile. "I'm Kendra, in case you don't remember. And this is Amy and Cait."

Violet nodded, feeling rather outnumbered as she mentally noted who was who, hopefully once and for all. She didn't want to make any mistakes.

Dark-haired Amy was Jewel's mother and Colin's wife. And she was a jeweler, Ford had said. Colin had rescued her after her father's London shop burned in the Great Fire.

Cait, Jason's wife, had friendly hazel eyes. Her straight wheaten hair, while less than fashionable, seemed to suit her perfectly. She stood with a hand on her middle, and although her stomach looked flat, Violet wondered if she might be with child.

She wondered if she and Ford would ever have a child.

"My brother is a good man," Kendra announced without further ado.

"A very good man," Amy added.

"A very, very good man," Cait echoed in a distinct Scots accent.

Ford had told Violet that Cait was Scottish, so she was sure she had the right names with the right faces now. But she was stunned. She backed up and sat on a bench. "I know he's good," she said slowly.

This wasn't the grilling she'd been expecting. Instead, were they trying to talk her into marrying him?

It seemed so.

"He loves you," Kendra said.

"Very much."

"Very, very much."

She didn't know whether to laugh or just hug them for caring so deeply for Ford's happiness. "He's told me he loves me," she assured them.

Kendra crossed her arms. "But you don't believe him." It was a statement, not a question. "Look," she said, dropping to sit beside her. "Let me tell you something. If Ford were looking for money, he could have married Lady Tabitha ages ago. She had pots full of it."

"Lady Tabitha?"

"He courted her for years. But he never asked her to marry him. And do you know why?" Kendra didn't wait for an answer. "He didn't love her," she finished with a decisive nod.

Violet shoved her spectacles higher on her nose. What his family was doing here was sweet. Very sweet. Very, very sweet, she thought with an inward smile. And she liked them very much. But she couldn't figure out what Lady Tabitha had to do with anything. "What happened to her?"

"Right before he moved home to Lakefield, she surprised the hell out of him by marrying someone else," Kendra said, surprising the hell out of Violet with that language.

But it fit her, somehow. Kendra was the most outspoken woman Violet had ever met. More outspoken than Rose, even.

"Was he upset?" she asked carefully.

"Of course he was. He'd expected to marry her someday, and his pride was wounded. But not his heart, because he'd never really cared. Which was why he'd never asked her to wed him, and why she eventually ran off and wed another. But he asked you to marry him, Violet. You he cares for. You he loves."

"Very much," Amy added.

"Very, very much," Violet said together with Cait, and they all laughed.

Twenty minutes later they spilled out of the summerhouse, best of friends, and she went in search of Ford, wanting more than ever to get him off alone.

But he was nowhere to be found.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

At Lady Trentingham's invitation, Ford walked with her in companionable silence along a path that took a meandering route to the river. All day, her speculative looks had been convincing him Violet had told her something.

He just wondered what.

"She told you, didn't she?" he finally asked.

In the dappled light that came through the trees, she stopped on the path and nodded. "Yes, she told me you proposed. We're a close family. Some think us a bit odd."

They shared an easy smile, Ford relieved that apparently Violet hadn't told her mother he'd stolen her virginity. He wasn't looking forward to dueling Lord Trentingham.

"Your family seems close, too," she said.

"We are," he agreed, knowing it was true, no matter how irritating they could be sometimes. "We lost our parents long ago at Worcester, so we've always leaned on one another." By tacit agreement, they resumed walking, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. "I'm hoping to have a close family of my own soon," he said carefully.

Still strolling, she met his gaze. "Violet fears you're only pursuing her in order to get your hands on her inheritance."

Lady Trentingham was direct—in that way, she reminded him of his twin sister. But the news hurt, even though he'd suspected as much from the start. "How can she think that?" he wondered aloud. "I've told her I love her." Despite everything, hearing those words from his mouth prompted an embarrassed half-smile. "I never thought I'd be sharing that with her mother."

"And I'd suggest you not tell her you did. If Violet knew I was doing anything to encourage this marriage, she'd run the other way. I've something of a reputation as a matchmaker, and my daughters are all dead set against becoming one of my statistics."

"I won't breathe a word." Encourage this marriage still rang in his ears, making his heart soar with premature glee. He'd hoped Violet's parents weren't an obstacle, but now he knew for sure. That left only the lady herself. "What can I do to persuade her?"

"It won't be easy," Lady Trentingham warned. "My daughter decided she was unmarriageable long before she met you. Old convictions are difficult to overcome." She discreetly cleared her throat. "And I'm afraid the condition of your estate is doing little to convince her you're not in need of her funds."

He'd known that, too. "What if I told you I am short of funds, but that's not the reason I want to marry her?"

They reached the river and turned, her brown eyes reminding him of Violet's as she met his gaze for a long, silent moment. "I'll give you points for honesty," she said at last with a nod of approval. "But I fear it will make your task even harder. Lakefield's sad state isn't only due to neglect, then?"

"Mostly. I am not in dire straits." Heading back toward the house, he sighed. "The place was unoccupied long before it was deeded to me, and…well…" He supposed since she was giving him points for honesty, he might as well follow through. If his situation would make him unacceptable as a son-in-law, he'd as soon learn that now rather than later.

But that didn't mean he was obliged to make things sound worse than they were.

He raked his fingers through his hair. "I'll admit I've never made Lakefield a priority. But although I understand the estate was prime horse-breeding property before the Civil War, nothing remains of that now save a few ramshackle stables. And I imagine you're aware there have been several disastrous agricultural years since I obtained it in '61. However," he rushed to add, "I assure you I've always made certain no one dependent on the property has suffered as a result." Indeed, in order to see that none of the tenant farmers went hungry a few years ago, he'd been forced to mortgage the estate. Those payments were proving to be his downfall now.

"I'm sure you have," Lady Trentingham said soothingly. A touch of understanding infused her voice, making his blood rush with hope. Apparently he still passed muster. "But I understand there were few tenants left by the time you took over."

"True enough. If the estate is to produce a decent income, I must attract more people to move here." And repair the housing meant to shelter them. Dozens of crumbling cottages—more costs he was too strapped to bear. But perhaps Rand was finished with the translation by now, and regardless, somehow he would work it out.

He just hadn't cared enough before this. Loving Violet made all the difference.

He smiled at her mother, thinking having parents of this sort mightn't be such a bad thing. "I just need to put my mind to it."

"And you've got a brilliant mind there." She smiled back. "Perhaps Violet's dowry will ease your way. You do know it's three thousand pounds?"

"No, I didn't. It's very generous." More than he'd been expecting.

But it wasn't enough. No amount of money would be enough. Oh, he supposed there was some number of thousands that would dig him out of debt—to his chagrin, he didn't know how much—but he was coming to realize that without his ongoing efforts to ensure that Lakefield produced sufficient income to support all the people who depended on it, it would soon sink back into the morass.

He was ready to take on that responsibility.

She was waiting for more of a reaction. "I have to win Violet first, and even then her marriage portion wouldn't be enough," he admitted, then realized she could take that the wrong way. "I mean, my own hard work—"

"I understand." She touched him on the arm. "My husband is an expert estate manager. I'm sure he'd be happy to consult with you."

He wasn't too proud to accept help. "I'd be pleased to listen to any advice he'd be willing to give me."

"You may have to shout a bit in the process." Her smile this time was the same warm smile she'd given him the first day in his garden. "I have faith in you, Ford. And despite what she may think, I know my daughter well, so I'll tell you this: She wouldn't mind that you need her inheritance, as long as she were convinced you weren't marrying her for it."

He wasn't sure he believed that, and in any case, he didn't want to take Violet's money. Her dowry was one thing, her inheritance quite another. Having aspirations of his own, he'd think twice before stealing her dream of publishing.

No, he'd think ten times. Twenty. Surely there was another way to solve his problems.

Lady Trentingham peered through the trees. "I think your family may be ready to leave."

Indeed, they were all gathered by the barge, shifting from foot to foot. A quick glance at the sun told him if they didn't get back to Lakefield and their carriages soon, they wouldn't make it to their homes by nightfall.

But ahead of him, at the end of the path, stood Violet. Looking distressed.

Ignoring his siblings' shouts, he hurried to meet her.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Watching Ford approach, Violet took a deep breath.

Since the conversation with his sisters, niggling doubts had begun to attack her again, but she wasn't going to jump to conclusions. She'd had enough of that today—enough of indecision. She would talk to Ford calmly…and she wouldn't let him touch her until afterward, because if he put his hands on her, she knew she'd surely lose her head.

But before she managed to say a word, he took her hand. And the next thing she knew they were in the summerhouse, and he was pulling off her spectacles and dragging her into his arms. And lose her head, she did.

When his mouth met hers, her knees weakened so, she feared she would tumble to the bricks beneath her feet. He kissed her for a long, heady minute before finally drawing back.

"I want you," he said.

She searched his eyes, still close enough to see. "You've had me."

"But that isn't enough." He set her away, backing up until he looked blurry, until the backs of his knees hit the bench. "I love you, Violet," he said, rushing on as though he'd prepared a speech. "Everything will get much easier after Rand completes the translation. I'm going to Oxford to see him tomorrow. I know my home isn't good enough for you, but I'm going to fix it up. Either way, whether Rand is done or not. I never did before, because…well, I'd never planned to live here. But now I want to."

"Just like that?" she asked, still feeling dizzy, still suffering the effects of that kiss. And God help her, still wanting another one.

"Just like that," he said.

She stared at him, longing to believe him, struggling to regain her equilibrium. Faith, how she wished she'd never heard Lady Tabitha's name! Yet she knew the three women had been well-intentioned. Good people, loving sisters. They hadn't meant for her to think on their words and suddenly fear that perhaps after being jilted by an heiress—an heiress he'd intended to marry even though he hadn't loved her—Ford had come here hoping to find another.

An irrational fear, she was sure.

Almost.

"I like your family," she said at last, walking closer until he came back into focus.

"I like your family, too. I want to live here, near your family."

"Ford—" She paused, drawing breath. "Tell me about Lady Tabitha."

"What?" The shock on his face confused her. "Where did you hear about her?"

"Your sister. And Amy and Cait—"

"Bloody hell." He stepped closer still, so close the scent of patchouli overwhelmed her. "She meant nothing to me, Violet. Nothing." His eyes burned into hers, willing her to believe.

And perhaps she did. But she'd been too buffeted by emotions today to think straight.

He loved her, he loved her not.

She felt like she'd been through a war.

He switched tactics, running a hand down her arm, and, predictably, she weakened all over. It was uncanny, this effect he had on her body. And not only was her body weak, her heart was weak as well. Slowly but surely, Ford was conquering it, conquering her, robbing her of her ability to reason.

"Marry me, Violet," he said in a harsh, pained whisper.

Because too much of her wanted to blurt out yes, she took a step back and searched his eyes. After what they'd shared, she should be able to find the truth there, shouldn't she?

She loved him—of that she was certain. But as for the rest, she was only confused.

"Marry me, Violet," he repeated. "Please."

And before she could answer, she was back in his arms.

When he kissed her this time, she forgot why she wasn't sure she could marry him. She forgot she'd decided not to touch him. She forgot her own name.

And when he finally let go of her, she ran.

Out the door, through the garden, across the wide lawn to the portico and front door.

"Violet!" Mum called. "Dear heavens, what has happened?"

"He asked me to marry him again, the wretch!" she screamed before slamming the door.

"The last of the champagne." Joseph handed Chrystabel half a glass before climbing into bed beside her. "How is our dear eldest doing?"

"She'll survive. She didn't want to talk at first, but she was glad I returned her spectacles." Chrystabel sipped, letting the sparkling liquid slide down her throat and soothe her frayed nerves. "He shouldn't have proposed again so quickly. His timing couldn't have been worse."

Joseph took the glass from her and drained it. "What do you mean?"

She sighed. "Following your ill-timed announcement of her inheritance, and Rose's subsequent comment—"

"Ouch."

"Yes, but it wasn't only that. His sister also spilled past history, confusing Violet. It reinforced her fears that no man would ever want her save for her money."

"She has a point." He grinned, clearly not understanding the gravity of this situation. "You married me for my money."

Well, he was just a man, so she shouldn't expect him to understand. Giving in to his playfulness, she punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I did not. I married you for your flowers. How else would I make my perfume? And without my perfume, I'd have no excuse to visit and chat with all the neighbors—and find out Nancy Philpot's son has left the army and is living with a Parisian whore."

"Ah, I see where that could be much more important than money." He set down the empty glass and turned to gather her in his arms. "But are you certain that was the only reason you married me?"

It was a long moment before she answered. "Well, I suppose I craved your yard too, you rascal. But it definitely wasn't the money."

"It won't come down to money for Violet, either," he told her. He turned momentarily to blow out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. "Violet wants that man as much as you wanted me. As much as we still want each other." His voice came husky in her ear, his breath warm on her skin. "I know when a woman wants a man, and I've seen that look in our daughter's eyes."

"Are you going to tell me not to worry again?" she asked breathlessly.

"Absolutely not. Because I'm finished talking."

"Thank God," she said, and pressed her mouth to his.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Some places never changed. The King's Arms, a tavern in Oxford where Ford and Rand had whiled away many a night during their university years, was one of them.

They sat at one of the familiar long tables, sipping ale and ignoring a nearby argument about radical politics. That was nothing new, either. John Locke's basic ideals had germinated here in Oxford as an undergraduate at Christ Church College, after all.

Ford twisted his tankard on the table, trying to be patient while Rand complained about his father's latest insults. The two had never done well together, which explained why a marquess's son was still at Oxford more than ten years after arriving to study.

Not that Rand wasn't happy here. In this insulated, academic world, he'd managed to work his way up from student to fellow to his current position, esteemed Professor of Linguistics, all in record time. And with no help from his family.

Finally, Rand wound down. He drained the rest of his ale and stared pensively into the empty tankard. "If you've come to ask about the translation, I'm afraid I have no good news for you."

Ford's heart sank. "What seems to be the problem?"

"It's more difficult than I had anticipated. There are words—and symbols—that seem unrelated to any language I've ever encountered."

"Symbols?" Ford frowned. "I saw a few formulas, which was one of the reasons I thought it might be Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. But those were just numbers, mathematics—"

"Not that. There were a few pages stuck together—"

"I opened a couple and saw nothing special, and I was afraid I might tear the paper."

"I steamed the rest open. Most were stuck from age, I imagine. But one…one, I believe, was on purpose."

"On purpose." Ford sipped, swallowed, tried to tamp down his rising hopes. "Are you thinking it might be the page that reveals—"

"No, nothing like that. I see no indication the secret you're searching for will be found on a single page. It's not going to be that simple." Rand's words reminded Ford of his family telling him something similar. "But this page is at the end, and it seems to be a legend for part of the code—perhaps for the author's own use. There are words—most of which I cannot read—with other words beside them, like a list, you understand?"

Ford nodded. "Go on."

"Well, that's the page that has some odd symbols." Rand tipped his tankard, letting the dregs of his ale run onto the table. "One of them, I think, looked like this." He used a finger to scribble in the wet, a design like a triangle with a three-branched candelabra perched on top.

"Air," Ford said.

"What?"

"That's the alchemical symbol for air. Or one of them. There are hundreds of similar symbols, some common, some not. Many whose meanings have been lost, but I can identify a number of them."

Excitement lit Rand's gray eyes. "So even though I cannot read the word beside that symbol—which is gibberish, I suspect—when I find it in the text, I'll know it means air." He smeared the puddle, then used a finger to draw another mark. "How about this one?"

Ford frowned at the squiggle. "I don't recognize that."

"And this?"

A circle with three dots that suggested eyes and a nose. "That's a human skull."

Rand grimaced. "You mean a dead person?"

"Yes. A skull can be powdered and—"

"Never mind. I'd rather not know." He smoothed the liquid and sketched another design. "What's this?"

It looked like the letter I with an arrow curving up through it. "That's an instruction, not an ingredient. It means to filter."

After four more tries, one of which Ford could identify and three which he couldn't, Rand gave up. "I cannot remember any more. We'll fetch the book later, and you can write down the ones you know. But, Ford…"

His friend's gaze looked serious. "Tell it straight, Rand."

"Don't get your hopes up, will you? It's a single page of clues, and the symbols are few compared to all the other things I find undecipherable. Even with this help, the rest of it could take years."

Something fisted in Ford's middle. Or rather, the fist tightened—it had been there for days already. "I don't have years. Not if I want Violet."

"Ah. It's like that, is it?" Rand signaled for another round. "Tell me about it."

Though Ford normally wouldn't, his tongue was loosened by ale—and something akin to desperation. "My family approves. Her parents approve. But Violet refuses to marry for anything other than true love—"

"Odd woman, that. Most folk would be thrilled to marry a Chase, given your family's connections to King Charles. And most fathers would insist on it."

A comely serving maid plunked two more ales before them, fixing Ford with a leering grin. But he wasn't interested. He flipped her a coin. "The Ashcrofts are different from 'most folk.' They've raised their daughters to make their own decisions. They have the most absurd family motto: Interroga Conformationem."

"Question Convention," Rand translated, looking amused. "Regardless, she should choose you. For security." He took a long swallow. "Even without the Philosopher's Stone, you're hardly a pauper. Take her to Cainewood if she wishes to live in luxury."

"I don't want to live at Cainewood." He was tired of living under his brother's scrutiny. He wanted to be self-sufficient. "Anyway, it's not luxury, per se, that concerns Violet. She's not a frilly female, and she has her own money."

"Ah. I remember. Given her by that eccentric grandfather. To 'leave her mark on the world.'"

"Yes. And having seen the state of Lakefield, she's convinced herself I want her only for her inheritance. She won't believe I love her."

Rand shrugged. "It would be a good start to tell her."

"Bloody hell, I have. Repeatedly. In every way I know how." Closing his eyes, Ford lowered his head and raked both hands through his hair.

When he looked up, his friend's features expressed sympathy. Or disbelief. Or maybe both.

"Man, you've got it bad." Rand drained the ale and signaled for yet another. "I've never told a woman that."

Ford cocked a doubting brow. "Never?"

"Not when I meant it, anyway."

So he wasn't going to be making gold anytime soon. Their minds numbed by several more ales, Ford and Rand had concluded that didn't mean he had to give up on marrying Violet. All he had to do was convince her he loved her, not her money, which should be a simple enough task.

First, they decided, he had to keep showing her how much he loved her. He'd made a good start there, Ford explained to Rand in a drunken boast. Continued sensual assaults ought to eventually wear her down. It was only a matter of time before he became part of her the same way she had become part of him.

Rand groaned at that sentimental slop and ordered another round.

Second, Ford would change his priorities, put managing the estate first and relegate his science to a hobby. He'd already decided he was willing to do that and told both Violet and her mother as much. And it was infinitely more palatable than the alternative, which was losing Violet.

Love changed a man.

Of course, it would be a good while before the estate earned an income sufficient to pay all the debts, but in the meantime, Ford and Rand had reasoned, if he fixed up Lakefield, it wouldn't keep reminding Violet of his temporary lack of finances.

Which was why he was now outside, hacking away at his garden.

Hilda approached, bearing a glass of fresh lemonade.

"A gift from heaven." He thunked his ax into the ground and held the cold drink against his forehead.

Hilda settled her hands on her wide hips. "Just what do you think you're doing out here?"

"Cleaning up." He gulped greedily. "Then I'll plant."

"Plant what?"

"I'm not sure. I'll think about that when I get there." He knew zero about plants, other than what some of them looked like extremely close up, thanks to Micrographia.

She eyed a ladder propped against the wall. "Are you planning to plant vines?"

"Excellent idea." He sipped again, letting the sweet coolness flow down his throat. "That would save me from painting, wouldn't it?"

"You're going to paint, too?"

"That's the plan. I sent Harry off for paint. Didn't he tell you?"

"Since when does Harry tell me anything?" She took the empty glass from his hand. "What was the ladder for, then?"

"I tried to fix the roof." Turning away, he lifted the ax. "If you wouldn't mind going into the laboratory—"

"Into your private domain?" She laid a hand on her pillowy bosom. "Be still my heart."

"—you may find some foreign matter has fallen from above."

He whacked at an overgrown bush. Or vine. He really wasn't sure which, but he was fairly certain the thing wouldn't be termed a tree. "I'm going to have to ask Harry to find a roofer." He whacked again, then turned sharply when he heard her snort. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Of course not, milord. That would be terribly disrespectful, wouldn't it?" She cleared her throat. "You know, some of that may be salvageable if you prune it instead of killing it."

He ran a grubby hand back through his hair. "Is that so? I had no idea you were knowledgeable about vegetation. I'm thinking perhaps you—"

"Think again." She drew herself up to her full height of five feet. "I'm a housekeeper, not a gardener. It's dirty work, that is."

It certainly was, if the state of his clothing was any indication. Deciding he'd done as much to destroy that plant as possible, he moved to the next one.

"Why are you limping?" Hilda's eyes narrowed. "Your breeches are torn."

He started to wave the ax in a dismissive gesture, then thought better of it. He was reasonably proficient with a sword, but the ax was another matter. "It's nothing," he said. "Just scratched myself a bit up on the roof."

"Fell through, you mean, do you not?"

On second thought, if the woman failed to curb her tongue, the ax could come in handy. His hand tightened on the hilt. Or the grip. Or whatever one called the wooden part of an ax. "Perhaps my foot did slip. I told you there might be foreign matter in the laboratory that needs to be cleared away."

"Well, I hope your blood isn't mixed with it." Shaking her head, she walked away, leaving him in peace at last.

As soon as she disappeared around the corner, he plopped onto a stone bench, groaning when a tangle of twigs poked into his anatomy. He swiped a hand across his brow and eyed his handiwork.

He'd been chopping away for nigh on four hours, and the job looked bigger than when he'd started.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

"Very interesting," Violet said, staring at the dried top of a pineapple.

Lily smiled sweetly at their father. "What an exciting project."

"It's an ugly thing," Rose said.

Father gave her an indulgent smile—or perhaps he hadn't quite heard her. All plants were beautiful to him, and he'd be known to take offense on their behalf. "I'm going to plant it in a big pot and keep it here in the Stone Gallery at nights and all winter."

Violet didn't find the plan surprising, since he was already trying to grow oranges indoors. The long, narrow chamber, which was lined with windows and occupied the entire ground floor of the west wing, had been used in Tudor times to take exercise in inclement weather. But now one could hardly walk two steps without bumping into a plant.

Rowan's foot tapped on the black-and-white marble floor. "How many pineapples will it grow?"

"I'm not sure." Father frowned. "Maybe only one."

"One? We'll eat it in a trice!"

"But then I'll have another top, and I can grow more—"

"And by the time Rowan is married with children," Rose finished for him, "we ought to have a decent crop. Anyone want to go riding?"

It seemed a long time since Violet had exercised anything but her heart. "I'm game," she said.

"Me, too," Lily added.

"Me three." Rowan scratched his head. "No, make that four."

They all laughed as they trooped outside. A few minutes later they were mounted on their horses and riding along the river. Violet took the lead and automatically headed toward Lakefield, hoping Ford was back from Oxford. She wanted to see him. She wanted to look into his eyes and decide if she was prepared to take the next step.

The sun felt warm on her skin, and Socrates's white hide was tickly against her legs. She leaned into a turn, loving the wind in her hair, the fluid movements of the animal beneath her. Suddenly she felt like she'd been cooped up in the house entirely too long. The fresh air felt marvelous. She should leave her books behind and get out more often.

"We should ride the other way," Rowan said.

Lily pulled up alongside him. "Why is that?"

He shook his head ruefully. "I don't want to see Jewel."

Three days had passed since he'd drunk the chocolate, and he was still scratching. And doubtless still hearing Jewel's laughter in his ears.

Rose laughed now. "Jewel went home with her parents, you goose."

"Oh."

"And anyway," Violet soothed, "I'm sure she won't…"

Her words trailed off as Lakefield House came within sight.

"Oh my," she said, staring at the decimated garden. "What do you think happened?"

"A storm," Rowan guessed. "With lots of blowing."

Lily's eyes sparkled with amusement. "I expect we would have felt the effects of that at Trentingham."

Rose shaded her eyes with a hand. "Is that a hole in the roof?"

They drew nearer. "Oh my," Violet said. "Is that—oh my."

"On the ladder there." Lily cocked her head. "Is it Ford?"

Rose drew breath and let out a very unladylike shout. "Lord Lakefield! Is that you?"

Her voice carried so well, even their father would have turned his head. Which the man on the ladder did, to reveal a face splattered with paint. His clothing wasn't faring any better. As they rode closer and came to a stop near the house, Violet watched a white blob roll down his hair and land on one of his boots.

She burst out laughing.

Ford backed awkwardly down the ladder and limped over to look up at her on her horse. He crossed his arms, then dropped them, grimacing at the white handprints he'd just made on his clothes. "What's so funny?"

At that, her sisters burst out laughing, too.

With a supreme effort, Violet controlled herself. "What," she asked, "do you think you're doing?"

"I told you I was going to fix this place up."

Another little giggle escaped. "I didn't think you meant to do it yourself."

Rose snorted. "It looks worse than when you started."

He stared at her a moment, then his lips twitched before he broke into a full-fledged grin. "My lady, I reckon you're right." He turned to address Violet. "May I speak with you for a moment? In private?"

She looked to her sisters, but this, after all, was what she had come for. So she shrugged and handed her reins to Lily, slid off Socrates, and followed Ford around the corner of the house.

The moment they were out of sight, he dragged her into his arms.

Her gasp of surprise was covered by his mouth. The familiar weakness stole over her, and her body went limp as her whole being focused on his kiss. His lips opened hers, and his tongue swept her mouth, gentle and demanding at the same time. He smelled of Ford and paint, of forbidden lust. She ached for the pleasure she now knew he could give her.

Breathless, almost senseless, she pulled back, then looked down at her gown and gasped again.

"Sorry," he said. "I'll buy you another."

"I'm more concerned with what my family will think."

He ran a paint-stained finger down her arm. "They'll think I couldn't help myself, because I'm in love with you. Which is true."

She shivered. "Ford—"

"Will you come over tonight? Will you let me show you how much I love you?"

"I cannot do that!" It was one thing to go to supper and inadvertently end up in a bed. It was quite another to plan such an assignation from the outset.

This wasn't what she had come for. She'd come to look into his eyes.

But she did that now, and all she saw was temptation.

He grinned, his teeth as white as the paint. "How about if I scrub up first?"

"That—that has nothing to do with it. I cannot come here at night, Ford." She brushed at her hopelessly stained skirts. "What would my family think?" she added, knowing well what they would think. They would most likely think it was perfectly all right. And they would definitely think she should marry him.

"You came once for supper with your mother's blessing," he reminded her—as though she hadn't spent half her waking hours replaying that night in her head. "Besides, your family has no need to know."

She was shocked speechless for a moment. "You mean I should…sneak out? I couldn't!"

"Why not?" While she stood there with her mouth open, he elaborated, reaching to twirl a lock of her hair. "I'll come and get you—I'd never ask you to make your way here alone." Her scalp tingled. "Or if you'd prefer, I'll sneak into your chamber instead."

"No!" She'd be mortified if they were caught. "For one thing, from what I've seen here today, you can barely climb a ladder."

"Too true." Dropping the curl, he gestured at the house. "I think this project is finished. At least until I can hire some competent laborers."

"That's the first sane thing you've said this afternoon."

He curved an arm around her waist and pulled her close again, nipping softly at her bottom lip with his teeth. "Wait until you hear what I have to say to you this evening…"

"Ford…"

"I'll be there, waiting, at eleven o'clock." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Below your window."

Greedy for a real kiss, she turned her head until her lips met his. And took what she wanted. And wanted still more.

"I am not climbing out a window," she whispered when she finally came up for air.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Due to the state of her gown, Violet's sisters had teased her mercilessly all the way home. Never mind that she had a reputation for tripping, they'd refused to believe she'd stumbled and fallen against the paint.

When they arrived at Trentingham, she'd endured more teasing from Father and Mum.

And now, hours later, after a bath and supper and many feigned yawns as she took herself off to bed, she was not climbing out a window.

She was sneaking out the back door instead.

The faintest sound of a pebble hitting her window had sent her racing downstairs. She simply couldn't help herself. Before sending her off to face her sisters in her paint-stained gown, Ford had given her one last kiss that had buckled her knees. She'd known then and there that she would find a way to meet him.

One night. A few precious hours. She was hopelessly in love—and equally determined not to let that influence her decision.

And the truth was, she was more confused than ever.

Had she not seen, just this afternoon, the very proof he wanted her for her money? Ford Chase, the man who'd refused to manufacture his watch because aristocrats didn't go into trade, was reduced to painting his own house, tending his own gardens. If that wasn't proof he was desperate, she didn't know what was.

Yet his eyes, when they'd met hers at the end of that final kiss, had looked so honest, so straightforward, so sincere…pools of deep blue she'd have sworn reflected a true passion in his heart.

Confusion. It should have made her refuse to meet him.

But now that she knew the bliss she could find in his arms, she seemed helpless to resist. There were also practical reasons for agreeing to this night—she was a practical woman, after all. Perhaps by sharing herself with him again, she would uncover his genuine motives. And if those motives weren't the ones she so desperately hoped for, well, then at least she would've grabbed her happiness while she could, knowing it might have to last the rest of her life.

Besides all that, she had questions and wanted answers, and he was the only person she felt she could ask.

She'd only just slipped out the door when she found herself caught up and swung in a wide circle. "I knew you'd come out!"

"Hush!" she admonished in a harsh whisper. "We'll be caught."

"Then you'll be forced to marry me." Sounding not at all displeased with that idea, he set her on her feet. "Come here, my darling Violet."

"I'm here," she whispered, searching his eyes, which looked black in the moonlit night.

Something in them changed as he murmured, "No, come here." And he pulled her close, crushing her against his body.

She barely had time to rip off her spectacles before his mouth descended on hers, hot and needy. For a long, heady moment she almost wished they would be forced to marry. What a relief it might be to have the decision taken out of her hands. Then she ceased to think at all, just feeling instead. Feeling the things only Ford Chase had ever made her feel.

When he finally let her go, the book dropped to the grass between them. He bent to pick it up. "What's this?"

She turned hot, thankful for the cover of darkness. "Aristotle's Master-piece," she mumbled, fumbling her spectacles back on.

He tugged her close again, running a hand down her back to her bottom. She felt all melty inside. "Hmm?" he asked. "Why'd you bring a book?"

"I…well…there are things I don't understand." She licked her lips. "I was hoping you could explain them."

"Me? Explain philosophy to you?"

"It's not philosophy, Ford."

Upstairs, Chrystabel let the curtain drop closed. "She's not alone, Joseph. Ford was waiting."

"I told you Violet was too smart a girl to go wandering off by herself. Even if she wasn't bright enough to realize we'd notice. Now come back to bed."

"Should we go after her?" She perched herself on the mattress, wrapping her arms around one raised knee as she faced her husband. "Are we doing the right thing?"

"He's a good man. She'll be safe."

"She'll be ruined."

"Oh, Chrysanthemum, this was your idea in the first place. After you took such pains to explain it to me, I cannot believe you're having second thoughts. Besides…" His hand sneaked under her night rail and up her thigh. "Were you ruined?"

She tingled. "Of course not. But that was different." She met his eyes, that emerald green she'd sunk into from the first time they met. "We'd already decided to marry."

"So has Violet. She just hasn't figured it out yet."

When his hand brushed her hip, she sighed. "I suppose you're right. I expect she needs this to push her over the edge. I know they're perfect for each other, I just think—"

"Stop thinking, Chrysanthemum. Our Violet is in trustworthy hands." With fingers made agile by long years of practice, he swept the night rail up and off. "Stop thinking now. It's time to feel instead."

CHAPTER FIFTY

Seated on the faded red couch in Ford's drawing room, Violet watched him flip pages.

"You're right," he said, his eyes widening. "This is not philosophy."

She sipped the wine he'd poured upon their arrival—white Rhenish, not red Italian. "It was supposedly by Aristotle. I thought it was philosophy when I bought it."

"When I bought it, you mean. I cannot believe I bought you a bloody marriage manual!"

"Hush!" Violet kept picturing Hilda lurking in the corridor, and just her luck, Mum was planning to deliver more Spiced Rosewater perfume tomorrow. She could imagine the tell-all that would ensue if they failed to modulate their voices. "I just need an explanation." She opened to a page where a bit of paper stuck up; she'd marked the confusing spot before leaving to meet him. "This chapter. 'A Word of Advice to Both Sexes: Being Several Directions Respecting…'"

"'Copulation,'" he finished for her, turning redder than the draperies. "Shouldn't you be asking your mother these things? Why the devil are you bringing this to me?"

She would die before asking her mother. "You're a scientist. This is physiology, isn't it?"

"Not of the sort I learned at Wadham College."

"Well, can you help me or not?"

"Let me see what it says." Blowing out a breath, he focused on the book. "'Since nature has implanted in every creature a mutual desire of copulation—'"

"Wait." There was that word again. Egad. "This room has no door. What if Hilda overhears? Or Harry?"

He grinned. "Perhaps they'll get an education."

"Ford—"

"I was fooling, my love. They sought their beds hours before I left for Trentingham. Relax, will you?" He reached to refill her cup. "They don't even know you're here."

"But they could come downstairs."

He seemed to consider that a moment. "Then shall we go up? The rooms upstairs have doors." Even as the words came out of his mouth, he rose and tucked the book beneath one arm. Handing her both cups, he took the bottle and a candle to light the way. She followed him up the worn steps, wincing at every crack and creak.

Thank heavens Hilda and Harry were old and hard of hearing.

On the landing, he turned right and walked her into a chamber.

A bedchamber.

"D-do you sleep here?" she asked. No matter that she'd come here expecting to share his bed, actually seeing it was a shock.

"Yes, I sleep here." Setting the wine on a small table, he took the candle around the room, lighting others. "I'm sorry it's not more elegant. It will all be repaired, though, Violet. I hired some laborers today after you left."

She sipped, staring at the bed, a four-poster so enormous it couldn't possibly fit through a door—it must have been built in the room. It was fashioned of heavy oak, darkened with age and smoke from the blackened brick fireplace. Grayish bed-hangings draped from a wooden canopy overhead, looking as though they might once have been rich and possibly blue.

A very long time ago.

The walls were paneled with plain smoke-stained oak, divided into squares with simple molding. She looked up to find a beamed ceiling coated in peeling white paint.

"It's very…interesting," she said, for lack of a better description.

"I believe it's the roof of the original great hall, retained when the floor and fireplace were added some years later. Soon, it will all look good as new."

"That will take a lot of money," she said dubiously.

"Not so much," he assured her. "The building itself is sound. And I'm going to live here and manage the estate, see that it earns a profit."

She was listening with half an ear, avoiding looking back to the bed. With some relief, she noticed an open door across the chamber. In the way of older houses, a room lay beyond with no corridor to divide them. "What's that?"

"A sitting room of sorts." His half-smile told her he was aware of her nervousness. "Come, I'll show you."

A short, unpadded settle, a single armless chair, and a small, low table filled the tiny room. Although it was less than beautiful, like the rest of the house it was clean. And there was no bed.

"Lovely," she said, setting down the wine cups and settling herself on the low-backed oak bench.

He'd carried the candle in with him, and he set that on the table, too. Instead of taking the chair as she'd expected, he squeezed onto the settle beside her. "Would you mind if I get comfortable?"

Without waiting for an answer, he tugged off his boots. And peeled off his stockings.

Her mouth went dry. She moistened her lips. "Will you explain Aristotle's Master-piece now?"

"Of course," he said, wiggling his toes. With a flourish, he opened the book to her marked spot and tilted it to catch the candlelight. "'Since nature has implanted in every creature a mutual desire of copulation, I thought it necessary to give directions to both sexes for the performing of that act.'" Frowning, he glanced up. "Did you feel directions were necessary?"

His warmth wedged next to her made it difficult to focus on the words, but after all, she already knew what the book said. She kept staring at his toes. He had very nice toes. "Just keep reading," she told him. "Please."

Before he did so, he shrugged out of his surcoat and laid it over the settle's arm. "Very well, then," he said. "'It would be very proper to cherish the body with generous restoratives, so that it may be brisk and vigorous, and if their imaginations were charmed with sweet and melodious airs, and cares and thoughts of business drowned in a glass of racy wine, that their spirits may be raised to the highest pitch of ardor and joy, it would not be amiss.'" Leaving the book open on his lap, he worked the knot in his cravat. "'For inspiration, creativity, and resourcefulness enrich the delights of Venus.'"

"See?" she broke in, alarmed to find he wasn't just removing his shoes—he looked to be undressing. "This is what I don't understand."

He twisted on the settle to face her. "Generous restoratives, sweet and melodious airs, and a glass of racy wine—did I not provide those for you, my love?"

Her face flushed hot. Yes, he'd provided food, music, and wine, and although she wasn't sure what was meant by racy, the word seemed to fit the mood of that night. "It's the other that makes no sense. Imagination. Inspiration, creativity, and resourcefulness."

"Doesn't it?" He drew off his cravat, setting the froth of white on the table.

"Read the rest."

"As you wish." He shifted even closer to her, if that were possible. "'It is also highly necessary, that in their natural embraces, they meet each other with an equal ardor and an eye to ingenuity.'" As he read, he loosened the laces at his neck. "'I do advise them, before they begin their conjugal embraces, to invigorate their mutual desires with much daring and inventiveness. Freshness and originality will make their flame burn with a fierce ardor, by those endearing ways that love can better teach than I can write.'"

"See?"

Apparently finished "getting comfortable" for now, he reached for his wine. "See what? The author is rather enamored of the word ardor, isn't he? Three ardors in two paragraphs. And it would enhance readability if he broke up all those long sentences…who wrote this, do you know?" Sipping, he flipped back to the title page single-handedly.

"It's anonymous."

"I can see why." He shut the book and set it on the table, looking relieved to be finished with the reading. "Now, what is it you don't understand?"

"All of it! What ways can love teach better than he can write?"

"Almost anything is better than he can write."

She ignored his sarcasm. "What does he mean by giving these directions to invigorate mutual desires with ingenuity and daring and inventiveness?" Although she'd never shared this chapter with her sisters, she'd read it so many times the words were burned into her brain. "And freshness and originality?"

"What do you mean, what does he mean?"

"I mean, how can one be creative in copulation?" She blushed at her use of the word, but went on. "I've seen the animals in the fields, and each species has only one way to go about it."

A grin spread on his face.

Suddenly, she felt very, very stupid.

"What?" she asked suspiciously, trying to scoot farther away on the settle but only managing to smash herself against the hard wooden arm.

Very slowly, he ran a finger down her nose. "Let me tell you, darling, there are many, many ways to go about it."

"Oh." The finger continued down to her lips, tracing them lightly. "Oh," she repeated against it. "In that case, never mind."

"No, no." Smiling, he handed her his cup. "You came to me for physiology instruction, did you not? Let me explain the many ways." His eyes sparkled with devilment, and she couldn't quite decide whether to be irked or intrigued. "First, there is the disrobing. Many ways to be creative with that."

Intrigued, she decided, gulping a mouthful of wine. "Are there?"

"Absolutely. For example, you could dance for me while you remove your clothing."

"Dance?" she gasped.

"Oh, yes. You could hum a tune or sing a song while you did that, and I would enjoy it very much. Or I could dance for you."

Although he'd proven himself a good dancer at the Royal Society event, she couldn't quite wrap her mind around that picture.

"No?" he continued, obviously reading her face. "Well, then, of course, we could remove each other's clothing instead." She looked down to see him doing just that, his fingers detaching the tabs of her stomacher. "Inventively."

She drained the rest of the wine. "Inventively?"

"Mm-hmm." The stomacher dropped to the floor. "For example, I could use my teeth."

"Your teeth?"

"My teeth," he murmured, inclining his head. He bit one of her laces and drew back to untie the bow. Her heart slammed against her ribs. With his head down there, she was sure he could hear it.

He knelt at her feet and pulled off her shoes, then eased his hands beneath her skirts to raise and drape them over her thighs. It was a good thing she'd finished the wine, because the cup dropped from her fingers and rolled across the planked floor. It stopped against the wall with a clink.

"My teeth," he repeated, using them to capture one of the ribbon garters she'd tied below her knees. In a trice, both were gone, and he used his teeth—his teeth!—to draw off her stockings after that.

He used his tongue, too, tracing hot, wet trails down her legs.

When a shiver rippled through her, he raised his head. "Are you, by any chance, feeling ardor right now?"

A nod was all she could manage.

With a grin of pure masculine pride, he rose to his feet, taking her hands to bring her up with him. "Now, before we begin our conjugal embraces, we are instructed to invigorate our mutual desires with much daring and inventiveness."

How could he speak so matter-of-factly, she wondered, after undressing her with his teeth?

"I think…" She licked her lips. "I think I can see now, there are indeed many ways, so—"

"But I would be remiss if I failed to demonstrate the wide range of options in invigorating our mutual desires." As he talked, he pulled his shirt off over his head. The resulting ripple of muscles invigorated her desires quite effectively. "For example," he continued conversationally, his long fingers working the laces that secured his breeches, "one can employ things in an invigorating manner."

"Things?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes, things." Pausing, the breeches still hanging on his hips, he scanned the Spartan room. "There's nothing much in here, though, is there? In the way of things, I mean."

"No," she agreed, drifting slowly down toward the settle. Her knees felt inordinately weak.

He seized her around the ribs and held her up, his hands feeling hot through her bodice. She blinked. "What sorts of things are you looking for?" she asked, half afraid to hear the answer. Or maybe only one-quarter afraid, because truth be told, she was also intrigued beyond bearing.

"Oh, any number of things," he said blithely, raising his hands to her shoulders. He eased her gown and chemise down to her waist. "A feather, for instance," he elaborated as he plucked her limp arms from her sleeves, "can engender many pleasant sensations."

Her jaw went slack, and her gaze dropped down to her bared torso.

"Yes, there."

The thought of that made her pulse leap. Then it raced when he brushed her breasts with his fingertips. Lightly, lightly.

"Feather-light," he whispered as she watched herself tighten in response. "But not nearly as effective as an actual feather."

She closed her eyes, swaying, imagining that feather, thinking it was very difficult, actually, to imagine anything feeling better than what he was doing now.

Then she felt her gown pool at her feet, and her eyes flew open to find his gaze riveted there.

"Yes, there," he repeated. "A feather can be very effective there."

He had no feather. Yet she imagined herself sprawled wantonly on that enormous bed in the next room while he teased her with one.

Faith, she could feel it. He wasn't even touching her now, and she could feel it. Her face was getting hot—no, her whole body was getting hot. She sank back onto the settle.

"Are you perhaps feeling ardor?" he inquired, fetching the chair and dragging it over to face her. His breeches were the last of his clothing, and those looked as though they might slide off his slim hips.

She half wished they would.

He sat and scooted the chair closer, so close their knees touched. Then closer still, until one of his legs slipped between both of hers.

She stared at his bare chest, thinking she must be dreaming. She was stark naked, and a man's knee was between her legs. Her open legs, exposing where he wanted to tease her with a feather.

Reaching out, he raised her chin. "Violet? Are you paying attention?"

His muscles flexed with his movements. She wanted him. Now. She couldn't take any more of this lesson. "Ford, I—"

"I'm remembering," he interrupted smoothly, "that the book gave directions to be resourceful. Therefore, since the only thing we have here is wine, I should use it to demonstrate creativity." He raised his cup and swirled the liquid with two fingers. "For example, we can use it as paint."

Holding her gaze, he anointed the crest of one breast with a sweeping, circular motion.

Shocked, she looked down. A droplet of wine seemed poised to fall, and she gasped when he bent his head and caught it on his tongue. Then his lips closed over her, and he suckled the rest of it off.

Her breath caught as a dizzying wave of excitement rolled through her, matching the rhythm of his mouth.

"Ford—"

"Hmm?" His eyes looking glazed, he dipped his fingers again and painted her other breast. "Mmm," he murmured, not a question this time, but a sound of satisfaction. "Red wine would be most flattering on this rosy little confection, but white looks fetching as well."

How could he talk like that while he was doing this to her? The wine felt cool on her skin, and his tongue felt hot as he licked it off, ever so slowly and thoroughly. She forgot whatever it was she had meant to say. If she'd even known in the first place.

Finally he sat back, giving her a lazy, seductive smile. "Now," he announced, the instructor again, "there is the finale, otherwise known as 'conjugal embraces.' There are many ways—"

"I am sure there are many ways," she cut in. She ached, an ache that was becoming unbearable. "I liked the first way we tried perfectly well."

As though he hadn't heard her at all, he cocked his head and eyed the settle. "That looks damned narrow and uncomfortable, but if we move to the bed, we could try it on our sides. Either face to face, or me behind you. Or I could lie back and let you ride me—"

She gasped, but he only grinned.

"Not ready for that? Or is it that you wish to stay in this chamber? I suppose we could try it standing against the wall, or…I know, right here on this chair." And before she could react to that astounding barrage of ideas, he'd grabbed her by the waist and hauled her, facing him, to straddle his lap.

Somehow he'd maneuvered his breeches down, because she could feel him, right there where she ached. "Oh my," she breathed, closing her eyes to revel in the sensation. Amazed at her own boldness, she wiggled closer.

She was dying to have him inside her.

She ran her hands up his chest and felt him gently tug off her spectacles. Her eyes flew open as she realized he'd brought her this far, to the brink of completion, without so much as a single kiss.

He made up for that lack now.

His lips slanted over hers, his tongue invading her mouth, stroking hers, gentle and tender at first, almost exquisitely so. Then more insistent, more emphatic, angling his head, nipping her bottom lip, coming back to settle on her mouth and stay there, working his magic until she felt nothing but heat and a wild dance of tongues and lips and teeth.

For a long time, he just kissed her, until, wanting more, needing more, she rocked against him and her hands began roaming his body. And then, still kissing her, he began to touch her, too.

In this position, his hands were free. They teased her breasts, sending the blood in a rush through her veins. They cradled her face, making her heart melt with tenderness. They threaded into her hair, making her feel sweetly possessed. They wandered down her back, warm and swift, all the way to her bottom. He pulled her closer. A moan escaped her lips as she felt him pressing, pressing against where she ached. Until he finally slid inside.

And then deeper, still kissing her, kissing her until she wondered if she'd ever catch her breath. But she didn't want him to stop. Deeper still, and he shifted, tilting his hips, and she moved with him. That feeling she remembered was building, an excitement so urgent she could barely keep from crying out. She was spiraling up, up—

And then suddenly he stopped, holding her hips in place with his hands. His lips clung to hers, one more sweet, lingering caress before he drew back.

Still straining against him, she opened her eyes.

"Sometimes," he said softly, "one can find 'freshness' in an encounter by temporarily reversing the process."

Her fingers clenched his shoulders. "Wh-what?"

"Although we are here in a conjugal embrace, there is nothing to say we cannot resume invigorating our mutual desires."

Her squeak was one of distress, but he smiled as he eased her away, and the smile widened when she moaned at his withdrawal. Standing, he swept her up, cradling her with an arm beneath her knees and another around her shoulders, as she imagined he would carry Jewel were she asleep.

But Violet wasn't asleep. Every fiber of her body was alarmingly awake. Wanting him back inside her.

He walked into the other chamber, kicking his breeches off as he went, and deposited her flat on her back in the middle of the bed. She gazed up at him. She could see he was still ready for her. Magnificently ready.

Faith, she wanted him more than she'd wanted anything in her life. Beseechingly, she held up her arms, waiting for his warm, welcome weight.

"We're going back, remember? To invigorating our mutual desires." Instead of joining her, he sat beside her and reached for the bottle of wine. It seemed like hours since he'd left it on the night table.

"Hmm," he said speculatively. Her heart beat faster. She was beginning to anticipate that speculative "hmm"—and with good reason, as it turned out. He raised the green bottle so the candlelight shone through it. Then he spilled a bit into her navel and immediately leaned to lap it up.

His hot tongue in that little indentation made her belly quiver and sent a jolt of passion streaking through her. The ache between her legs intensified, an almost unbearable wanting. She called his name in a breathy cry.

"Hmm?" he murmured, a hum against her skin. His dark head moved lower, his tongue licking, his teeth nipping, down her pelvis and over the tender insides of her thighs.

And then he hovered there, where she ached.

She waited, feeling his warm breath washing over her, and when nothing happened, she grabbed his shoulders, his hair.

He lifted his head, meeting her gaze.

"Ford?" she whispered, wondering what she was asking. Would he touch her there with his mouth? She'd never imagined such a thing, but the thought of it sent such a hot stab of lust coursing through her, it completely stole her breath.

"No," he decided with a reluctant shake of his head. "I'm going to save that for our wedding night."

Air rushed between her parted lips. She wanted him there so badly, touching her, stroking her, filling her…

"Are you feeling ardor now?" he asked.

"Oh, please," she breathed in reply, unsure whether she was asking for his mouth or his body, but needing something.

Some part of him, completing her.

At long last he came over her, warm along her length, groaning as his lips met hers above while down below he slid inside. Her blood sang at the sheer perfection of the way their bodies fit together. He thrust once, twice, and—

She exploded. That was all it took, and there was no other word to describe it. Lost to sensation, she barely felt him draw out of her before he shuddered and collapsed, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"Violet," he choked out, "I love you."

Struggling to catch her breath, she missed him inside her already. But she hadn't missed the fervor in his voice, the force behind his words. And when he finally lifted his head, she saw it there.

Love, true and honest.

She searched his eyes, learning this gaze by heart. And then she smiled, a tentative smile, wanting to tell him she loved him, too, but unable to find the words. After all she'd put him through, she wanted her declaration to be perfect—

A different light entered his eyes as he rolled off her, still holding her in his arms. A glint of humor. "You see, my sweet," he said, a playful grin curving his lips, "there are many, many ways."

"There are," she breathed, knowing now there must be so much more. That reminded her. "You didn't do that the last time. Leave me at the end."

She felt him tense. "Last time," he said, all the playfulness suddenly gone, "I thought we would soon be married."

"Oh." She knew he was waiting for her to say they would. But she was shocked beyond any more speech. A simple "Oh" was all she could muster.

How could she, levelheaded Violet Ashcroft, have done such an irresponsible thing?

He'd pulled out this time but, faith, they could have conceived a child that night on the barge. She'd been so carried away, she hadn't thought about the consequences, never mind that the Master-piece had been quite clear in that regard. Thinking about it now brought a chill to her heated flesh.

She lay a while beside him, waiting for her heart to calm and her head to focus. Thank heavens he loved her; thank heavens she'd seen it in his eyes. The Ashcrofts might be unconventional, but a child born out of wedlock would strain their family motto a bit too far.

"Ford?" she called softly, but there was no answer.

He'd collapsed for real this time. He was sound asleep.

Her arms tightened around him, and her heart squeezed to match. She pressed a kiss to his warm, dear temple. She'd let him sleep a few minutes before she woke him and told him she'd be honored to become his wife.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

"Joseph?" Chrystabel called softly.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think our baby is still an innocent now?"

He rolled to face her. "She's been alone with him before, my love."

"You don't think…no…"

"Yes." He struggled up on his elbows, peering at her through the darkness. "Who, after all, brought home Aristotle's Master–piece?"

"I'm sure she thought it was a philosophy book."

He snorted and fell back to the pillows. "You just go on believing that, Chrysanthemum. Whatever makes you happy."

But she couldn't believe. No matter that she'd plotted to allow Ford to seduce her daughter, she would have known had it actually happened. "If she'd been with him before, I would have seen it in her face."

This snort was even louder than the first. "One cannot tell from a woman's face whether she's made love. If so, you'd be going about wearing a veil all your days." She blushed, and he touched her cheek, then his eyes drifted closed. "But you believe whatever makes you happy, Chrysanthemum my love, so long as you let me sleep."

"Ford, wake up!" Sitting beside him on the bed, Violet shook his shoulder. "I must get home!"

With a groan, he rolled against her, and for a moment all she could think was she wanted to crawl back into bed with him. Even through her skirts he felt impossibly warm and wonderful.

But impossible was the operative word. She finished attaching her stomacher and shook him again. "It's morning already!"

He cracked an eye open and, seeing nothing but the single flame of a candle to break the darkness, promptly closed it. "It's not morning."

"Well, it will be soon. I cannot believe I fell asleep!"

Grabbing the candle, she hurried next door to fetch her spectacles. When the tiny chamber came into focus, her gaze fell on the single chair. Last night, she'd been entwined with Ford on that chair in a shockingly wanton conjugal embrace.

Her blood heated at the memory.

In the soft glow of the candlelight, the room didn't appear nearly as shabby as she'd thought. Besides, he'd told her he was fixing up Lakefield. He hadn't done it before because he hadn't planned to live here, but now he was going to fix it up. He'd hired laborers already. Just like that, he'd said in the summerhouse. And last night he'd said he was determined to see the estate earned a profit. It was going to be his home.

Their home.

Home. She had to get home. She streaked back into the bedchamber. "Get up, will you? Or should I go home alone?"

"No." He struggled to sit and ran a hand through his hair, leaving parts of it sticking straight up. Sleepy like this, he looked charmingly boyish, and the thought made her smile. Especially now that she knew he was so very much a man.

"I'll get dressed," he muttered. "Just give me a moment." He blinked, shook his head, and started to rise from the bed. Stark naked.

She wasn't ready for this. This morning-after business was more than she could take. "I'll wait for you downstairs," she told him. "Hurry." But she sneaked him a sideways glance while she lit a second candle before rushing out the door.

My, he was magnificent.

She wanted him. God help her, she wanted him for good.

On her way down the stairs, she smiled at the worn boards that creaked under her feet, at the paneling on the walls that so badly needed refinishing, at the peeling paint on the beams overhead. None of it bothered her. The truth was, the condition of her home didn't overly concern her. She just needed to know, deep in her bones, that the man she wed truly loved her. Her, Violet, not the monetary bounty that would come along with her.

And now she did know that, all the way down to her marrow. Love, true and honest—she'd seen it in Ford's eyes. And though he hadn't said it in so many words, he'd made it clear he didn't need her inheritance. She could marry him now, knowing it was for all the right reasons. Knowing it was for love, not money.

Her entire body seemed to sing with happiness. As soon as Ford came downstairs, she would tell him she would be honored—no, thrilled—to become his wife.

It wasn't as late as she'd feared. To her great relief, Hilda and Harry were nowhere in sight. She set the candle on a small marble table that could use a serious buffing, then paced Lakefield's entrance hall while she waited for Ford and thought about her new life—the wonderful new life the two of them would have together.

Her dowry should cover the costs of renovation, leaving more of his funds available to improve the estate, which in turn would allow it to run more profitably. She was anxious to go over his plans. Since she wouldn't be publishing her book for many years, perhaps she should suggest they use her inheritance to accelerate the improvements. The investment would surely come back to her long before she needed it.

Now that she knew Ford wasn't marrying her for her inheritance, she wouldn't mind him making use of it. In fact, it made little sense to let all that money sit idle for years.

Her gaze went up the empty staircase. What was taking him so long? Wondering if the sun were rising already, she jerked open the front door.

A shocked face was on the other side. Violet squealed, and the young boy turned tail and began running.

"Wait!" she called.

He stopped and pivoted back. "I have a letter, madam."

Madam. Was her loss of innocence so obvious to a stranger, then? Or was it only that she'd reached the advanced old age of one-and-twenty?

Rather cautiously, he approached the door, holding forth a rectangle of sealed parchment. "Will you give this to the lord?"

"Of course. Let me just…wait." She'd noticed a bowl with a few coins on the table in the entrance, and she went inside to fetch one, pressing it into the boy's hand on her return. "Thank you."

He touched his cap and took off.

She slowly closed the door, turning the letter in her hands. It looked long and very official. There was no return address, but she hoped…could it be from Daniel Quare, the watchmaker?

Her heart pounded at the thought.

She sent a furtive glance up the stairs before slipping her fingernail under the seal.

My dearest Lord Lakefield, she read. It is my sad duty to inform you that I have received a foreclosure notice on your estate. You have thirty days…

The letter fluttered to the floor, her heart sinking along with it.

It wasn't in response to her query, and she had no business reading Ford's private mail. But the parchment mocked her from where it sat on the dull wood planks. She took a deep breath before stooping to retrieve it, then set it on the table beside the bowl of coins. Ford would find it later. After he'd taken her home, after she'd told him she saw no reason to see each other anymore.

Foreclosure.

She would have to pray she wasn't with child. Because he'd tried to fool her, and she'd done her best to fool herself…but she no longer had any illusions about why Ford Chase had been pursuing her so avidly.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Two men were working on Lakefield's roof. Three were painting the exterior of the house, two the interior. Another man was busy stripping the dark Tudor paneling for refinishing, and in the gardens, two more toiled, making order out of the disarray Ford had left.

In the meantime, he paced his laboratory, the letter in his hand.

Foreclosure.

The single word was like a fist to his gut. He'd had no idea his situation was this bad. Never again would he allow himself to stay ignorant of his finances.

He'd thought if he put his mind to the task—and the funds he usually spent on his science into the estate—he could make Lakefield profitable and dig himself out of debt. And he could, according to his solicitor. But it would be much more difficult than he'd imagined.

Foreclosure.

All these people he'd hired yesterday he'd have to dismiss this afternoon. In lieu of selling the estate, his solicitor had outlined an emergency plan to save it, but it certainly didn't include funds for cosmetic restorations. His income would have to go into the fields, purchasing livestock, fixing the stables, and repairing crofters' cottages so new tenants would have a place to live.

But that wasn't the worst of his troubles.

He'd been sure the tactics he'd plotted with Rand were working, but for some reason he couldn't fathom, after what he'd considered a night of shared bliss, Violet had awakened this morning and seen him in a different light. A light so dim and dreary, she'd made it clear she had no interest in seeing him ever again.

And now his dreams of repairing Lakefield so she'd view him in a brighter light were finished. Gone. His hopes of winning her were gone as well. Along with his spirits.

The disappointment was a physical ache. Empty years yawned ahead. He knew, with a sureness that crushed him, that he'd never find satisfaction in his scientific accomplishments again. Not without Violet here to share them.

Unless…

The letter fluttered to the floor as, determined, he set his jaw. He had one last chance to win her, one final opportunity to convince her, once and for all, that he loved her, not her inheritance. One way to fill his coffers with the kind of money that would make hers superfluous.

It would be the hardest thing he'd ever done…but with his only other option losing Violet, he had no choice.

No other choice he could live with.

Violet looked up from her philosophy book, muttering under her breath. She'd read the same page four times and still didn't understand it. It had been three days since she'd seen Ford—three days during which she couldn't concentrate on anything and snapped at everyone within earshot.

"Violet?"

Exasperated, she swung toward the door. "Yes?" she bit out, then bit her lip. Her mother didn't deserve her misplaced ire. It wasn't Mum's fault that Violet was too plain and odd for any man to love except for her money.

She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened them, drawing on her last reserve of patience. "What is it, Mum?"

"There's a man here to see you. Not Ford," she added in a rush, and Violet was chagrined, knowing the leap of hope must have shown in her eyes. "His friend," Mum said gently. "Lord Randal Nesbitt."

Rand? Why would Rand want to see her? "Are you sure he isn't here to see Rose, Mum? She's the one who likes languages."

"He asked for you. He's waiting in the drawing room."

Sighing, she reached for her spectacles. In a fit of melancholy that terrible morning, she'd tried to put them away in a drawer, because they'd reminded her too much of Ford. Of her dreams, dashed and broken. But after three or four hours walking around half blind, she'd decided that was ridiculous. She wasn't going to forget him anyway, and there was no point in bumping into things for the rest of her life.

She slid them on and made her way downstairs to the drawing room.

When Violet entered the chamber, Rand stood. "Ford doesn't know that I'm here, my lady, and I'd prefer to keep it that way."

"As you wish." She waved him back to the cream-colored chair and took the matching one for herself. "What's this all about?"

Chrystabel had served him tea, and he raised the cup and sipped. "Ford wrote to me two days ago, and I thought you should know."

"Know what?" Taking a biscuit from a tray, she nervously broke off a piece. "You're confusing me, my lord."

"Rand," he reminded her. "And my apologies. I'm just so shocked, I wasn't sure how to…well…he asked me to sell Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. To take bids on it and then contact Mr. Isaac Newton."

"Sell Secrets of the Emerald Tablet?" Unheeded, the crumbs dropped to her lap. She remembered Ford clutching the book the day he found it. His declaration that he'd never sell it. His eyes glittering with excitement every time another bit was deciphered. "It's his favorite thing in the world, his chance to discover the Philosopher's Stone and bring it to all of humanity. You must be mistaken."

"I assure you, I'm not. According to Ford, Newton has offered to pay double the highest bid, and he wishes to collect." Rand sipped again, watching her over the rim. "It's the only path he can see clear to winning your heart."

That heart skipped a beat. Involuntarily, Violet raised a hand to her chest. "I don't understand…"

He set down the cup and leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. "I've known Ford since we were lads together at Oxford, but never have I known him in love. Until now."

She shook her head. "You're mistaken, my lord—"

"Rand."

"Rand, then. You're mistaken. Look at me, Rand. Really look. I'm not a woman who inspires love—"

"What are you talking about?" he interrupted.

She sat straighter in her chair. "I have a mirror, and two good eyes." Her hands went to her beloved spectacles. "Well, bad eyes, actually, until Ford made me these, but—"

"Two good eyes and half a brain," he interrupted again.

She must warn Rose he had terrible manners, she thought absurdly.

Then his intense gray gaze pierced hers, demanding her attention. "Ford loves you, Violet. And no matter what you think, you're a fine-looking woman, but that's not the reason why. He loves your spirit and your intelligence and the way you listen to his ideas. And the way you have ideas of your own."

"And he loves my money."

"No. That he hates. Because it's the reason you won't take his declaration at face value." He waited a moment for her to digest that. "Ford is a third son, the third son of a man who squandered the family fortune fighting the king's war. Under the circumstances, he's doing all right for himself. He's in a bit of financial trouble now, but nothing he cannot handle if he moves carefully, except—"

"His estate is being foreclosed upon."

"No. I mean, yes, but…how do you know that?"

She raised her own cup to her lips, hiding her hot cheeks behind it. "My mother is a terrible gossip."

"Oh. I see." He didn't look like he saw at all, but he continued anyway. "The foreclosure is a fact, but beside the point. He's working with his solicitor to resolve that."

She looked down at her cup, held between trembling hands. Could that be possible? She hadn't read the balance of that long letter.

"Ford's problem, Violet"—he waited for her to look up—"is he's lacking enough funds to both rescue his estate and remodel it in a way that would please you."

"Which is the reason he wants my money."

"No. He's convinced you won't wed him unless he has enough money that you'll believe he doesn't need yours, which is why he's selling the book." He paused to let that sink in. "He's trading the book for you, Violet."

"Oh, God." Her cup clattered to the table, and she dropped her head in her hands.

Ford loved her.

He'd told her so, over and over, and she'd never believed him. Nothing he could say would overcome her stubborn failure to accept his honest declarations. Not even his tender hands on her body had convinced her to admit what she knew in her heart…

Ashamed, she felt hot tears prick her eyes. That he would go to the point of selling his most cherished possession…

"I cannot let him do it."

Rand stood and, pulling her from the chair, wrapped his arms around her shuddering frame. "I was hoping you'd say that," he whispered.

"Father," Violet said loudly, "I'd like the use of my inheritance."

Seated across from her at the library's round table, Joseph glanced at Chrystabel before looking back to their daughter. "Have you an investment in mind?"

"No. Well, yes." She lifted her chin. "An investment in my future."

Chrystabel barely suppressed a smile. "Can you explain yourself, dear? This is very confusing."

"Ford is planning to sell Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. I wish to buy it."

Joseph frowned. "You hardly need your inheritance to buy a book."

"This book costs ten thousand pounds."

Watching her husband's jaw drop open, Chrystabel reached beneath the table to take his hand. "Why do you want to buy it?" she asked Violet calmly.

She thought she knew the answer. She hoped she knew the answer. And when tears sprang to her daughter's eyes, she knew she knew the answer.

"He's s-selling it," Violet stuttered out, "so he can fix up his house and win me."

"Then let him do it," Joseph said. "You don't need to spend your—" He broke off when Chrystabel kicked him under the table. "What the—"

"What your father means to ask," she interrupted, laying her free hand on Violet's arm, "is what you intend to do with the book once you have it?"

Her daughter's eyes cleared, and she drew a deep breath. "Why, give it back to him, of course. As a wedding present."

"Oh, dear." Chrystabel's own eyes glazed over. Her eldest was getting married. "I was hoping you'd say that."

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Her parents watched while Rand handed Violet the book. She clutched it to her chest, wishing she were clutching its owner instead. But she hoped to be clutching Ford soon enough.

"Father's solicitor will send the money tomorrow. You won't tell Ford who really bought it, will you? Even though he's your friend?"

"My best friend. But I wouldn't dream of it. Your secret is safe with me."

"You're a good friend, Rand."

He nodded toward the book. "So are you."

She sent him a tremulous smile. Ford would have her inheritance now, but if she felt a tiny pang at the loss of her own dream to publish a book, it was completely eclipsed by the joy of finding love. True love. A lifetime of love was so much more precious than any academic goal she might reach as a lonely old lady.

"Thank you, Rand. For everything."

"You're more than welcome." He turned to leave, then swiveled back. "Where's your sister Lily?"

"Outside, I believe. Tending to her poor, bedraggled menagerie."

His eyes lit, and he looked to her father. "May I have your permission to stop and visit with her?"

Father blinked. "What?"

"Joseph," Chrystabel explained loudly, "Lord Randal is asking if he might visit with Lily."

"I have lilies in the garden."

"Of course you do, darling." She smiled at Rand. "Go ahead. I expect Lily will be pleased. But she's young, Lord Randal. So visiting is all that will happen."

Wide-eyed, he nodded and left.

Slack-jawed, Violet turned to her mother. "Lily?" she asked. "What about Rose? If she hears of this, she'll be furious."

"I'm not telling her," Mum said. "Are you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Tell who what?" asked Father.

Two weeks later, Ford paced Lakefield House, satisfied with the progress of the renovations. Not that everything was complete—even with an army of skilled laborers, there was only so much one could accomplish in two weeks. But the roof was sound, and the exterior was a gleaming white. The garden had been cleared, and if it had a way to go before one could call it beautiful, even Ford's untrained eye could see promise in all the new plants and flowers.

And he could easily find his sundial now. A quick glance told him it was nearly noon—nearly time for Violet to arrive from Trentingham.

He felt as though he'd waited his entire life for this moment. Thanks to the sale of Secrets of the Emerald Tablet, Lakefield shone not only in ways that showed, but behind the scenes. The latest farming implements were on order, and tenants were moving into the newly refinished cottages. The estate hummed with productivity and the promise of more to come. The threat of foreclosure was behind him, and despite spending a prodigious amount of money to accomplish his goals, he had enough funds remaining to live well for a few months until Lakefield started producing the tidy income it should.

He'd been surprised to find he didn't mind the labors of a landowner, either. Although it would never replace the scientific work that claimed his heart, it was satisfying to use one's brains and brawn to improve a place of one's own. He wasn't facing the months and years ahead with dread, but rather with anticipation of watching his efforts pay off.

No matter how painful it had been to sell the book, he knew he'd done the right thing—and, for perhaps the first time in his life, the responsible thing.

While he wouldn't be the one to bring the Philosopher's Stone to the world, Violet meant the world to him, anyway. If he could only see that long-sought-after acceptance in her eyes, it would all have been worth it.

His stomach knotted at the sight of an approaching carriage.

Here was his moment of truth.

He'd done right by Lakefield and all its people. He'd secured a future for his children, and his own future along with it.

But if Violet refused to share it with him, it would be a bleak future indeed.

After waiting what seemed an eternity while she wondered if Ford had taken her goodbye to heart, Violet had been confused when a note arrived inviting her entire family to dine at Lakefield House this afternoon.

Now on their way, she twisted her hands in her lap, not really listening to her sisters and Rowan chatter in the carriage. As they approached Lakefield, she leaned to part the carriage curtains. A trickle of relief stole through her when she saw Ford pacing by the door, apparently as impatient as she.

Chrystabel placed her gentle fingers over Violet's busy ones. "Are you ready?"

"For what?" Rose asked.

Violet exchanged a glance with Mum. "Just to visit," she said in as offhand a manner as she could. "You needn't read something into every sentence."

"What are you reading?" Father asked.

"Egad." Violet took a deep breath as the carriage rolled to a stop. They were here. Whatever was going to happen would happen now. She'd never considered herself much of an actress, but she had a role to play today, and she intended to do it well.

Ford greeted them outdoors with a formal reserve that did nothing to relieve her fears, inviting them all for a tour of the house before dinner. Violet followed him, wondering what her parents would think, whether they would still bless this possible marriage when they saw how poorly he lived.

But then she stepped inside.

The old dark paneling in the entrance hall was now a honeyed tone, and their first tour stop was the drawing room, where the floor had been stripped and polished, the walls painted a soft turquoise in place of the faded red.

"This is lovely," Rose said in awe.

Had Rose seen the place last week, Violet thought, she'd be making one of her saucebox remarks instead.

But the room was lovely. Unbelievably lovely.

"I still need to order furniture," Ford explained, "and draperies." He looked to Violet. "I've no eye for decor, so I'm hoping for help with that."

She nodded, hoping he was hoping for her help. Hoping she hadn't spoiled her chances by refusing him one time too many.

His study was similarly refurbished, done in shades of cinnamon and olive green. Gone was the ugly brown decor in the dining room, replaced with walls of deep burgundy to set off the refinished cabinetry.

Hilda was setting the table. "It will be half an hour or more before dinner," she told Ford, "but I've set out some victuals in the garden."

"We're going there straight after our tour," he assured her.

"The garden?" asked Father.

Hilda smiled and raised her voice. "If you'll but wait a moment, Lord Trentingham, I'll show you outside."

The rest of them headed upstairs. The staircase had new, polished balusters, and the steps didn't creak. "I've hired a cook," Ford told Violet as they walked up, "so Hilda is just a housekeeper now."

In Ford's bedchamber, the peeling ceiling had been stripped, revealing dark beams with colorful painted designs from some fanciful former owner. "It's changed so much," Violet breathed.

Lily's eyes were round blue orbs. "You've been in here before?"

Violet's face burned. "Not here. I meant the house in general."

The chamber looked entirely different. The massive oak canopy bed had been refinished to a warm tone, and the old bed-hangings were gone. The room next door had been opened to combine with this one, providing a sitting and dressing area, currently furnished with the same settle, chair, and table that had been in the space when it was separate.

"I thought it would be nice to have more furniture in the room," Ford said, capturing Violet's gaze. "I envision changing it to something more comfortable. Except for that chair. For some odd reason, I'm rather attached to that plain oak chair."

"Why?" Lily asked, clearly confused.

Ford only shrugged, while Violet focused on the shiny wood floor.

"'You cannot conceal love or a cough,'" Rowan read slowly, and she turned gratefully to see an inscription above the door.

"That was there already," Ford rushed to explain, looking a little uneasy at hearing the romantic sentiment aloud. "We found it beneath layers of paint."

Mum smiled. "It's a clever turn of phrase."

He nodded, shooting Violet a significant glance. "I suppose I agree with it, too."

"You should marry him," Rose whispered as they left the room. "He even has a nice house."

For once, Violet wasn't tempted to slap her middle sister. And if she was reading Ford's silent messages correctly, this wedding was going to happen.

Buoyed by that thought, she practically floated into the next room, a small one painted pale green.

Ford told them it was "Jewel's room."

"Will Jewel come to visit and sleep here?" Rowan asked.

"I hope so."

"Me, too." Apparently, now that he was no longer scratching, he'd forgotten that Jewel had laughed at him.

"There are two other chambers off the corridor," Rose pointed out. "Why did we walk past those?"

"I haven't done anything with them yet. I'm hoping to fix one up as a nursery."

Another unspoken message, one that made all the eyes in the chamber seem to converge on Violet. She was finding it hard to breathe.

When Rowan yelled, "Come see the laboratory!" she could have kissed him. They all trooped up to the attic. Nothing had changed in that room, but she wouldn't have wanted it to. It was Ford, plain and simple.

She didn't remember drifting down the stairs, but a few minutes later they'd joined her father in the garden, where he was in the middle of explaining the newest pruning techniques to poor old Harry.

Leaving her family to the refreshments Hilda had set out, Ford drew Violet aside. "Come with me," he whispered. "I've something else to show you." And he walked her around the corner of the house.

There, hanging from three oaks, were three swings: two regular swings and one wider version that was more than just ropes and a board. It had a back and armrests as well.

A swing for two.

"For us," Ford said softly, taking her hand to lead her toward it. "I remembered how you like to swing."

"Not too high," she reminded him, suddenly nervous. "I notice you didn't hang them on trees near the river. Are the other two for Jewel and Rowan?"

"For now." His hand squeezed hers. "But I hope different children will use them someday. Our children."

"Ford…" Faith, how did one tell a man she wanted to live with him all of her life? She had no experience with this sort of thing.

But he didn't seem to be expecting an answer now. Reaching the double swing, he smiled and said, "Sit," just like that day on the riverside.

Slanting him a glance, she did so, and he stepped behind her. She waited for him to push, but instead he tilted her back, just like the day on the riverside. And when he drew off her spectacles and lowered his mouth to meet hers, it was just like that day, too.

Except it wasn't, because they hadn't really known each other then. Their upside-down kiss that day had been shocking and exciting, where today's was tender and heartfelt. They were once again kissing each other's bottom lip, but this time her heart turned upside down in the process.

It was a good thing she was seated, she thought as he drew away and the swing bobbed upright. Because her knees were so weak, she doubted they would support her.

He gave her a gentle push. "What do you think of the house?"

"I think…" Here came the acting. She wouldn't dream of ruining the surprises—either his to her now, or hers to him later—by revealing she'd been the one to buy the book. Even though the white lie weighed a bit on her conscience, that wouldn't be fair to either of them.

"I think I'm confused," she said, thankful he couldn't see her face. Without her spectacles, the river looked blurry in the distance.

He pushed her again. "Confused about what, sweetheart?"

The endearment filled her with a cautious thrill. "About everything. Why was this place so run down if you could afford to fix it up? Just because you never lived here?"

"No," he said without hesitation. He wasn't going to try to hide anything from her, and she loved him all the more for it. "I thought I could afford to fix it up, but that turned out not to be true. Until I asked Rand to sell Secrets of the Emerald Tablet for me." He walked around to face her. "He got ten thousand pounds."

She gasped. "Ten thousand pounds! Why…that's as much as my inheritance!"

"I know." Grabbing one rope, he stopped the swing and slid onto it. "It's amazing, isn't it? I suspect the buyer was Isaac Newton, since he'd pledged to double any other bid, but Rand told me the purchase was made on condition of anonymity."

"I wouldn't want anyone knowing I owned such a valuable thing, either." That much, at least, was the truth. "I expect it would make him a target for robbery."

"Perhaps." Raking a hand through his hair, Ford scooted closer, close enough to be in focus. He captured her gaze with those incredible blue eyes. "I hope this will change your mind."

"Ford, I'd already—"

"In a matter of months, Lakefield will be earning a goodly profit." He pushed off with both feet, setting the swing to swaying. "You can marry me now without fear that I'll spend your inheritance and rob you of your dream to publish."

As though battered by the back-and-forth motion, her heart hurt. "Is that what you thought? That I valued a philosophy book over you?"

Suddenly she could see where he could have inferred as much, and her shame escalated beyond bearing. Her throat tightened painfully.

"I would never put a book before you," she choked out. He hadn't valued a book over her, either. He'd sold his precious alchemy book to win her. "Never. It's just…well, I couldn't bring myself to believe anyone would want me for myself. It was my failing, not yours. I'm sorry."

Tears welled, and one rolled down her cheek.

She wasn't acting now.

He reached to wipe away the moisture, his fingers a warm promise on her skin. "Don't cry," he said as the swing slowed to a halt. "Just say yes. Please. Marry me."

"I'd be honored," she whispered.

He caught her up in a hug so tight it threatened to crack her ribs. "I love you," he said. "Have I told you I love you?"

"Only about a million times." She laughed through her tears. "But I've neglected to tell you the same."

His eyes looked anxious. "I'm waiting."

She kissed him on the lips. "I love you, Ford Chase." His mouth felt warm and dear on hers, and she kissed him again, thrilled when he pulled her closer and deepened it.

She sank into the embrace. The blood thrummed through her veins as his kiss convinced her she was his—and his alone. She hadn't known it, but she'd been waiting for this all her life. This love, this trust, this acceptance of her as a woman.

There was that weakness again, those languid waves of pleasure flowing through her. That heat was building inside, that ache to take him into her and make him a part of her forever.

She wanted him. Here, now, today, tomorrow, for all time.

"I love you," she said again breathlessly when he finally pulled back. "And faith," she added with a shaky laugh, "I think I would've let you take me right here on this swing."

That devilish brow lifted. "We'll have to experiment with that sometime."

Not only would she not put it past him, she looked forward to it.

A smile curved his lips as he toyed with a lock of her hair. "Before you change your mind, I expect I should ask your father for your hand."

"Is that why you invited my whole family? Planning ahead?" she teased, reaching to his pocket for her spectacles. "All right, then. Just don't forget to shout."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

"Six months," Mum said after the congratulations and the hugs and the kisses. "It will take that long to arrange everything and allow people time to make plans to attend."

"Tomorrow," Ford countered loudly, evidently remembering Violet's instructions to shout.

"Tomorrow!" Rose snorted. "Madame Beaumont cannot make a wedding gown by tomorrow."

He turned to Violet. "Tell me you're not going to London to order a gown."

She shrugged. She was a newcomer to caring about fashion and knew nothing about planning events. "Three months?"

"One week."

At that point, Father pulled Mum aside for a whispered conversation. Mum's mouth fell open, and she nodded violently before turning back.

"Two weeks," she said, "and that's final."

Two weeks later, Violet's wedding day had arrived, and she still wondered about her parents' whispered discussion in Lakefield's garden. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she'd heard the words "with child."

She'd been mortified at the time to find they suspected she'd shared Ford's bed, although between then and now she'd found herself a bit sad to learn she hadn't conceived.

Maybe this month, she thought with a secret smile as Margaret finished threading a pale blue ribbon in her hair. Truth be told, she couldn't wait to get back in his arms.

The two weeks since her betrothal had been excruciating. Odd how her parents had become so vigilant all of a sudden, when earlier they'd seemed so lax. She hadn't found more than five minutes alone with Ford at any one time. Barely time to steal a kiss, and she ached for so much more than that.

"Why are you smiling?" Rose asked, watching Violet's face in her dressing table mirror. "Brides are supposed to be nervous."

"I'm not," Violet told her. She wasn't nervous in the least. This marriage was so right. Mum had been wrong to think Ford was too intellectual for her—so wrong she wondered if Chrystabel might be losing her matchmaking touch.

When her maid left, she stood and turned to face her sisters.

"You look beautiful," Lily breathed.

Today, in her pale blue satin wedding gown, Violet felt beautiful. Still smiling to herself, she absently traced the pearls embroidered in scrolling designs on her stomacher. It no longer mattered that she would never be as pretty as either of her sisters. The man she loved wanted her, and that was all that counted.

"You should leave off your spectacles," Rose said. "At least for the ceremony."

"No." She wanted to see everything clearly, especially Ford's eyes when they exchanged vows. "Ford said I look fine in them. And I believe him."

"I told you that you should marry him." Though Rose's voice sounded gloating, Violet didn't care. "Just think, Violet," she continued, her tone changing to one of half awe, half envy. "Tonight you're going to learn the secrets of the Master-piece."

"Oh, Rose," Lily started, but then a knock came at the door and she went to answer it.

"A delivery," the majordomo said, holding out a long, flat box. "From Lord Lakefield to Lady Violet."

"Thank you, Parkinson." Lily shut the door and carried the small wooden box over to Violet. "What do you suppose it could be?"

"Jewelry, I'm sure," Rose said. "It's a wedding present, after all. A necklace, I'd wager, from the shape of the box. Maybe diamonds."

"I think not." Generous though he might be, Ford was focused on the estate these days, and Violet doubted he had enough of her ten thousand pounds left to feel comfortable spending money on diamonds.

The box was tied—very crookedly—with a purple ribbon Violet thought she remembered seeing in Jewel's hair. "Open it," Rose said, reaching for it. "I'm dying to see what he gave you."

Violet pushed her sister's hand away and untied the bow herself, then lifted the box's lid.

"A feather!" Lily exclaimed. A question lit her gorgeous blue eyes.

"A feather?" Rose's lovely brow creased in a puzzled frown. "What kind of wedding present is that?"

Her heart suddenly racing, Violet shrugged and hid another smile. She already knew the secrets of the Master-piece, but it was obvious her sisters didn't.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

As evening fell, it began raining. Violet stood with Ford and her family within Trentingham's covered portico, watching the last of the guests sprint to their carriages while she waited to say good-bye to her father.

"It was a nice wedding," Mum said, "wasn't it?"

Violet sighed. "I can hardly remember it."

"Perhaps you've had too much champagne?" That hint of the devil was in Ford's eyes. "I remember it perfectly. A rather solemn ceremony, right here in Trentingham's chapel." It hadn't been solemn at all. Violet's lips twitched as he continued. "I have lingering impressions of much Tudor woodwork and jewel-toned stained glass, with my beautiful bride a glorious vision in blue."

Lily giggled. She'd definitely had too much champagne. "I cannot believe so many people showed up with only two weeks' notice! All of Father's friends from Parliament, and your friends from the Royal Society—"

"And everyone Mum knows," Rose cut in. She was still drinking champagne. "Which means everyone who lives within a twenty-mile radius."

Ignoring her middle daughter, Chrystabel smiled at Ford. "You have very nice friends."

Although Violet would swear her mother had once referred to Ford's friends as "that odd group of scientists," today she'd seemed to hang on their every word. "I saw you chatting with Mr. Hooke's 'housekeeper,'" she teased Mum.

"I enjoyed chatting with Rand," Rose said dreamily, taking another sip. "And dancing with him."

Rand had danced with Lily more often, but apparently Rose hadn't noticed. Meeting Lily's guilty gaze, Violet decided to hold her tongue on that subject. "I think at least two hundred people tried on my spectacles. My face hurts from smiling."

Making sympathetic noises, Ford pulled her close. "My poor wife," he said, kissing her softly.

"Ewww." Rowan made a face. "More kisses."

Everyone laughed. Earlier, Jewel had informed Rowan her Auntie Cait said kissing was encouraged at weddings, then planted one smack on his lips. Violet had never seen anyone turn quite so red as her brother.

"Here we are," Father announced, coming out with a footman bearing the last of Violet's trunks. He kissed her on the cheek. "I hope we'll still see you around here."

"Oh, it's time," Mum said with a sniffle, and wrapped her in a hug.

Rose drained the last of her champagne. "I want a full report on your wedding night. Tomorrow."

"Oh, Rose," Violet said with a groan. But she kissed her anyway. Tearing up, she gathered Lily and Rowan close.

"Enough," Ford said. "Any more of this, and you'll all turn to mush and be washed away by the rain."

He grabbed Violet's hand, and they made a dash for the carriage. She barely had time to lift her skirts before he grabbed her by the waist to swing her up and inside.

"I thought we'd never get out of there," he complained as the door shut behind them and he dragged her into his arms. She'd been dying to be alone with him, too, and when he crushed his lips to hers, his kiss was hot and wild and wonderful. That delicious heat started spiraling through her.

But when the carriage lurched to begin the short, jarring journey to her new home, they bumped noses and then teeth. She laughed, smiling up at him as she snuggled closer.

Rain beat on the carriage's roof, a soothing tattoo that made her feel even more warm and cozy and protected by her new husband.

"I've decided," Ford said, "that rain brings me luck."

"Because it sent everyone home early?"

"That, too," he said cryptically.

She felt entirely too drained to figure out what he meant. For a woman who preferred not to be the center of attention, the day had proved both exhilarating and exhausting. "Mum was right. It was a nice wedding."

"You can thank me for that. I extracted Colin's vow, under pain of death, there would be no practical jokes."

"He wouldn't," she protested. "Not at a wedding."

"I can see you don't yet know my brother. Ask Kendra and Caithren about their weddings sometime."

"I will," she said, very much looking forward to that. "I like your family."

"I was sure they'd scare you away. They're loud, and meddlesome—"

"And they love you."

"I know," he said. "And now that I've married you, I'm hoping they'll approve of me, too."

She didn't quite understand what he meant by that either, but it sounded like something better discussed another time.

A few minutes passed in companionable silence. Then his arm tightened around her shoulders, and his voice turned low and velvet-edged. "Have you brought the feather?"

She'd spent the entire day thinking about that feather. Her heart suddenly pounding, she reached into her bodice and pulled it out, its satiny edges tickling between her breasts as the length of it slid free.

His eyes widened, and a grin spread on his face. He took the plume and tickled her nose, then pressed a slow kiss to the top of her head. A kiss so cherishing, she felt tears spring to her eyes.

"Oh, Ford," she whispered, holding him closer, breathing in his heady patchouli scent. He trailed the feather across her lips and down the length of her neck, swirling it on the skin exposed by her wedding gown's low décolletage.

She shivered, remembering his words. I'm going to save that for our wedding night. And then she shuddered, a luxurious shudder she felt clear down to her toes.

His smile now was pure male as he used the feather to tilt up her chin. "Darling, is that ardor I'm detecting?"

Later, she wouldn't remember how she made it into the house. She wouldn't remember how she came to be unclothed. She wouldn't remember how she ended up on that towering four-poster bed now hung with new blue brocade.

But she would never, in her entire life, forget the feel of the feather she'd been anticipating all the long day of her wedding.

He had that feather dancing over every inch of her body, brushing, grazing, skimming, raising gooseflesh, and igniting delicious shivers. Her sensitized skin prickled with pleasure, yet the physical sensations paled compared to the love that swelled in her heart. Captured in his intimate gaze, she felt a sense of belonging she'd never imagined possible.

That ache was building, that hot ache that made her yearn for him to complete her. When the feather had kissed every part of her but there where the ache was centered, Ford dropped it and closed his eyes, bringing his mouth to meet hers.

This kiss was a promise, a vow, more binding than any words they'd recited in the chapel. She sank into its velvet warmth, savoring its wordless pledge. And when it turned demanding and hungry, the thrill of it sang through her veins, making her breath catch and her heart stutter and restart, then race in response to his fervor.

When he broke the kiss, she released a long, languid sigh. He kissed the corner of her mouth. He kissed her chin and her cheeks. He kissed his way lower. Rain pattered against the window as his mouth worshipped her body, a damp trail of kisses that touched every place the feather had touched earlier.

Every place but where she most wanted him.

He kissed her shoulders, her breasts, her rib cage, rolling her over to make certain no inch of flesh went unadored. His lips traced her spine, moving lower. He nipped her toes, his tongue flicking at her arches.

Her fingers clutched at the sheets, and she heard little moans and realized they were hers. Rolling her to her back once again, he kissed his way up her calves, her knees, urging her thighs apart to rain their delicate skin with more kisses. So close to where she ached to have him join her.

When he paused, her eyes flew open. She looked down to find his head was raised, and he was measuring her with that deep blue gaze. In the sudden stillness, her breath sounded harsh, her heartbeat unnaturally loud. He reached once more for the feather…

And then slowly, slowly traced it down the cleft where she ached.

And again.

The strokes were gossamer, the sensations ethereal, tantalizingly exquisite. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, squirming under the assault, throwing her head back in wild abandon. Again and again, and the heat was spreading, every nerve in her body alive, tingling, aroused nearly beyond bearing.

The storm intensified, both outdoors and within her. Rain slashed against the windows as he tossed the plume and replaced it with his tongue—a shocking caress, so hot and slick and intimate she thought she might die, might simply expire from a surfeit of sensation. It was building, that urgent sweetness, that raging desire. It seemed to be lifting her up toward the heavens.

A flash of lightning was followed by a rumble that matched the thundering of her pulse. Her entire world centered on where he was licking and suckling, and then, when she was certain her heart would burst from pleasure, he slipped a finger inside her, too, and she rocketed into the clouds.

It was a long, long fall back down. Plunging, spinning, tumbling, until at last she found herself grounded and back in his arms. For long moments she lay there, waiting for her heart to slow, her breathing to calm.

And then, starting over with the feather, she did to him all the things he'd done to her.

Ford inhaled her sweet scent, the essence of Violet. She smelled of flowers and desire, and every touch of the plume, every brush of her fingers and lips made him more certain of the rightness of them together. Her brandy-wine eyes were glazed, flooded with passion, and an answering passion flooded his heart. A depth of wanting he'd never even imagined.

It was the difference between mere lust and true love. The difference that made his blood pump when before it had only flowed. The difference that aroused him nearly to the point of pain.

The difference that made her his.

Her mouth on him was sweet and hot, and he shuddered beneath her, her tender onslaught robbing him of his wits and his breath. And when at last he couldn't stand any more, and he drew away and covered her with his body and slid into her welcoming warmth, he knew he was home. Home was wherever Violet was, and Violet was right here.

He shifted slowly within her, forcing himself to hold back, wanting to give her all the pleasure she was giving him. But her hands on his hips urged him on. And when he felt her peak for a second time, his heart gloried as he went with her.

For a very long time, he held her in his arms, kissing her hair and drawing in its sweet scent. He didn't want to let go, didn't want to move, didn't want to break the spell. Usually one to turn over and go to sleep, he decided she must have enchanted him.

"I have a wedding present for you," she said softly.

"Damnation." The moment lost, he kissed her again, then sat up against the headboard. "I have nothing for you."

"You sent me the feather, remember? And the ring is more than enough." She smiled at it in the candlelight. Like Violet, it was simple: one large, rectangular amethyst with a row of small diamonds flanking each side. "It sparkles so," she said. "It's the prettiest ring I've ever seen."

"A violet-colored gem for Violet. Amy made it. Especially for you."

"But she'd only met me the once!"

"I think she captured you perfectly, though."

"She did." Still smiling, she dropped her hand. "Let me get your gift."

When she slid from the bed and walked across the room, all he could think was that Violet undressed was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Gorgeous breasts rose above a curvy waist his hands itched to span. Flared hips led to long, shapely legs. Who'd ever have guessed all that was hidden beneath her plain gowns?

"Stop," he said. "Right there."

"What?" Her eyes darted furtively around. "Is there another hairy spider?"

"No." He laughed. "I just wanted to look at you. You're perfect."

"I am not." Self-consciously she folded her arms across her breasts. "I'm neither tall like Rose, nor petite like Lily. Neither plump nor slender."

"Exactly. You're perfect. Now, what have you brought me?"

"Just this." Slipping back into the bed, she handed him a package wrapped in fabric, gathered and tied with ribbons on both ends.

He felt its shape. "A book? For a wedding present?"

"Just open it." She grinned, looking so excited he thought if he didn't hurry, his beautiful, naked wife might actually bounce on the bed.

He pulled off the ribbons, letting the fabric fall open.

And the breath left his body.

He stared down at it a moment, then raised his gaze to meet hers. "Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. How—how did you get this?"

"I bought it. With my inheritance."

"From Newton?"

"From you."

He pushed it into her hands. "Give it back. I won't have you sacrificing your own dreams for this book. I've already given it up, and I'm not sorry for the bargain." His voice sounded rough to his own ears, and he forced himself to gentle it. "It's not that I'm ungrateful, my love. It's just that—"

"No. You're not understanding. I bought it, Ford. In the first place. Rand told me you'd instructed him to sell it, and I couldn't allow that to happen. I couldn't let you sacrifice your prized possession just to convince me of your love."

His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. It was a moment before words would come, and when they finally did, he had only three.

"I love you."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

It wasn't the first morning Ford had awakened with a woman in his bed, but it was the first time with Violet. The first time that really counted.

At first he just lay there a while, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, enjoying the color he'd put in her cheeks, her lips still rosy from their middle-of-the-night encounters. Finally, unable to help himself, he reached out, brushing the side of her face with the backs of his fingers.

"Ford?"

"Hush, my sweet. Sleep."

With a sigh, he rose so she could do so. Quietly he padded to the washbasin and splashed his face, then reached for a towel.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

What kind of a man was he? He'd thought he was doing the right thing, the responsible thing, when he'd sold the book to save Lakefield. He'd been so pleased with himself when he'd managed to make his home livable and still have money leftover to last for a while until the estate could turn a profit. It was the first time in his life he hadn't spent every shilling the moment he laid hands on it.

Last night, when Violet returned the book, he'd been stunned and thrilled to discover the depth of her love and generosity. But as he studied himself this morning, reality set in.

Bloody hell, her money had paid for everything. And would continue to pay their expenses for the next few months, at least.

He closed his eyes, guilt battering his newfound happiness. Never mind that he was accustomed to living hand to mouth, he was now a married man. Shouldn't he be the provider?

Society said not necessarily, but his heart told him yes. Especially because he'd been telling Violet that all along.

Straightening, he looked in the mirror again and ordered himself to come to terms with it. Like it or not, his new wife had been his anonymous benefactor. At this point, all he could do was resolve to work hard, and not in his laboratory. Instead, on his land and in his study—he would do whatever it took to make sure his renovated estate proved successful.

As he tossed the towel to the washstand, his gaze fell on Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. He would ask Rand—the scheming bastard—to resume the translation, too. But he would no longer depend on an ancient book to rescue him. Gold wasn't waiting at the end of rainbows. Or in an alchemy crucible, either.

Someday, somehow, he would provide Violet with the funds to publish her book. But the way it looked now, he thought with a resigned sigh, "someday" was far in the future.

A knock came at the bedroom door. He hurried into his breeches and went to answer it.

"Will you be wanting breakfast, milord?"

He looked from Hilda to Violet. "In an hour," he whispered. "My wife is still abed."

My wife. His heart swelled at hearing his own words.

"She'll wake, will she not? It's hot and ready now. Eggs and cheese. This new French cook certainly is fancy." Hilda shoved a heavy tray into his hands. "Your mail is there, too."

Openmouthed, he watched her sway down the corridor before he shut the door. "If I cannot control my servants," he muttered, "how will I deal with my children?"

"You never did manage to control Jewel."

"Too true." He turned and put the tray on the bed. "You're awake."

"And famished." Violet struggled to sit and spooned up a bite of the rich dish, puffed from oven baking and redolent with the scent of sharp Italian cheese.

He sat beside her and sipped coffee from a steaming cup. Setting it down, he took the first letter and snapped open the seal.

"'Dear Lord Lakefield,'" he read aloud, thinking it might be a congratulatory note on their wedding. "'I am writing on behalf of my client, Daniel Quare, Watchmaker, who is very interested in buying the rights to produce your patented watch. Please find enclosed a contract—'" He looked up. "What the devil…?"

Violet's face was pure white. "Oh my. They've responded. I gave them two weeks, and it's been way over that, so—"

"You gave them two weeks to what?"

"To agree to buy your watch before I took my offer elsewhere. Your offer, I mean." Some color rushed back into her cheeks. "I signed your name."

His wife was obviously confused from lack of sleep. "I haven't patented my watch, darling. I haven't even shown it to the Royal Society yet—"

"I patented it. I wrote Christopher Wren and asked for instructions. I remembered him saying he'd patented a device for writing with two pens at once."

"You sold my watch?" It was all beginning to click into place. Shaking his head in disbelief, he scanned farther down the page. His heart stopped. "You sold my watch for twenty thousand pounds? Twenty thousand pounds!"

His heart had started again, but it was about to hammer right through his ribs.

"Twenty thousand?" She grabbed the letter from him. "Is that all they've offered?" she said, sounding disgusted.

"All? All! Violet, it's twice the amount of your inheritance!"

She looked up from the page. "But I asked for twenty-five. What makes them think they can get away with a contract for twenty?"

He started laughing. And laughing. "T-t-t-twenty-five," he forced out. "You asked for twenty-five."

"And royalties. Was it not enough?" she asked. "I know your design is revolutionary, but I thought twenty-five thousand pounds was…well, you're worth more than that, of course. You're priceless."

"You're priceless," he said. "Give me back that contract."

"You're not going to sign it, are you? I hope not. They didn't offer enough. We need to negotiate."

"Oh, I'm signing it, Violet." To make certain she wouldn't stop him, he rolled the paper and stuck it in his breeches. "I wasn't planning to do anything with the watch, remember? Thanks to you, I'm about to be a wealthy man."

Thanks to his ambitious, practical, intelligent wife—a woman who embodied all the things he'd once thought unimportant in a female—"someday" had just come a lot sooner than he'd ever dreamed.

His mind raced with plans. "I can sink more money into Lakefield or buy a second estate. Or both." He grinned. "I can finance the publication of my brilliant wife's book."

She cracked a small smile, a smile that stole his heart. "Do you suppose that can wait a while?" she asked. "I'm hoping to raise some children first, with your help."

She made him happy. Damn, he was happy. Happy with his wife, happy with his life.

"Hmm," he said, watching her speculatively. "I believe we'll have to make those children first."

And lowering his lips to hers, he poured all his love into a kiss.

EPILOGUE

Seven months later

Violet was reading in bed when Ford burst into the chamber. "I've just had a message from Jason. Cait is delivering their babe, and the family is gathering at Cainewood to celebrate. If we leave soon enough, you may even witness the birthing."

"That would be nice," she said dreamily, toying absently with the cover of her book.

"What's that?" He walked closer. "Aristotle's Master-piece again? Surely there's nothing in there you still don't understand." His lips curved in a suggestive half-smile. "If so, I'd be willing to give you more lessons."

She sat up against the headboard and grinned. "I'm thinking I could give you lessons by now. But I'm suddenly interested in this particular chapter. Listen." She patted the bed beside her and waited for him to sit. "'Signs taken from the woman are these. The first day she feels a light quivering or chillness running through the whole body; a tickling in the womb, a little pain in the lower part of the belly—'"

"What the devil?"

"Just listen." She turned the page. "'Ten or twelve days after, the head is affected with giddiness, the eyes with dimness of sight—'"

"Violet—"

"'—the breasts swell and grow hard, with some pain and prickling in them'"—smiling to herself, she pulled off her spectacles—"'the belly soon sinketh, and riseth again by degrees, with a hardness about the navel.'" Though her husband's breathing was sounding a bit ragged, she kept reading. "'The nipples of the breast grow red, the heart beats inordinately, the natural appetite is dejected, yet she has a longing desire for—'"

Ford's hand clenched her arm. "What's the title of this chapter?"

She turned back to the previous page. "'Of the Signs of Conception.'"

When she looked up, his heart was in his shining blue eyes. "Does this mean…?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I hope you're pleased."

And a heartbeat later, he gathered her into his arms, telling her without words just how very pleased he was.

Apparently being with child had some effect on her responses. When his mouth met hers, her head was affected with giddiness, and a delicious heat started spiraling through her, making her heart beat inordinately. His hands went to her breasts, and she felt some swelling and prickling…

Wait, she thought, with what little sense she had left. He always made her feel those things.

Always.

They were going to be late to Cainewood.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear Reader,

It goes without saying that Ford didn't invent frames to hold spectacles on the face—credit for that goes to a London optician named Edward Scarlett, who came up with the idea in 1730. The first spectacles for reading were made in the late 13th century (and the first ones for distance about 300 years later), but before Scarlett's innovation they were simply held to the face or balanced on the nose—momentarily helpful, but not something one could wear all day long. I like to think that if Ford Chase had really lived, he'd have been brilliant enough to invent eyeglass frames half a century earlier.

Although the minute hand began appearing on watches around 1675, it's not clear who managed it first. Obviously someone missed a chance at a profitable patent! Everyone agrees the two-handed watch was developed in England, but some historians claim that Daniel Quare was the first to sell such a timepiece, while some say it was Thomas Tompion or others. But what does seem to be clear is that the minute hand was made possible by Robert Hooke's 1660 invention of the spiral spring, which brought watches from a totally unpredictable performance to within two or three minutes' accuracy a day.

A true genius, Robert Hooke did much more than revolutionize timekeeping; he also made important contributions in chemistry, meteorology, astronomy, and physics. Other scientists of the time are much revered today, including Isaac Newton, Christopher Wren, and Robert Boyle. Yet Hooke has been largely forgotten. Newton and Wren were both knighted, so why not Hooke, arguably a greater scientist? In 2003, Gresham College marked the 300th year of Hooke's death by a series of lectures designed to resurrect his reputation.

Gresham College has provided free public lectures in London for over 400 years. Over time, it's occupied several different locations. The lectures currently take place at Barnard's Inn Hall, in a building that dates from the late 14th century. To see the upcoming schedule, visit the college's website at http://www.gresham.ac.uk.

The Royal Society really was welcomed back to Gresham College in 1673, "with six quarts of each of canary, of Rhenish wine and of claret, and with fine cakes, macaroons and march-panes," as the City Archives describe an account of their entertainment. But the actual date of the celebration was Monday, December 1. I took the liberty of tweaking history a bit in moving the event to the warm summertime, so Ford could decorate the piazza. All of the people I mentioned at the ball were members at the time, including John Evelyn, best known for his diary that has given us a window into the Restoration period, and John Locke, whose ideas were a powerful influence on the subsequent history of the Western world. Thomas Jefferson called Locke one of "the three greatest men that have ever lived, without any exception," and drew heavily on his writings in drafting the Declaration of Independence.

Along with these men of note, I enjoyed bringing Hooke and the other scientists—and yes, alchemists—to life. Although the mere idea of making gold from base metals is a laughable one today, up until the mid-18th century it was considered a serious science. During the 1600s, most of the luminaries of the day practiced alchemy, King Charles included. Ironically, it was his chartering of the Royal Society that eventually led to alchemy's decline. In that ordered environment, modern chemistry and the new scientific methods taught men to free themselves from the old traditions and question theories that had prevailed for centuries.

Although I invented the title Secrets of the Emerald Tablet, Alexander the Great did claim to have discovered the Emerald Tablet in the tomb of the legendary Hermes, and medieval alchemist Raymond Lully was said to have written a treatise about it that subsequently disappeared. No one knows the title, however, and although other writings attributed to Lully survive, that particular one was never found.

A combination sex manual and advice to midwives, Aristotle's Master-piece first appeared in the late 1600s and by the turn of the century was a veritable bestseller—likely to be found in any newlywed couple's home. All of the words Violet and Ford read were actual passages from the book. Reflecting the attitudes of the time, this book presented sex as an act of pleasure without sin or guilt. In later years, of course, society became much more strait-laced about such matters, yet the Master-piece saw countless reprintings up until about 1900.

As usual, the homes I used in this story were based on real ones that you can visit. Though I moved it to the Thames, Lakefield House was loosely modeled on Snowshill Manor in Gloucestershire. Snowshill was owned by Winchcombe Abbey from the year 821 until the reign of Henry VIII in the 16th century, when, with the dissolution of the monasteries, it passed to the Crown. Thereafter it had many owners and tenants until 1919, when a man named Charles Paget Wade returned from the First World War and found it for sale. The house was derelict, the garden an overgrown jumble of weeds, including—of course!—a sundial. Wade bought Snowshill and restored it, removing the plaster ceilings, moving partitions back to their original places, unblocking fireplaces, and fitting Tudor paneling to many of the rooms to recapture the original atmosphere. He scorned the use of electricity and modern conveniences, so the house appears today much as it would have during Ford's time. Wade never lived in the house, instead using it to showcase his amazing collection of everyday and curious objects, literally thousands of items including musical instruments, clocks, toys, bicycles, weavers' and spinners' tools, and Japanese armor. The home is now owned by the National Trust and open April through October to view the house and collection.

Trentingham Manor was inspired by another National Trust property, The Vyne in Hampshire (which I also relocated to sit on the banks of the Thames). Built in the early 16th century for Lord Sandys, Henry VIII’s Lord Chamberlain, the house acquired a classical portico in the mid-17th century (the first of its kind in England) and contains a grand Palladian staircase, a wealth of old paneling and fine furniture, and a fascinating Tudor chapel with Renaissance glass. The Vyne and its extensive gardens are also open for visits April through October.

To see pictures and learn more about the real people and real places in Violet, please visit my website at http://www.LaurenRoyal.com, where you can also enter a contest, sign up for my newsletter, and find recipes for some of the 17th century foods that Violet and Ford enjoyed in this story. My favorite is the Cream Toast that they ate on the banks of the Thames, but I adore reader mail, so I hope you will e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com and tell me which one you like the best!

If you missed the stories about Ford Chase's siblings, you can find them in my previous books. In Amethyst, Colin Chase, the Earl of Greystone, falls for Amethyst Goldsmith, a completely unsuitable jeweler's daughter. Emerald is the tale of Jason Chase, the Marquess of Cainewood, and Caithren Leslie, a Scottish lass that he mistakenly believes to be a notorious bounty hunter. And in Amber, Kendra Chase meets her match in Patrick "Trick" Caldwell, a moody, mysterious highwayman who's really another man altogether.

To hear about my upcoming releases, my contests, and other news, please sign up for my newsletter, friend me on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter (@readLaurenRoyal) or Pinterest. I love to keep up with my readers!

I hope you enjoyed Violet—thank you for reading!

Till next time,

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks:

To the world's best critique partner, Terri Castoro, for sticking with me through the Twisted journey of publishing.

To this book's editor, Audrey LaFehr, for all her support and for believing in me.

To Jennifer Jahner, assistant editor, for cheerfully answering my endless questions.

To Jack and the kids, for smiling when I sold another trilogy even though it meant they'd hardly see me for a year and a half.

To fellow writers Cherie Claire and Glynnis Campbell, for always being just an e-mail away when I need help retaining my sanity.

To my son Brent, for creating my award-winning website, and to my husband Jack for maintaining it.

To Al Stewart, for writing "House of Clocks," a song that sounded so eerily like Ford Chase that it inspired me to rewrite the beginning of his story to make it start on St. Swithin's Day (check out Mr. Stewart's album Down in the Cellar if you'd like to hear it).

To Geoff Pavitt, Facilities Manager at Gresham College, for finding an incredible amount of information for me, including stuff I didn't even know I needed until he sent it.

To librarian Claire Andrews, at the Heritage Park Library in Irvine, California, for getting my books into Orange County's library system and for all her hard work finding obscure 300-year-old books and arranging inter-library loans for me.

To Peter Do and Martha Altieri, for the Latin translation.

To my dad, Herb Royal, for attempting the Latin translation, for taking Devonie on that weekly four-hour roundtrip for Highland dance lessons whenever my deadlines drew near, and also for giving me the taped documentary that inspired the premise for Amber (yeah, I should have mentioned that in Amber's acknowledgments—but better late than never, right?).

To my mom, Joan Royal, for never-ending sympathy and support.

To my official Beta Readers: Karen Nesbitt, Taire Martyn, Alison Bellach, and Jane Armstrong (and thanks, Jane, for naming Harry).

To Ken and Dawn Royal, for finding the time to read and comment on my manuscripts even with small babies in the house.

To my ever-faithful Publicity Team—Rita Adair-Robison, Debbie Alexander, Dick Alexander, Robin Ashcroft, Joyce Basch, Alison Bellach, Diana Brandmeyer, Carol Carter, Terri Castoro, Vicki Crum, Elaine Ecuyer, Dale Gordon, Darren Holmquist, Taire Martyn, Cindy Meyer, Sandy Mills, Amanda Murphy, Karen Nesbitt, DeeDee Perkins, Jack Poole, Caroline Quick, Joan Royal, Ken Royal, Stacey Royal, Wendi Royal, Diena Simmons, and Julie Walker—for their dedication to promoting my books.

And, as always, to all my readers, especially the ones who have taken the time to write and let me know how you feel about my stories.

Thank you, one and all!

For DeeDee Guiver Perkins,

Diena Brennan Simmons,

and Julie Bowring Walker,

who wore hoop skirts with me at the senior prom.

Our friendship means the world to me.

CHAPTER ONE

Trentingham Manor, the South of England

August 1677

He'd forgotten about her.

Well, maybe he hadn't quite forgotten about her, but he'd certainly put her out of his mind.

Well, maybe he hadn't quite put her out of his mind, but he'd known she was only sixteen. And sixteen was too young, so, being the sort of man he was—an honorable one, or so he liked to think—he'd made a conscious decision not to pursue her.

For the four long years since their last meeting, whenever thoughts of Lily Ashcroft had sneaked into Lord Randal Nesbitt's head, he'd reminded himself she was only sixteen.

But now, Rand realized with a start, she must be twenty.

Focused as Rand was, the priest's voice, reciting the baptism service, barely penetrated his thoughts. Nor did the wiggling month-old child in Rand's arms. Instead of looking at the altar, he gazed at Lily standing beside him in her family's oak-paneled chapel, her sister's other twin baby held close.

Twenty. A lovely dark-haired, blue-eyed twenty. A marriageable twenty.

In all of Rand's twenty-eight years, he'd never really considered marriage, so the notion was jarring.

"Having now," the priest continued, "in the name of these children, made these promises, wilt thou also on thy part take heed that these children learn the Creed, the Lord's Prayer, and the Ten Commandments, and all other things which a Christian ought to know and believe to his soul's health?"

"I will, by God's help," Lily replied softly. Gently, gazing down at the babe in her arms.

Rand was unsurprised. In four years she had changed, of course. But her gentleness, that innate sweetness, hadn't changed. Couldn't have changed. It was what made her Lily.

Ford Chase, Rand's friend—and father of the children in question—elbowed him in the ribs.

"Hmm?" Startled, Rand looked down to the lad he was holding, its bald little head patterned with colors made by sun streaming through the chapel's stained-glass windows. Ford's child, he thought, surprised by a rush of tenderness. Rand's godchild…or at least the tiny babe and his twin sister would be his godchildren once they managed to get through this interminable service.

"I will," he answered, echoing Lily's words and vaguely wondering what he'd just agreed to.

"By God's help," the priest prompted.

"By God's help."

God help him get through this ritual. Mass, and then a lesson, and now this ceremony at the font—Rand felt like he'd been standing on his feet forever. Delivering a two-hour lecture at Oxford wasn't nearly this exhausting. He feared his knees were locked permanently.

He wanted this to be over. He wanted to talk to Lily. Never mind that she'd barely noticed him. He'd arrived at the last minute and had no chance to greet her before this rigmarole all began.

The priest turned a page in his Book of Common Prayer. "Wilt thou take heed that these children, so soon as sufficiently instructed, be brought to the bishop to be confirmed by him?"

"I will." Rand and Lily said the words together this time. Their voices, he thought, sounded good together.

"Name these children."

The child squirmed in Rand's arms, choosing then to begin wailing. "Marcus Cicero Chase," Rand bellowed over the cries.

"Rebecca Ashcroft Chase," Lily said more softly and with a smile, even though the girl's cry had joined her twin brother's, seeming to fill the chapel all the way up to its sculpted Tudor ceiling.

Whoever would have thought such small infants could make such a huge racket?

The priest rushed to finish, scooping water into his hand. It trickled through his fingers, running in rivulets down the backs of the two babies' heads and landing on the colorful glazed tile floor. "I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost." He muttered some more words and made crosses on the children's foreheads. "Amen."

Amen. It was over. Well-wishers crowded close. Still holding his squalling godson, Rand turned to Lily.

She was gone.

How could she have disappeared so quickly? Using his height to advantage, he peered over heads. But she'd vanished.

Nearby, Ford held tiny Rebecca and was chatting with an older man. Lily's father, if Rand remembered right. Or rather, Ford was shouting at the man, since the Earl of Trentingham was hard of hearing.

Marveling that his tall, masculine friend looked so comfortable holding an infant, Rand shifted little Marc uneasily. Rebecca had stopped crying, apparently content in Ford's arms, but in Rand's arms, her twin brother still howled.

Glancing around for help, Rand was relieved to see Ford's wife, Violet, moving close. When she reached for her son, Rand gave her a grateful smile. But then he found himself oddly reluctant to hand Marc over. The babe might be loud, but he smelled sweet and had a pleasant, warm weight.

When Violet took him, Marc quieted immediately. Resisting the urge to run his fingers over that fuzzy little head, Rand leaned a hand on one of the intricate carved oak stalls. "I assume you chose his name, Marcus Cicero, for the philosopher."

Violet bounced the lad in her arms, her brown curls bouncing along with him. She looked more motherly than Rand usually pictured her. Did children change people so much? "It was only fair," she said. "Ford had the naming of our firstborn."

"Nicky? Ah, Nicolas Copernicus," Rand remembered. "Well, I suppose it's a better name than Galileo Galilei."

"Ford's other scientific hero?" She laughed, her brown eyes sparkling with humor behind the spectacles Ford had made for her. "Even he wouldn't saddle a good English child with Galileo for a name."

"And Rebecca? Who is she named after?"

"No one. I just like it. And there's never been a major female philosopher."

"Yet," Rand added, knowing Violet hoped to publish a philosophy book of her own someday.

"Yet," she confirmed with a nod, clearly appreciating his support. She touched her husband's arm, claiming his attention. "We'd best be heading home," she said when he turned, "or our guests will arrive there before us."

When Ford smiled at her, Violet's return smile transformed her face. Perhaps she wasn't as beautiful as her sisters, Lily and Rose, but she was attractive in her own, unique way, and it had nothing to do with the magnificent purple gown she'd donned for the baptism.

Moreover, it was obvious she made Ford happy. A sort of happiness that glowed from his eyes whenever he looked at her. A sort of happiness neither Rand nor Ford had dreamed of back in the days they attended university together.

It was frightening how much the man had changed.

Ford still held his new daughter, her tiny fist tangled in his long brown hair. Unable to resist this time, Rand skimmed his fingers over Rebecca's dark curls. "So soft," he murmured.

Violet nodded. "All babies are soft."

"I haven't touched a baby since I was a very small child myself."

"Really?" She looked surprised to hear that. "Well, someday you'll have children of your own."

"Perhaps," he allowed. "My favorite truism is 'never say never.' But God willing, should it happen, it won't be too soon."

Her laugh tinkled through the nearly empty chapel. "We really must be going."

"Come along, Rand," Ford said. "I want to show you the water closet I built. It's much better than the ones imported from France."

A smile curved Rand's lips as he followed them out the door. It seemed his friend hadn't changed that much, after all.

CHAPTER TWO

"What?" Lily laughed as her friend Judith Carrington pulled her toward a carriage. "What's so important you couldn't wait until we got to Violet's house to tell me? So important you made me almost drop my niece, not to mention nearly dislocated my arm dragging me out of there?"

Before climbing inside, Lily waved at her parents and sister Rose, lest they think she'd abandoned them. Hers was a handsome family, she thought suddenly. Her father, Joseph, was tall and trim, his eyes a deep green, his real hair still as jet-black as the periwig he wore for his grandchildren's baptism. Mum and Rose were both dark-haired and statuesque. They looked elegant in their best satin gowns, Chrystabel's a gleaming gold and Rose's a rich, shimmering blue.

Looking at them, one would never guess they were so eccentric.

Her mother waved back distractedly, holding her two-year-old grandson, Nicky, as she busily ushered guests out the door to their waiting transportation.

Feeling Judith's hand on her back, Lily laughed again and lifted her peach silk skirts to duck inside the carriage. "What?" she repeated.

"Oh, just this." Even though they weren't ready to leave, Judith pulled the door shut. Then she settled herself with a flounce. "I'm betrothed."

"Betrothed?" Lily blinked at her friend. "As in you're planning to wed?"

"Well, Mama is doing the planning. But it's ever so exciting. Come October, I'm going to be a married woman. Can you believe it, Lily?"

"No, I cannot believe it." The third of her friends to marry this year. Yesterday they'd been children; now suddenly they were supposed to be all grown-up. "Who will be your groom?" Lily asked.

"Lord Grenville. Didn't your mother tell you she'd suggested he offer for my hand? Father says it's a brilliant match."

Grenville was wealthy, but thirty-five years old to Judith's twenty. "Do you love him?" Lily wondered aloud. She hoped so. Judith was plump and pretty, but even more important, she was genuinely nice. A good friend who deserved happiness.

"I barely know him. But Mama assures me we'll grow to love each other—or get along tolerably, at least." The excitement faded from Judith's blue eyes, replaced with a tinge of anxiety. Her fingers worried the embroidery on her aqua underskirt. "It will all work out fine, I'm sure of it."

"I'm sure of it, too," Lily soothed, reaching across to take her friend's cold, pale hand. She squeezed, wishing she were as certain as she sounded. Lily's parents had promised their daughters they could choose their own husbands, but she knew it didn't work that way for most young women.

Her family was different. The Ashcroft motto—Interroga Conformationem, translated as Question Convention—said it all.

The Carringtons, on the other hand, were as conventional as roast goose on Christmas Day. Judith forced a smile and pushed back a lock of bright yellow hair that had escaped her careful coiffure. "Who was that handsome man who stood as godfather?"

Lily sat back. "One of Ford's old friends. Lord Randal Nesbitt."

"Wouldn't it be fun to be newly wedded together, have babies together?" Some of the color returned to Judith's cheeks. "You should marry him."

"Wherever did you get that idea?" Lily crossed her arms over the long, stiff stomacher that covered the laces on the front of her gown. "I barely know Rand."

"Rand," Judith repeated significantly, making it clear she'd noticed Lily's familiar use of the name. "What does that matter? I hardly know Lord Grenville, either. And believe me, he doesn't look at me the way Rand was looking at you."

"Looking at me?" Lily echoed weakly. She'd hardly looked at him at all. She'd been focused on the cooing baby in her arms, her sister's first daughter. Her first niece. Nicky was great fun, of course, but now she'd have a little girl to play house with, to fix her hair, to—

"Lord, he didn't take his eyes off you the entire time." Judith's lips curved in an impish grin. "Watching him was certainly more entertaining than the baptism."

Lily felt her face heat and wondered if Judith could be right—if instead of watching the ceremony, everyone had been watching Rand watch her.

But surely that hadn't been the case. Why would Rand be interested in her? The two of them had nothing in common. Her friend had seen something that wasn't there. "You just have the wedding fever," she said lightly, rubbing the faint scars on the back of her hand. "Besides, if he's interested in anyone, I'm sure it's Rose. They share a passion for languages."

"Ah," Judith said with a smug tilt of her pert nose. "You know more about the man than you're willing to admit."

Ignoring that, Lily leaned to look out the window. But there was a long queue of carriages. They were going nowhere.

"Who's that?" her friend asked, following her line of sight. "The girl in pink, coming out of the barn with your brother?"

"That's Jewel, Ford's niece. Rowan and she have been friends forever."

"What sort of friends? And what do you suppose they were doing alone together in a barn?"

"Goodness, Rowan is only eleven and Jewel ten. Your mind is too much on romance these days. Knowing the two, they were probably planning a practical joke."

"In a barn?"

Lily laughed at the expression on her friend's face. "Over the years, there's hardly a building on either property they haven't used to stage a prank."

Judith looked likely to say more, but the door popped open and her mother poked her head in. "Were you leaving without me, dear?"

"Of course not, Mama." Judith scooted over to make room. "We just came inside to talk."

A large, jolly woman, Lady Carrington wedged herself beside her daughter and tucked in her voluminous salmon skirts. Before her footman could shut the door, Lily's striped cat nimbly leapt inside.

Lady Carrington sneezed. "Shoo!" she exclaimed, waving a manicured hand at the hapless feline.

"Beatrix," Lily said softly, "you cannot ride in this carriage."

The cat gave her a hurt look but leapt out.

"Much better," Judith's mother said as the door shut. She turned to Lily. "This afternoon, I'm hoping your father will advise me about flowers for Judith's wedding."

The Earl of Trentingham was nothing if not an expert on flowers. "I'm certain Father will fancy being consulted," Lily assured her.

The carriage began moving at last. "I've my heart set on yellow flowers," Lady Carrington told Lily, "because Judith looks best in yellow. But she wants to be married in blue. What color will you wear for your wedding?"

"Blue is nice," Lily said with a vague smile.

She wasn't ready to think about weddings, and most certainly not her own.

Rose was a year older—her wedding should come first.

CHAPTER THREE

When Lily arrived at Violet's house, Rose motioned her into the drawing room.

She gestured toward where Rand stood in conversation. "He keeps looking over here, Lily. He's spotted me." Tall and willowy, Rose made a pretty picture against the drawing room's soft turquoise walls—and well she knew it. She straightened one of her glistening chestnut curls and smoothed her deep-blue satin skirts. "He remembers me," she added confidently.

"Of course he remembers you." Lily glanced in Rand's direction—or at least she intended to glance. Instead, she found herself staring. "You worked together translating that old alchemy book, didn't you?" she added slowly.

How had she managed to ignore him in the chapel? Rand wasn't a man to whom women would be indifferent. His physique was lean and athletic, and his hair, a million mixed colors of blond and brown, was longer than hers and gorgeous enough to make her jealous.

As though sensing Lily studying him, he turned his head while still talking. For a split second, his intense gray eyes blazed into hers.

Or she thought they had. She blinked, clearing her vision. Now Judith had her imagining things.

"I've been dreaming about this day for weeks," Rose said, reclaiming her attention.

"The baptism?"

"No, you goose. Seeing Lord Randal again. Ever since I danced with him at Violet's wedding, I've known he's the man for me."

Suddenly Lily remembered that Rand had danced with her, too, at their sister's wedding. Not to mention, of course, that Rose lusted after every handsome, eligible man who crossed her path.

But Lily had to admit that Rand could be the one for Rose. Good looks aside, he was more suited to her sister than most men were. The two of them were both academically minded and shared mutual interests. "I had no idea you'd been thinking about him all these years."

"Dreaming," Rose repeated on a sigh.

"Four years is a long time to dream." Lily cast him another quick glance, then smiled at her older sister. "I suppose he is the memorable sort."

Rose looked at her sharply. "You're not interested in him yourself, are you?"

"Of course not!" First Judith, now Rose? Was something in the air today? "Whatever would make you think that?"

"You said he's the memorable sort."

"That doesn't mean I want him. A man like Rand would never be interested in someone like me. He'd want someone like you, Rose. You're both fascinated with languages. Rand and I have nothing in common. And he's too tall." Lily drew herself up to her full height of five-foot-two and figured she stood to about his shoulders.

Looking down at her, Rose snorted. "There's no such thing as a man who's too tall. Will you promise?"

"Promise what?"

"Promise me you won't pursue him. Promise me you won't get in my way."

The entire idea was so absurd, Lily laughed. "I promise. In fact, I'll do better than that. I'll help you land him."

"Would you?" Rose breathed.

"Of course. You're my sister. I love you, and I want to see you happy."

Rose's dark eyes actually misted. "You're so good, Lily. You want everyone to be happy."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"Of course not," Rose said, and then in the next breath, "What will you do to help?"

Rose would be Rose, Lily thought with an inward smile. "Whatever I can. But you must do your part, too. And that means, for once, not pretending that your head is filled with pudding. I wish I could speak half the languages you do. You're bright and intelligent, and hiding that makes no sense."

"For Lord Randal, perhaps it doesn't, because we have similar interests. But for other men—"

"For any man. Why would you want a man who doesn't value your strengths?"

"You don't understand men, sister dear. Most of them thrive on feeling superior." When Lily opened her mouth, Rose held up a hand. "But we were talking about Lord Randal, who isn't most men—" She broke off, her eyes widening. "Gemini, here he comes!"

As Rand approached, their mother seemed to appear out of nowhere—a habit Lily and her sisters found vexing. Chrystabel gave him a brilliant smile. "Lord Randal. How very nice to see you again." Her brown eyes shone with genuine warmth. "We missed you at my first grandson's christening."

"She means Nicky, my godchild," Rose put in. "I shared the honor with Ford's two brothers."

Rand shrugged a shoulder, a half smile curving his lips. "I was sorry to miss the occasion, but I'm afraid I was in Greece."

"Greece!" Rose laid a graceful hand on her embroidered stomacher. "That sounds like a dream. I would so adore traveling the world. I could make use of all my languages."

Lily did a little mental dance, so happy to see that her sister was doing as she'd suggested—as the entire family had been suggesting for years. For once in her life, Rose wasn't going to hide her brains and pretend to be empty-headed.

It would work, Lily was sure. Rose's bad luck with men would finally come to an end. And then, she couldn't help thinking, with her sister safely wed, she'd feel free to find love for herself.

Chrystabel cleared her throat. "You'll remember my daughter Rose?" she asked Rand. "And Lily, her younger sister?"

"And Lily," Rand repeated, his eyes meeting hers. Capturing hers, like they had four years ago and again just a few minutes earlier.

In all of her twenty years, she'd never seen another gaze as compelling as Rand's. It felt as though he could see right into her, yet not in an uncomfortable way…in a way that warmed her and held her captive.

She'd forgotten about that. It seemed she'd forgotten a lot in those four years.

Rose—bold Rose—reached to touch him on the arm. "Did you ever succeed in translating that alchemy book?"

"Secrets of the Emerald Tablet?" He smiled at Lily before shifting his attention to her sister. "Not yet. A fine puzzle it is, very time-consuming, and Ford said that with the sale of his watch patent there was no longer any rush."

At that, Ford broke into their little group. "You certainly took that to heart," he said accusingly. "Four years is a bit longer than I had in mind."

"I'm here now, aren't I?" Rand countered, sounding defensive. "And ready to finish it."

Ford grinned, revealing the heated exchange to have been nothing more than jesting between friends. "Only because you have nowhere to live."

"That's not true. I have a beautiful new home."

"Half built."

Rand ruefully rubbed his forehead. "The hammering and sawing were driving me insane."

"Rand has commissioned a new house," Ford explained to the girls and their mother. "It was supposed to have been ready by now, so he'd already sold his old one."

"And as a consequence," Rand added, "I've been sleeping in a construction site."

Rose nodded, her face a study in understanding. "Where's your new home, my lord?"

"Rand," he corrected her, having asked them four years ago to call him that. "And it's in Oxford."

"Rand is a professor of linguistics," Ford reminded Rose, although Lily was sure her sister needed no reminding.

But apparently Rose decided to pretend she'd forgotten. "Oooh, my lord, that's so impressive," she cooed, favoring Rand with a wide smile—one Lily had seen her practice countless times in her dressing table mirror.

"A matter of determination and persistence," Rand told her, looking oddly immune to that smile.

He wasn't responding to the old, coquettish Rose. Lily would have to point that out to her sister. Flirtation didn't mesh well with her new, more intelligent image.

"How long will you be staying?" Chrystabel asked him.

"My house should be finished within a week or so—"

"As long as it takes," Ford broke in, "to figure out whether the book indeed holds the secret to making gold. Now, would you all like to see the new water closet?"

"It seems to me," Rand said in the sort of needling tone only a fast friend would put up with, "it's taken you longer to build that water closet than I've spent on the translation." He turned to Lily's family. "I remember when his brother had water closets installed—"

"Colin," Ford clarified.

"My friend here was so envious. Said he'd design one for Lakefield in no time. That was what, ten years ago?"

"Eleven. Come see." As he talked, Ford led them out of the drawing room, threading his way through the many guests. "I've finished but one so far, and you're a fortunate man since it's in the room where you'll be staying."

Rand went with Ford up the square oak staircase, Rose hurrying to follow. Lily watched her sister's swishing skirts as she and her mother trailed everyone else up the stairs, her striped cat, Beatrix, scampering behind.

Ford reached the landing and headed down the corridor. "Colin's water closets were imported from France."

"They must have been expensive," Rose said.

"Absolutely. But I examined his thoroughly, and they seemed a simple enough design to build myself. In fact, I thought of improvements."

"Of course," Chrystabel put in.

She thought her son-in-law was brilliant. In fact, she'd originally told Violet that Ford was too intellectual for her. Funny how wrong she'd been about that, but it had been just as well. Mum was somewhat renowned as a matchmaker, and although Violet and Ford were perfect for each other, if she'd tried to match them up, their marriage would never have happened.

The three Ashcroft sisters loved their mother dearly, but they were determined to avoid becoming another page in The Big Book of Weddings Arranged by Chrystabel.

Lily was watching, in fact, to see if Mum would try to match Rose with Rand. They were an obvious fit, after all, and at twenty-one, Rose was getting rather desperate. When poor Violet turned that same age, Rose had pronounced her an official spinster.

But if Mum tried to push Rand on her, Rose would surely go looking elsewhere. And Lily would be honor-bound to help. The girls had a long-standing pact to save one another from their mother's matchmaking schemes.

Inside the guest chamber, everyone including the cat squeezed into a tiny room that Ford had hired a man to construct in the corner—while Ford was an accomplished inventor, he was less talented at anything requiring sweat or a ladder. They all gathered around the water closet and peered down at it in wonder.

It was a padded box with a round opening in the top, rather like a closestool. But instead of a removable chamber pot inside, there was a permanent alabaster bowl. "Back here," Ford pointed out, "this copper pipe leads down from it." The pipe disappeared into the wall. "The system works as a siphon."

They all nodded, since he'd explained siphons to them years ago, along with other scientific marvels.

"I suppose it empties into the river?" Rose asked, demonstrating her intelligence.

"It does. And there will be more pipes—eventually all over the house. I mean to put a water closet in every bedchamber. And my laboratory."

Leaning to pick up Beatrix, Lily hid a smile. The man practically lived in his laboratory.

Another pipe ran up from the back of the seat, ending at a tank affixed to the wall. "The water," Ford said, gesturing toward a third pipe that disappeared into the ceiling. "It's fed from a cistern on the roof."

"How does it work?" Lily asked.

"Well, first you use it—"

"No need to demonstrate that," Rose rushed to say.

"Of course not." Though her brother-in-law rolled his eyes, it was a good-natured roll. While Lily suspected there'd been a time he'd disapproved of Rose's forthright nature, those days were long past.

Rose was Rose, and all the family knew it.

"After you use it, you pull on this lever." Ford grabbed a handle attached to the tank. "It releases the water to wash the waste out to the river."

He pulled, and there was a rushing sound. Startled, Beatrix leapt from Lily's arms and streaked from the room. Nearly bumping heads, everyone leaned over the alabaster bowl to watch the water flow down the pipe.

"Goodness," Lily said. "It's wonderful. There's nothing to take out, nothing to clean."

"As though you've ever scrubbed a chamber pot," Rose teased.

"Oh, hush." Lily playfully shoved her sister's shoulder. While it was true they had no lack of servants at Trentingham Manor, that was beside the point.

Used to their squabbling, Ford simply pushed back up on the lever. "When it's clean, you stop the water."

"That's it?" Mum asked.

"That's it," Ford said with a smile. "To deal with the, um, unpleasant odors in the pipes, I've curved the one below the bowl into an S shape. Clean water fills it and forms a seal."

Chrystabel beamed. "Brilliant, as usual."

"Very impressive," Rand allowed.

The demonstration over, they all squeezed through the narrow doorway into the pale green bedchamber. Luggage—Rand's, Lily assumed—sat in a corner. "Why did you build the first one in here?" she asked Ford.

"I wanted to make certain everything worked right before I started punching holes in the walls of rooms we regularly use." He waved them back toward the corridor. "Come along, now. I want to show you the pipes outside, and others are waiting for a demonstration."

"Everyone will want to see it, I'd wager." Rose maneuvered to descend beside Rand. "I wish they'd all leave. I cannot wait to use it."

Rand appeared to be smothering a laugh.

Mum released a sigh but let the improper comment pass. "Me, too," she whispered to Lily as they followed the others downstairs.

"Me three," Lily murmured.

Once outdoors, Ford hurried them through the garden and around the side of the house. Bright new copper pipe shone in the sun, making its way down the white wall before disappearing into the ground. A tidy trail of newly turned earth traced the pipe's path to the nearby Thames.

Amusement glittering in her eyes, Rose raised one perfect brow. "I see you've become handier with a shovel."

"Harry did the digging," Ford said, referring to his ancient man-of-all-work—and apparently either taking Rose's observation as a jest or failing to recognize her subtle sarcasm.

Probably the latter, Lily decided. The man was known to be rather oblivious.

An orange kitten came up and wound around her, ducking beneath her skirts to tickle her ankles. With a giggle, she bent to fish it out. "This is all so very clever," she told her brother-in-law, smiling as she stroked the kitty's fur and felt it begin to purr. "Can you put some water closets in Trentingham, too?"

"And have pipes running down the outside of the house?" Now Rose's perfect brows drew together. "That wouldn't look well at all."

Mum shrugged. "I could accept the unsightliness for the convenience."

"Father would never allow it," Rose said.

To the contrary, Lily doubted their father would even notice—he rarely took note of much beyond his beloved flowers. If a thing didn't grow, he wasn't apt to pay it much attention.

"What's your cat's name?" Rand asked.

Lily gazed down at the ball of fluff vibrating against her middle. "This isn't my cat. I've never seen it before in my life." Still stroking the soft apricot fur, she looked up at Ford. "Is it yours?"

He shrugged. "Not that I'm aware."

Of course, he wasn't apt to pay much attention to anything that did grow, unless it was some sort of muck in a beaker in his laboratory.

"Cats just come to Lily," Rose told Rand.

He grinned. "They must be able to tell she's the nurturing sort."

Lily's cheeks heated. "I adore animals," she said. "All animals."

"She's the mothering sort." Rose sidled closer to Rand.

"Rose," Mum said softly.

But that didn't deter Lily's sister. "Men don't care to be mothered," she purred, laying a hand on Rand's arm and narrowing her eyes until she looked rather catlike herself. "Do they, Lord Randal?"

"I cannot speak for other men," he said tactfully, leaving it at that. In keeping with the careful wording, he gently extricated himself from her grip by crossing to his friend. "Ford, I do believe your other guests are getting impatient."

"And Violet asked if you'd freshen some of her floral arrangements," Chrystabel reminded Rose.

Although Rose enjoyed turning flowers into towering works of art, she looked reluctant to leave Rand's side. "Violet can wait awhile."

"Now, dear, that's not very sisterly." Mum smiled at the men. "Please excuse us," she said as she took Rose by the arm and led her off.

"I must give others the tour," Ford said and followed them.

And just like that, Lily found herself alone with Rand, wondering what she should say.

CHAPTER FOUR

It wasn't that Lily had no experience talking to men. She could hardly remember a time when men—or boys, when she was younger—hadn't pestered her and Rose for precious time in their company. None of them had ever made her nervous. But for some reason butterflies seemed to be battling one another in her stomach.

And Rand's piercing eyes seemed to see it.

He smiled in a way surely intended to set her at ease, gesturing toward three oak trees hung with swings. Two children sat on a broad one built for a couple. "Is that your brother, all grown-up? He was an imp of seven last time I saw him."

Lily smiled. "Yes, that's Rowan. And he may be growing tall, dark, and handsome, but there's still a bit of the imp left in him, I assure you."

"And is that Ford's niece with him? Jewel? She's showing every sign of developing into a beauty." A frown appeared between Rand's eyes. "Do you think they're sitting rather close on that swing?"

Their raven heads were rather close together. But Lily wasn't worried. "They're longtime friends, and Rowan thinks of her as a sister. Or a brother, more like."

The two children slipped off the swing and headed toward the house. When Jewel reached for Rowan's hand, he hid it behind his back. Watching, Rand laughed. "Apparently Jewel doesn't feel quite so sisterly toward your brother. And I reckon Rowan will wake up someday and notice she's a girl."

"She's pretty."

"Not nearly as pretty as you."

Lily had certainly received compliments before. But most men were glib, flattery tripping off their tongues with little thought and many flowery phrases. Rand's words were simple and soft-spoken.

And he should be saying them to Rose.

Taken aback, Lily clutched the kitten tighter. The feline squeaked and leapt from her arms, landing by Rand's feet. It looked up at her with a comically hurt expression before scampering away.

Lily stared down at Rand's black shoes, long-tongued with stiff ribbon bows. The heels were black, too, not red as was the fashion. Her gaze meandered up his lean, muscled form, noting that his slate blue velvet suit wasn't dripping with ribbons and baubles. Though well dressed, he wasn't a fop.

Perfect. No wonder Rose was so taken with the man.

When her gaze reached his face, he grinned in a fashion that made her wonder if he'd read her mind. But thankfully he chose not to comment, instead gesturing toward where Jewel was following Rowan to the house—by way of walking atop an eight-foot-high stone wall. "Is that wise?"

"My brother is a monkey," she told him, relieved to be on another subject. She couldn't remember ever eyeing a man before—that was one of Rose's seductive tricks.

Rand began walking toward the formal garden, a charming area divided by low hedges cut in geometric patterns, the flower beds dotted with cheerful reds, yellows, and purples. "Do you suppose Jewel is taking him to see the water closet?"

"Probably. I wouldn't be surprised if they're plotting a way to use it for a prank."

"I would hope not," he said. "I imagine they could make quite a mess."

She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Chamber pots weren't appropriate conversational subject matter, no matter how new and fancy. "So you're staying with Violet and Ford until the translation is finished?"

"I'll be here for just a week or two, until my house is ready. Although I do hope to make good progress on the translation in that time." At the edge of the garden, he stopped beside a long table. "Would you care for some refreshments?"

The selection looked delicious. "Yes, thank you."

He handed her an empty plate and took another for himself. "The house was supposed to be completed long before now, but a friend is building it, and you know how that goes—when something else comes up, it's always easier to put off a friend's job than a contracted client's."

"He doesn't sound like a very good friend," she observed.

"Oh, but he is. We've known each other since we were knee-high lads in dresses. It's just that Kit is very busy, very much in demand. You may have heard of him, in fact. Christopher Martyn."

"The architect? Isn't he working for King Charles?"

"So you have heard of him." Piling fruit on his plate, Rand cast her a glance. "I suppose, then, you can understand how another client can take precedence."

"When that client is the Crown, I suppose I can." She selected a wedge of apple tart as they worked their way down the table. "But you're a professor, right? I'm surprised you can leave Oxford for weeks."

"It's summer," he said blithely. "A four-month break. I usually travel the Continent, looking for lost languages"—he flashed her a lopsided grin—"but I thought I'd stay home this year and settle into my new house."

She followed him into the garden, stepping gingerly since Beatrix had reappeared and was padding along with her, batting at her swishing skirts. "Yours sounds like an exciting life."

"I'm not sure I'd describe it as exciting, but I enjoy my life, yes. It's interesting, and I'm content."

They skirted around a sundial, old but lovingly repaired. Tables were scattered around the garden, surrounded by chairs for the guests. Sitting with Lady Carrington, Lily's friend Judith waved in invitation, her golden curls gleaming in the sun. Lily waved back and started over, but Rand stopped at a tiny square table and pulled out one of the two chairs. "Will you do me the honor?"

"Oh. Yes. Of course." She seated herself carefully, sending Judith an expressive shrug. Judith winked and waggled her brows, obviously misunderstanding why Lily was with Rand.

That was something Lily didn't quite understand herself. It should be Rose here, she thought as Beatrix returned and leapt onto her lap.

"This striped cat is yours, if I'm not mistaken?" Rand took the chair opposite. "However did it find its way here from Trentingham?"

She found herself caught again in that astonishing gray gaze. "Given you asked that question, I surmise you don't know much about cats."

"My father raises dogs," he told her, grabbing two pewter goblets of wine from a maid passing by with a tray. "Big, mean ones who would eat your cat for breakfast."

She laughed. "Surely not."

He smiled at both her and the purring cat. "He adores you."

"Beatrix is female, actually." The feline began hiccuping in a decidedly unladylike fashion. "What made you think she was male?"

"You're a beautiful woman…all males would adore you," he said and bit into a strawberry.

She looked away, hoping he wouldn't notice her choking on a bite of tart. Ford was coming out of the house, leading another little group around to see the pipes to the river.

Swallowing the cinnamony apples and custard, she turned back to Rand. "Thank you, but being nice is much more important than being attractive. Although Rose is very attractive," she added as an afterthought. "Don't you think so, my lord?"

"Rand," he reminded her. "And yes, Rose is quite attractive and being nice is much more important. But you're both attractive and nice."

What on earth was she supposed to say to that?

He was impossible.

Her fingers went to trace the scars on the back of her left hand before she realized what she was doing and hid it beneath the table. Rose would love this sort of attention. The two were quite definitely suited.

A sparrow landed on their table, providing a welcome distraction. "Hello, Lady," she murmured and fed it some crumbs from her plate.

Watching her, Rand absently rubbed the ends of his magnificent mane between two fingers. "Are you still hoping to build a home for stray animals?"

After all this time, he remembered her dream. "Very much so," she said, both startled and pleased, but also wondering if he thought her goal childish. She'd been a child when she'd chosen it, after all.

But he seemed to be taking her seriously. "Have you made plans?"

"Of sorts. I'll come into my inheritance next year. I'm planning a simple building so as to have funds left to staff it for a number of years. I'm hoping to obtain donations as well. Eventually enough to keep running it once my money is depleted. And perhaps even build others."

"A solid strategy. Have you thought of having the building donated?"

"I'd prefer it built specifically for my purpose. To convert a house or other building could cost as much as starting from scratch."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps an architect would donate his services." His eyes twinkled, looking silver in the afternoon sun. "I happen to know one—"

"Uncle Ford!" Jewel came bounding out of the house, her pink skirts flying. "Uncle Ford! Something's happened with…"

Her words faded as she disappeared around the corner.

Rowan flew through the door next and darted after her, pink-cheeked to match her skirts, his mouth hanging open in something akin to horror.

Lily jumped to her feet. "They've done something," she exclaimed as Ford appeared at a run and dashed into the house, shouldering his way past all the guests hurrying out. "I knew it!"

CHAPTER FIVE

"I swear, Uncle Ford, we did nothing." Jewel held her skirts up off the floor while she turned in a slow circle, assessing the destruction. "Oh," she wailed, "look at my chamber!"

Rand gestured at his luggage sitting on the four-poster bed—as opposed to the floor, where it had been earlier. "I thought this was my chamber."

"Uncle Ford had it painted green because that's my favorite color. I sleep here when I visit. And now it's all ruined."

Ford poked his head out of the little room in the corner where he was examining his invention. "At least it's clean water," he pointed out defensively.

New water stains on Rand's luggage were the least of the damage.

The oak floor was sopping. The wet went up the walls, the water having apparently been deeper before escaping the chamber and making its way down the corridor and stairs. Most of the ground floor had flooded as well, including all of the beautiful, expensive carpeting that Violet had had specially woven.

But this room, where the disaster had originated, was by far the worst. The pale green bedclothes dripped, the air held a chill, the carpet felt soggy beneath their feet, and Lily suspected that mildew was setting in already.

"We did nothing," Rowan repeated. "We just came up to look, and when we opened the door—"

"Now, Rowan," Lily began, knowing her brother all too well. Especially when he was with Jewel. The girl's father was infamous for playing practical jokes, and she'd taught Rowan every trick the man had taught her. "Do you expect us to believe—"

"He's right," Ford broke in, apparently having finished his investigation. "It was the fault of my design—a problem with the tank mechanism." Looking rather pained to admit that, he ran a hand back through his long brown hair. "I expect it began flooding the moment I turned my back. I never considered…it never occurred to me…"

"Never say never," Rand interjected dryly.

Jewel went to the window. "Everyone else has gone outside."

"Of course, you goose." Rowan snorted. "The floor is wet all over the house."

"The women wouldn't want to ruin their fashionable satin slippers," Rand added, glancing down at the water-stained shoes on Lily's feet, visible since she was holding up her skirts.

"There are more important things than shoes," she pointed out. "Like Violet's carpeting. She's going to be furious."

"No, I'm not," Violet said, walking in with a squish-squash sound. She went on her toes to grace her husband with a light kiss. "I'm used to catastrophes," she declared with an exaggerated sigh. "Part and parcel of my marriage. Besides, we must only remove the carpets and spread them outside to dry. A few rain-free days and they'll be good as new."

"Are you sure?" Jewel asked dubiously.

"About it not raining? No," Violet said in her practical way. "But they will eventually dry. I'm afraid, though, that this room will be uninhabitable for a day or two, at the least." She looked toward Rand apologetically.

"I can ride home," he assured her. "Oxford is but a few hours."

"Wait." Ford held up a hand. "What about the translation? There's no need for you to leave. We'll move someone. The nursemaids—"

"I won't have you upsetting your whole household," Rand interrupted. Unlike the sprawling mansion Lily lived in, Lakefield was a typical L-shaped manor house. Enough rooms to sleep the family, a few servants, and a guest, but that was all.

Ford crossed his arms. "I won't have you leaving. Your house is a wreck at the moment."

A smile twitched on Rand's lips as he pointedly scanned the chamber. Lily choked back a laugh.

"Rowan!" Her mother's voice floated up the stairs. "Rowan, have you and Jewel—" A gasp chopped off her sentence as she stepped into the room. "Heavens, this is—"

"A bloody mess," Ford finished for her. "And my fault, not your son's."

"See?" Rowan said with a grin of vindication. "It's not my fault Lord Randal cannot stay here."

"It's nobody's fault." Rand strode to the bed, his shoes making a sucking sound as he went. "I should probably be home badgering Kit anyway, if the house is to be finished this decade." He reached for his luggage.

"Don't you want to finish the translation?" Ford looked frantic. "We'll find a place—"

"Lord Randal is welcome to stay with us," Chrystabel interrupted with a smile. "We've more guest rooms than we know what to do with."

Lily's mouth hung open. Why, they hardly knew Lord Randal Nesbitt.

But apparently that made no difference to Mum. "You'll be close to Lakefield," she added. They were naught but a quarter-hour's ride down the road. "By tomorrow, perhaps this room will once again be habitable."

Violet glanced around mournfully. "I doubt it."

Looking a mite dubious, Rand set down the luggage. "If I overnight at Trentingham," he said slowly, "I can return tomorrow and help put the place to rights."

"A generous offer," Ford said.

Violet pushed up on her spectacles. "There's no need for Rand to wrestle with soggy carpeting."

"The boards underneath must be dried, lest they warp."

"We have servants to do that sort of thing."

"But if we had extra help—" Ford pressed.

Violet cut him off with a laugh. "Rand can 'help' you in the bone-dry laboratory upstairs, huddled over that ancient alchemy text."

Her husband's expression made clear that sounded good to him.

And so it was settled. Rand would sleep at Trentingham and return in the morning.

Lily supposed it was well done of Mum to offer the hospitality, but she hoped it didn't mean she was trying to match Rand with Rose.

That would ruin her sister's plan.

CHAPTER SIX

Trentingham Manor was teeming with family and friends who had come to attend the twins' baptism, so Rand's addition to the mix was clearly little imposition. But he did appreciate Lady Trentingham's kind invitation. She seemed a true gentlewoman.

Although perhaps a bit overly solicitous.

"Lily, dear," she said as they walked into the linenfold-paneled dining room for supper, "I'd appreciate it if you'd sit beside Rand, since he isn't acquainted with our other guests."

Which would have made sense if Rose hadn't already planted herself on his other side.

"Lord Randal," she gushed, laying a hand on her chest theatrically, her fingertips flirtatiously grazing the skin revealed by her wide, low neckline. "What a pleasure to have you as a dining partner."

"Rand," he corrected her, as he had countless times. So far as he was concerned, Lord was nothing more than a reminder of his disturbing roots. He liked to think of himself as a professor now, not a marquess's son. "And the pleasure is mine," he assured her, meaning it. This civilized supper was a lot more pleasurable than riding home to all the hammering and sawing at his house in Oxford.

"Cousin Rose." A gentleman on her other side begged her attention, waving a bejeweled hand at the floral arrangements—enormous vases of colorful posies that graced each end of the table, flanking a towering centerpiece. "Have we you to thank for these beautiful works of art?"

"Why, yes," Rose said warmly. "I'm pleased, cousin, that you're enjoying them." She turned back to Rand, fluttering her eyelashes in a way that tempted him to laugh. "I love arranging flowers."

"They're lovely." They were. She had an artist's eye, a flair for color and balance. He turned to Lily. "Do you work with flowers as well?"

"Oh, no. I've no skill with plants."

Rose shook her head, as though she felt sorry for her poor, talentless sister. "She cares only for her animals."

As if on cue, a sparrow flew into the room and landed smack on the table, right in front of Lily.

"Holy Christ," Rowan said. "Not again."

"Rowan," Lady Trentingham admonished.

"Well, someone should shut the windows."

Rose fanned herself with a languid hand. "With all these people, it would be too hot if we shut the windows."

"Cut the hedgerows?" Her father nodded sagely. "Yes, I've asked the groundskeepers to do that."

No one looked confused or surprised. Apparently they were all well enough acquainted with Lord Trentingham to know that along with his passion for gardening, the man was half deaf.

"Excellent, darling," Lady Trentingham said loudly, flicking crumbs off his cravat. She looked to Lily, who was busy feeding bits of bread to the sparrow. "Not at supper, dear."

Lily sighed. "Go, Lady." She tossed the gray-brown bird a final crumb. "Outside now."

Amazingly, the bird gobbled the last of its feast and then took flight, heading for one of the windows where a squirrel sat on the sill, seemingly watching the proceedings. With a flutter of feathers, the sparrow landed beside the squirrel and turned to tweet at it. The squirrel chirped back, for all the world like they were having a conversation.

Rand had never seen a wild bird that obeyed, let alone a squirrel that didn't run at the sight of humans. He turned to Lily. "You do have a way with animals."

"Oh, there's more to Lily than that," her mother informed him from down the table. "She plays the harpsichord like an angel."

Lily blushed. She looked fetching when she blushed. Of course, she could be wearing rags and scrubbing a floor, and she'd look fetching. As it was, she'd exchanged the water-stained gown for one made of some shiny, pale purplish fabric that hugged her upper body like a second skin.

He couldn't help but imagine the shapely form barely hidden beneath that shimmering bodice.

He dragged his gaze back to her face. His fingers itched to touch the tiny dent in her chin. "Will you play for us after supper?" he asked her.

"Eh?" Lord Trentingham shook his dark head. "Everyone will stay after supper. They've all been assigned rooms, have they not, Chrysanthemum love?"

"Of course, darling." Lady Trentingham smiled her ever-patient smile. "And Lily will play," she told Rand.

"And I shall sing," Rose announced as she reached for some bread, grazing Rand's arm in the process.

On purpose, he was sure.

Rose wanted him. She'd made that clear, in action and words, four years ago and again now. As conversation buzzed around him, he wondered why he wasn't tempted.

Rose was lovely—tall and willowy, with a flawless, creamy complexion, glossy deep brown locks, and eyes so mysteriously dark they could be mistaken for black. A classic beauty. And not a cold one. True, she remained every bit as outspoken and forward as he remembered. Yet Rose had grown up. She was much warmer than he recalled.

But the spark was missing. None of her heat penetrated his heart, while on his right, Lily seemed to burn like a bonfire. Chatting with the guest on her other side, she sensed Rand's gaze and turned slightly to meet his eyes, then looked away to continue her conversation.

"I should like to hear you sing," he told Rose, wondering if she had the voice for it.

She graced him with a smile that revealed fetching dimples. If she were one of Lily's cats, she'd have been purring.

And after supper, when she raised her voice in song, he was indeed impressed. Singing of love, the words flitted from her throat, rich and true.

But Lily's playing was even more splendid. Despite the fact that various relatives were all seated decorously in the cream-and-gold-toned formal drawing room, Rand found himself rising and wandering toward the harpsichord.

While Beatrix dozed on her lap, Lily's fingers flew over the ivory keys, raising magic in their wake. She glanced up and smiled at him, and without thought, he opened his mouth to harmonize with her sister.

"Go tell her to make me a cambric shirt,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,

Without a stitch of a seamster's work,

And then she will be a true love of mine."

Only when he finished did he realize that Rose had stopped singing to listen to him. He nodded at her to take the next verse. Back and forth they went until the song ended and the room burst into wild applause.

"Your voice is beautiful!" Lily exclaimed.

His face went hot. "Your playing is exquisite."

Her shrug was as graceful as her music. "I practice often. It's a way to pass the time."

"It's more than that. It's a gift to all who listen." Ignoring all her curious relations, he moved around to hit a key, the single note reverberating through the chamber. "I cannot play."

"I cannot sing."

He grinned. "Gift us with another tune, and your sister and I will accompany it. Together this time."

She thought for a moment, then the jaunty notes of "The Gypsy Rover" took air, his voice rising along with it.

Rose waited until the chorus to join him.

"He whistled and he sang till the greenwoods rang,

And he won the heart of a lady."

Their harmony was flawless, he thought as they sang on. And as the lyrics said, Rand wished he really could whistle and sing and win the heart of a lady.

But regardless of their perfect harmony, it wasn't Rose he was wishing to win.

They sang a third song, and a fourth, and then he lost count. More than once, Lily's gaze locked on his as his voice and her notes blended. They made beautiful music together. For fleeting moments it seemed that he and she were the only ones in the chamber, and from the look on her face, he'd wager it was the same for her.

When the gilt mantel clock struck midnight just as another tune ended, Lily blinked and jumped to her feet, making Beatrix tumble to the floor with an outraged meow. "Do you think it's time to retire, Mum?"

"Oh!" Lady Trentingham stood as well. "Rose, you must come with me. We have yet to prepare a room for Rand."

Rose frowned. "I'm sure the staff has taken care of that."

"Not all our special welcoming details." Lady Trentingham turned to her assorted family. "I trust you can all find your beds?" As they began drifting out, she focused on her older daughter. "Come along, dear. You'll need to find flowers for Rand's chamber."

"But Mum—"

"Come along," she repeated, more tersely than seemed to be her nature. "Lily, will you wait here and keep Rand company until his room is ready?"

"I need no flowers," Rand interjected.

"Nonsense. Rose?" Lady Trentingham moved toward the door, herding the last lingering friends and relatives along with her.

The chamber seemed so quiet after everyone had left. And Rand felt odd to find himself alone with Lily for the second time that day.

"Mum," he said, searching for a way to breach the sudden silence. "That's a strange thing to call one's mother."

"I know." Lily's soft laugh broke the tension. Still at the harpsichord, she sat again and began playing, a soothing tune he found unfamiliar. Beatrix reclaimed her rightful place on her lap.

Obviously knowing the piece well, Lily talked as her fingers picked out the delicate notes. "You'll probably have heard that my father raises flowers. Multitudes of them. He named us girls after his favorites—surely you'll have noticed that—and Rowan after the tree. Mum's given name is Chrystabel, but he calls her Chrysanthemum…Mum is short for that." Her fingers stilled. "It's silly, I know."

"Keep playing." He leaned against the dark wood instrument and waited until she did. "I don't think it's silly so much as touching. I take it you're all close?"

"Very."

The single word was uttered so matter-of-factly he knew she took that closeness for granted. But he wouldn't acknowledge the envy that clutched at his throat. He'd long ago accepted that his family was happier without him. And life on his own was just fine. Better, in fact.

When the cat lifted its head, Rand followed its gaze to see a bird land gracefully atop the harpsichord.

"Hello, Lady," Lily greeted softly, her fingers not missing a note.

Confused, Rand ran his tongue across his teeth. "Do you call all sparrows Lady?"

"Of course not. I don't call most sparrows anything. But Lady is special."

"Do you mean…" He focused on the nondescript bird. "Is this the same sparrow that flew in at supper, the same sparrow you fed at Ford's house?"

"One and the same," she said, playing a little bit faster. "I raised her after I found her in an abandoned nest, and now she follows me around. She and Jasper."

"Jasper?"

"The squirrel."

Still playing, she nodded toward the sill. Sure enough, a red squirrel sat there, gnawing on an acorn. Rand supposed it must be the same squirrel that had appeared at supper, although damned if he could tell for sure. Like sparrows, one squirrel looked much the same as another.

To him, anyway.

Beatrix settled back down on Lily's lap, and Lady flew to join her friend at the window. Jasper chattered, his bushy tail flicking up and down. To Rand, it seemed all the animals were watching him. Talking about him.

Under those three sets of eyes, he shifted uneasily. "Are you never alone?"

"Rarely," Lily said blithely.

Rand shrugged. Absurd as it might seem, perhaps it was natural for her to be surrounded by such loyal creatures. He decided to watch Lily instead of the animals. Feeling pleasantly worn-out after the long day, he swayed in time to her music. "What song is this?"

"Nothing, really. Just something I made up."

"You write music, too?" Slowly he lowered himself to the bench seat beside her. "Is there no end to your talents?"

As she scooted over to make room for him, her fingers faltered, then resumed. He smiled to himself, thinking he'd managed to fluster her. Was it the compliment, or his nearness?

He hoped it was the latter. Her nearness set him on fire.

He'd known four years ago that something in Lily Ashcroft spoke to something in Rand Nesbitt. Though he'd tried his best to forget her, his efforts had been for naught.

Beatrix began hiccuping. "I'm not particularly talented," Lily protested. "Your singing is much better than my playing. I've never heard another voice as rich as yours."

Unlike her, he wasn't modest enough to deny a truth. He knew his voice was exceptional, but it wasn't a talent that had been valued in his family. "I've never heard anything like your music," he said. "So we're even. And I hope we'll be able to play and sing together again."

At his words, her hands ceased moving for good. They went limp and dropped into her lap, causing Beatrix to squeal indignantly and leap to the floor. In seconds, the cat had followed her animal friends out the window.

Lily cleared her throat. "If your room at Lakefield isn't ready tomorrow night, perhaps Rose will sing with you again."

She looked so earnest. He fisted his fingers to keep from reaching to touch that adorable dent in her chin. "I don't care whether Rose sings with me again. As long as you play."

"Wh-what?" She shifted, turning to face him, searching his eyes with her wide blue ones. "But you and Rose sing together so beautifully. And she knows languages—not ancient ones like you do, but many modern ones, and—"

"I'm not interested in Rose," he clarified. "But you…I've thought about you for four years."

The breath rushed out of her with a whoosh. Her eyes grew bigger and bluer, disbelieving in her fine-boned face. She looked fragile and sweet as an angel.

But Rand was feeling anything but angelic.

Unable to help himself, he leaned in and touched his mouth to hers. His arms sneaked around her to pull her gently against him. Though she hesitated at first, after a moment he felt her yield to the kiss. Her lips were soft and giving, and her skin felt warm, exuding a heavenly scent of lilies.

It made his head swim, made the blood sluice through his veins, made him want to devour her. But he forced himself to hold back, because Lily was innocent. Lily was his best friend's sister-in-law. Lily was his generous hostess's virgin daughter.

When he reluctantly pulled away, her eyes were wider than ever—with shock and something else. Wonder, he thought. Or maybe he hoped it was wonder, even though he damn well knew he shouldn't.

He wanted her—he wanted her with an intensity that heated his blood, an intensity that had taken him off guard, an intensity that had made him reach for her unthinkingly. But this sort of want could lead only to disaster. Lily was no courtier, no world-wise widow, no tart. She was all-too-respectable marriage material.

His room at Lakefield had better be ready tomorrow, because he sure as hell couldn't stay at Trentingham any longer.

Randal Nesbitt had never really considered marriage, and he had no intention of starting now.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Breathless, Lily stared at Rand. It had been her first kiss, and no matter that it had been rather chaste compared to those her sisters had described, it had still melted her to the core.

But how had she allowed him to kiss her? Especially considering she'd promised Rose not only to stay away, but to help her win him?

She felt like a traitor.

"My lord," she started.

"Rand," he corrected patiently.

He was patient. And he was handsome and brilliant. And although he wasn't the avowed animal lover she'd always pictured for a husband, he didn't laugh at her aspirations; in fact, he encouraged them.

Wouldn't it be fun to be newly wedded together? Judith's voice echoed in her head.

For a moment she dreamed of wedded bliss, of waking every morning to more of Rand's kisses. But then she mentally shook herself. It didn't matter that his kiss had made her heart flip over. It didn't matter that he supported her ambitions.

Rose wanted him. Rose was older and should marry first. Rose and Rand shared an interest in languages. They both sang like the angels. Such music they could make together, such academic heights they could reach.

But moreover, Lily had made a promise to Rose, and she wouldn't betray her. Not only would she never forgive herself; she just couldn't hurt her sister.

Lily never wanted to hurt anyone. Or anything. Ever.

"Lily?" Rand queried softly.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"You didn't fight it," he pointed out calmly. "In fact, I would swear you participated."

"I…how…" She raised her chin, determined to stop sputtering. She never sputtered. She'd always been comfortable around men, and she couldn't fathom why it wasn't the same with this one. "I couldn't possibly have participated. I wouldn't know how. I've never before been kissed."

He looked pleased at that news. "Well, then, you must have a natural talent."

Her face was turning hot, and she was on the verge of sputtering again when her mother and Rose stepped into the room. Lily couldn't remember ever being happier to see her family.

"Your chamber is ready," Rose announced to Rand, frowning to see them together on the harpsichord's bench.

Rand didn't stand up, so Lily did. Quickly.

Mum's lips curved in a smile. "Come, Rand. I'll show you the way."

He finally rose—rather reluctantly, Lily thought. Still smiling, Mum led him from the room. As the two of them made their way up Trentingham's grand staircase, Lily heard Rand humming a jaunty tune.

Even his humming sounded rich and beautiful.

When that faded into the distance, an uneasy silence descended. Lily dropped back to the bench.

Rose's dark eyes narrowed. "What were you doing with him?"

"Singing," Lily lied, shocked to hear the word pass her lips. She never lied to her sister. She never lied to anybody. "I mean, he was singing. I was playing. We were playing and sing—"

"All right." Rose waved an impatient hand. "As long as you're not going after him. You promised he could be mine."

Despite that promise, Lily bristled. "He might have something to say about that."

For a woman who'd so far failed to catch a husband, her sister looked awfully smug. "Oh, I'm sure I can make him want me."

"You know nothing about him. Has it even occurred to you that he might already be interested in someone else?" Like me, Lily added silently.

Hopefully?

No, that kiss hadn't meant anything. It had been a mistake.

And Rose wouldn't hear of any obstacles. "You let me worry about other women," she said, apparently unconcerned that Lily might be one of them. "My new strategy of demonstrating my intelligence along with flirtation is going to work just fine."

"Fine," Lily echoed a little shortly, then chided herself. There was no call for such an attitude. Hadn't she already decided her sister was entitled to Rand should she prove able to win him? "About the flirtation—" she began.

"I don't want to hear it. It's not as though you've won a man for yourself. I know what I'm doing."

"Of course you do," Lily said quickly, absently rubbing the faint scars on the back of her hand. Her fingers stilled when Rose's gaze settled on them.

Rose slid onto the bench seat beside her and placed a hand over hers. "No one notices," she said softly. "And it doesn't look bad anyway. After all these years, the marks are almost gone. Honestly, Lily—"

"I know." She turned to grasp both her sister's hands. So what if she wasn't perfect? A few narrow, faded white scars…most people were much more imperfect than that.

And most people weren't fortunate enough to have such a loving, caring sister. Lily still couldn't believe she'd gone back on her promise by allowing Rand to kiss her.

Well, it wouldn't happen again.

"Lily?"

Freeing her hands, she gave Rose a shaky smile as she raised them to the harpsichord. Her fingers began moving over the keys. Music always soothed her. Even when, like now, she chose a melancholy tune.

After a moment, her sister's lovely voice rose in song to match the notes. "Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me out discourteously…And I have loved you for so long, delighting in your company…"

A fitting lyric, Lily thought with an internal sigh. Then she tried to look on the bright side. At least Mum didn't seem to be trying to match Rose and Rand.

They should be happy for small favors.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rand's bedchamber was filled with flowers. Lovely arrangements sat atop the bedside table, the clothes press, the washstand. Smiling to himself, he walked around the room, pacing off nervous energy as he skimmed his fingers over colorful, velvet-soft petals.

It was quite obvious Rose excelled at arranging flowers, and while he had been kissing Lily, evidently she'd been busy. And so had their mother, by all appearances, because the dressing table was lined with bottles of scent. Her hobby, he suddenly remembered, was making perfume.

No wonder her daughter smelled so delicious.

The small, clear bottles all looked the same—plain with silver-topped stoppers—but the liquids inside them were different hues, ranging from nearly colorless, to yellowish, to brownish. Humming a tune, he lifted a bottle, opened it, and waved it under his nose. Finding the fragrance spicy and masculine, he dabbed some on his face, then sniffed his fingers. Shrugging, he took another bottle. More citrusy, this scent. He patted some on his jaw and decided he liked the first one better.

He shrugged out of his surcoat and tossed it on the bed, followed by his cravat. Despite the long day and the sort of bone weariness that naturally followed, he wasn't at all sleepy. Being here felt too strange, as did his feelings for a certain daughter of the house.

He sat at the dressing table—a lady's dressing table, it was, much too delicate for his tastes—and idly unstoppered another bottle. None of the specific ingredients were identifiable, but this one smelled like it could be used to season a pie. A Christmas pie. He watched himself in the mirror as he slapped some on both cheeks and tried to remember the last time he'd really enjoyed Christmas.

He didn't have fond memories of Christmas, so he moved on to the next scent.

Musky. This one put him in mind of a hot tumble beneath the sheets. Much better than thinking about his family. Since he'd never found himself lacking for female companionship, the fragrance brought a smile back to his face. He layered it over the others, thinking about the last mistress he'd had in Oxford. A pleasant tumble she'd been, but they'd parted last month on amiable terms, she having found another man, one willing to take her to wife. And if she'd left with a bit of regret in her eyes, his own emotions had leaned more toward relief.

He wasn't interested in marriage.

At least, he'd thought he wasn't. Dons, the teaching fellows at Oxford, weren't allowed to wed. Although professors weren't similarly restricted, very few fellows were ever elevated to that lofty stature, especially at his age. Professorship had always been a goal, but he'd never counted on it, never stopped to think about the fact that as things now stood, he could have a wife and children should he want them.

The chamber seemed overly warm. He rose to pace the room, loosening the laces at his neck, untying his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves. Catching a glance of himself in the mirror, he halted. Implacable gray eyes gazed back at him.

Marriage had crossed his mind more than once today, rather uncomfortably. But whatever could have changed to make him suddenly picture children…a whole family?

His new home, perhaps? It had, after all, five bedchambers. As he and Kit had planned it, had he been thinking, somewhere deep inside, that he might someday want to begin filling all those many rooms?

Hell, no.

Holding Ford's son might have jarred his emotions, but he'd never seen himself as a family man. He had no idea how to raise a child, no good example from which to work. He wasn't ready for that sort of responsibility; perhaps he never would be. The concept of marriage was frightening enough, but children…the mere idea made him shudder.

From the far reaches of the mansion, notes wafted up and through his door. "Greensleeves." A traditional tune, played, he thought, by a nurturing, traditional sort of woman.

Perhaps the only woman who could make him change his mind.

"Rose, don't!" Lily admonished in a whisper.

"Whyever not? It's a kind gesture to see to a guest's welfare." Ignoring her sister, Rose knocked on the door. "Lord Randal?" She raised her voice—and an Ashcroft's raised voice was no timid thing, living as they did with the half-deaf earl. "Lord Randal, are you quite all right? Will you be needing anything more this evening?"

Lily huffed, then caught her breath when the door suddenly swung open. Rand stood there in shirtsleeves, and those rolled up. His forearms looked a healthy brown. The top of his shirt was unlaced as well, revealing a bronzed triangle of skin.

How was it that a professor saw the sun? Didn't academics spend their days secluded in research?

Once again, she found herself staring. Although he was handsome—arresting, even—his wasn't a pretty face. The jaw was a mite too strong, the nose too long, the brows too heavy and straight. But there was something about those eyes, that smile…

"Yes?" he said, amusement in his gaze as he examined her quite as boldly as she'd been examining him.

She released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I—"

"I only wanted to inquire as to your welfare," Rose hurried to put in, so quickly Lily wondered if she sensed something between the two of them.

"I'm quite fine," he said, stepping closer to the doorway.

A cloud of scent moved with him. Not a subtle cloud. "Have you been testing Mum's perfumes?" Rose wrinkled her nose. "I apologize, my lord. Evidently one of my mother's creations is less than pleasing."

Very tactful wording for Rose, Lily thought with admiration. She really seemed to be watching herself in this quest to win Rand for a husband.

He waved a hand, releasing another burst of cloying fragrance. "Oh, I've quite enjoyed the perfumes," he assured them.

"I expect you have," Lily said, biting her lip to stifle the smile that threatened. It wasn't a bad bottle, if she didn't miss her guess, but rather an unfortunate mixture of several. "How many scents have you sampled?"

"All of them," he said blithely, rubbing his jaw, then sniffing his fingers. He stepped back, perhaps belatedly realizing he reeked. "I suppose that wasn't such a good idea?"

"One doesn't mix fragrances. That's the perfumer's job," Rose informed him, sounding both intelligent and instructor-like.

A professor should admire that tone, Lily thought.

But he only shrugged. "I did it rather absently, I expect. My mind was elsewhere."

His eyes met Lily's, implying exactly where his mind had been.

"I…I must see to my animals before bed," she stammered, feeling her cheeks heat. Wondering if that was because of his hot gaze or her mention of the word bed, she hoped he hadn't noticed her blush. "Shall I order you up a bath first?"

Judging from the way Rand's lips curved—knowingly—he'd noticed. "I expect that would be an excellent idea."

"Go ahead, Lily," Rose said. "Your menagerie needs attending." She waved a graceful arm. "I'll wait here until the bath arrives, so I can see to Lord Randal's comfort."

He looked amused at that, as though Rose was so transparent he could see right through her. "I can see to my own comfort," he said dryly. "But I thank you ladies for your kindness."

Then he caught Lily's gaze and grinned before shutting the door, leaving both girls outside.

CHAPTER NINE

She'd overslept. She never overslept. Moving to the last animal's bowl to fill it with fresh water, Lily yawned, still blinking away the cobwebs of a restless night—a night filled with dreams of silvery gray eyes and warm, bronzed skin.

She looked around the barn, happy that her chores were finished. The enclosures were clean; all the creatures had been fed, splints checked, matted fur brushed out till it shone. In comparison, she imagined she looked like something the cat had dragged in, but now that she was done, she would sneak back into the house through a servants' entrance to make herself presentable.

She set down the water pitcher and brushed straw off the plain green gown she'd thrown on upon awakening—then froze when she heard voices outside the barn.

"The knot garden is over there," Rose was saying, her tone honeyed and cajoling.

"Ah, but your sister keeps her animals in here, doesn't she?" Rand countered. "I'd as soon take a peek at them."

And peek in on Lily, too, Lily fancied him adding silently—then bit her lip.

Well, she couldn't control her thoughts, could she? She couldn't help the ideas that jumped into her head, no matter that she didn't really want Rand to be thinking any such thing.

Rose wanted him, and Lily had promised to keep her distance. Moreover, she wanted Rose to be happy. Life was so much more pleasant when the people around one were content.

Light flooded the dim, cavernous building when the double doors opened. As Rand and Rose stepped inside, Lily shoved her unkempt hair farther under the hat she'd jammed on her head to cover it. She managed to resist pinching color into her cheeks.

"Good morning," she said brightly.

Rand grinned. "Yes, it is."

Avoiding Rose's scowl, Lily knelt beside one of the pens to pet a fox cub.

"I've never seen one hold still before." Rand's footsteps crunched on the straw as he walked nearer and crouched close by. "They always run from people. They even run if they catch you watching them from a window."

"This one cannot run." She showed him the small broken leg she'd splinted.

"But she doesn't seem frightened."

"He," Lily corrected. The small fox wagged its white-tipped tail. "And why should he be frightened?"

A spell of silence followed, filled only by rustling and the assorted grunts of animals, as Rand tilted his head and studied her. "No reason," he conceded finally. "You're very gentle."

The tone of his voice made her heart turn over. "Anyone can be."

"Not anyone." He stood. "What else do you have in your care?"

She walked along the pens that crowded a corner of the barn, stopping where a spotted fawn nuzzled her with his nose. "Meet Timothy—"

"Timothy?"

"He looks like a Timothy, doesn't he? He lost his mother." Feeding the baby deer a handful of grass, she leaned to the neighboring pen to lift the cloth draping a deep basket. "And here's a rat—"

"A rat?" He stared at the creature in question, a fat, furry brown rodent that never failed to make her smile. "You would save a rat?"

"Randolph was hurt. But he's recovered quite nicely. I may set him free later today."

"To be eaten by a cat, no doubt."

"Not my cats. My cats are his friends. Besides, it would be cruel to keep him confined when he's well enough to roam." Timothy had finished his treat, so she wiped her hand on her skirts and moved to the next enclosure. "Over here I have a badger, but he's sleeping." She indicated a black-and-white snout poking out from a pile of old blankets. "They're nocturnal, you may know. And little Harold here is sleeping, too."

"A hedgehog?" Rand's eyes radiated amusement.

At the other end of the barn, a door opened. Lily's brother started in, then spotted them and began backing out.

"I'm finished, Rowan," she called. "You can come play with the animals."

"Maybe later." He slammed the door shut.

Rose laid a possessive hand on Rand's arm. "Shall we go see the gardens now?" she asked sweetly.

"Your father's gardens are quite extensive, aren't they? I really must be getting to Ford's house. I promised him help. If I might borrow a mount—"

"Of course," Rose said with a smile. "Our stables are much more impressive than this old barn. And I shall ride with you to show you the way."

"I think I can find Lakefield on my own."

No doubt he could, since Lakefield's lands bordered Trentingham, accessible by both the road and the river. But Rose wouldn't be deterred. "I should like to come along. Perhaps I can help Violet. Twins are a handful."

Lily suppressed a laugh. The twins had two nursemaids, and Rose had never shown interest in helping Violet before. But it was good, she decided, for Rose to appear parental. A man looking for a wife would also be thinking in terms of a mother for his children.

"Well, then," Rand said easily, "we shall have a nice ride. You'll join us, Lily, won't you?"

"I—what?" she asked, taken off guard.

"Lily has yet to eat breakfast," Rose pointed out, having doubtless noticed her absence at the morning meal. She did, at least, tactfully forgo mentioning that Lily wasn't properly groomed for a visit, either. "She can join us later."

"Nonsense," Rand returned. "We'll wait. In the meantime, you wanted to show me the gardens?"

A smile lit Rose's eyes. Lily followed them out of the barn, turning toward the house while her sister led Rand in the other direction.

Mere seconds later, her sister's voice stopped her in her tracks. "Rowan Ashcroft, what on earth do you think you're doing?"

Rose sounded very parental. Lily hurried around the back of the barn, arriving just in time to see her brother tug a thin wooden stick through a fold of paper, the friction producing a hiss. As the wood burst into flame, he looked up and gave a grinning answer to Rose's question. "I'm making fire."

The grin vanished as the sliver of wood burned close to his fingers. He dropped it with a yelp.

Rand strode forward to stamp it out. "What is it you have there?"

Rose brushed at her red satin skirts. "It doesn't matter," she said even more parentally. "He's well aware that he isn't allowed to play with fire."

Too parentally, Lily decided. It was one thing to display a love of children by offering to help Violet, quite another to scold like a shrew. Especially considering Rowan was Rose's younger brother, not her child.

"But what is it?" Rand bent closer.

Rowan handed him the paper. "It has phosphorus on it." If Rand looked surprised at hearing a boy of eleven use such a word, Lily wasn't. Rowan spent hours every week in Ford's laboratory. "And this," he said, pulling another of the slim wooden sticks from his pocket, "has sulfur on one end. Ford's friend, a man named Robert Boyle, has discovered that the two together make fire. Phosphorus has a very low burning point," he added importantly.

Although Lily wasn't at all sure what that had to do with making fire, Rand nodded thoughtfully. "Brilliant. May I try?"

"Boys will be boys. And apparently men will be boys, too," Rose said in a tone Lily thought unwise for a woman hoping to marry one.

Lily shot her a warning glance, then turned to her brother. "Did Ford give you these things?"

His face reddened. "He showed them to me. Mr. Boyle is thinking about selling them. It's a good idea, isn't it? I'm thinking he could make a lot of money."

"I'm thinking Ford would be unhappy if he knew you'd taken such dangerous things home." Her brother shuffled his feet. "I'm thinking," she added softly, "that Ford would feel terrible if you burned yourself because he made the mistake of showing you something interesting, believing you were old enough to know better than to play with it."

"I guess I should give the things back," Rowan muttered.

Rand drew the wooden sliver against the paper, smiling as it sparked. "I'll return them." He reached out a hand. "Have you any more of the sticks?"

Rowan dug in his pocket, handed over a few more slivers, then turned and ran for the house.

CHAPTER TEN

An hour later, Rose banged on Lily's door. "Lily? Lord Randal wants to leave."

Lord Randal again. Excusing her maid, Lily went to admit her sister. "May I suggest, Rose, if you wish to win the man, you might call him by the name he prefers?"

Rose shrugged. "I think Lord Randal has a nice ring to it. But I know you're trying to help, Lily, and I do appreciate it."

Lily wished her sister's words sounded more convincing.

"Are you ready?" Rose added.

"Nearly." Beatrix at her heels, Lily went back to her dressing table to fetch the hat that matched her smart blue riding habit. "Aren't you going to change?" she asked, eyeing her sister's low-cut, bright red gown.

"I like this dress. I told Lord Randal I'd prefer to take the carriage."

"Oh." Lily set down the hat. "Shall I change, then?"

"Good God, why should it matter what you wear? I told you, he's growing impatient. Now, you must let him climb in first—"

"He's the man. He's going to hand us in."

"Just leave it to me. Then you must allow me to enter next so that I can sit beside him. You'll sit across."

"You're trying too hard." Beatrix jumped up onto the dressing table, and Lily stroked her fur. "Just be your usual beautiful, charming self—"

"I cannot leave this to chance," Rose interrupted. "Lord Randal is the only man I've ever truly loved."

From where Lily was standing, her sister's emotions ran more to desperation than love—with perhaps a little lust thrown in for good measure. But she did allow that with all the two had in common, true love was likely to develop, given time.

"Whatever you say, Rose," she said. "I'll follow your lead."

Beatrix went with them and was first into the carriage. Rand, of course, insisted the ladies get in next. He settled himself beside Lily, and for a few awkward minutes, Rose alternately glared at her and aimed flirty smiles at him.

Rand appeared to be avoiding Rose's heated gaze, staring out the window instead. He hummed the same tune Lily remembered from the night before, perhaps in an attempt to fill the silence.

Suddenly Rose sniffed the air. "Sulfur," she said disapprovingly. Parentally. True, she was displaying her intelligence by recognizing the chemical, but hadn't she said men didn't care to be mothered?

Lily nudged her with a foot and gave a little shake of her head.

Perhaps getting the message, Rose looked to Rand with indulged amusement. "While you were waiting for us, did you play with the fire-making things? After you told Rowan you'd return them? Did you use them all up?"

Rand appeared anything but chastised. "What does Ford need with a scrap of paper and a few bits of wood? I'm sure he has more, and I think young Rowan has learned his lesson."

Boys would be boys, Lily thought, then rushed to change the subject before her sister made the mistake of saying that again out loud. "How is it that a marquess's son became an Oxford professor?"

"Yes," Rose put in, "how on earth did that happen?" Her tone implied that, regardless of how it had happened, she was hoping he'd go back to being plain Lord Randal, not a professor of anything.

Rand, however, just shrugged. "I'm a second son. An all-but-disowned second son."

"Surely not," Lily said.

"Perhaps not officially, but I might as well be. I couldn't wait to get away from home, and once free, I never wanted to go back."

Even Rose looked genuinely concerned. "Did your parents mistreat you?"

"From what little I can remember, my mother treated me wonderfully, but she died when I was six. My father, well…let me just say that his dogs received more of his attention than I did. He noticed me only when I was in trouble."

Lily imagined him young, fresh-faced, misbehaving. "Were you often in trouble?"

"Mostly just when I tried to expose my older brother's misdeeds. The exalted heir who could do no wrong. Or so my father was convinced. My attempts to prove otherwise were hopeless."

"What did your brother do?" Rose asked. "Was he naughty like Rowan?"

"Rowan?" Rand's expression was one of total disbelief. "Rowan is a saint compared to Alban. The man is downright cruel—or at least he was as a boy. As I haven't been home in eight years, I don't know what he's like now. But though I know people can change, I don't expect Alban has. He's always hated me. He hates a lot of people. There's something evil about my brother."

Eight years. Lily couldn't fathom avoiding her family for eight years. She saw a loneliness in Rand, a loneliness in his eyes. A loneliness she yearned to help him heal.

"Evil," she mused. "Could it possibly have been your imagination? Jealousy on your part? After all, he's the heir, and you were young. Perhaps if you go back—"

"I have no desire to go back. I'm happy with my life as it is. And if you had read Alban's diaries—"

"You read his private diaries? No wonder he hated you!" Despite his distress, Lily was tempted to laugh. If she'd read her sisters' diaries, or Rowan's, they'd be out for her blood, no mercy. Not that any of them kept diaries, but that was beside the point.

To Rand's credit, he turned a dusky shade of red. "It was only because I was hoping to expose him—"

Rose made a rude noise. "Hoping to get him in trouble, you mean."

"Well, he deserved it. And I didn't precisely read them," he said, a bit defensively. "I transcribed them."

Beatrix leapt onto Lily's lap. "What do you mean?"

"I decoded them. He wrote them in secret languages that he devised. Because they were so incriminating."

"And you broke the codes?"

"Constantly. It infuriated him, of course. And I never managed to prove his guilt to my father's satisfaction—he only punished me for invading Alban's privacy. But it did reveal this skill I have for puzzling out languages. I'm sure the old man was as relieved as I was when he gained me early entrance to Oxford based on that talent."

Lily stroked the cat thoughtfully. "And you've stayed there ever since."

"It became my home. I eventually became a fellow and then a professor. I know my father looks upon my profession with disdain. A Nesbitt, working for a living. But I like my life. The university is orderly."

He looked out the window again, his eyes turning hazy.

"At Oxford, the world makes sense."

No sooner had the carriage door opened than Ford whisked Rand upstairs to the attic. "How was your stay at Trentingham?"

"Fine." Rand looked around at the chaotic jumble of scientific instruments that littered Ford's laboratory. "Is there nothing I can do downstairs, where the damage—"

"It's all being handled. I'm in the middle of something here—I'll be with you in a minute." Ford added a noxious-smelling substance to some cloudy fluid in a beaker. "Fine, was it?"

"Actually," Rand admitted, "it was damned awkward. Will the guest room be ready for me to sleep here tonight?"

Ford stirred the mess with some sort of stick made of glass. "If you can live with a bare, damp floor."

"Bare and damp won't deter me."

"Very well, then." Ford nodded. "I'll let this sit until tomorrow. Let me go get the book."

Rand plopped onto a chair and rubbed his face. In two short days, his placid life seemed to have become overly complicated. He felt absurdly relieved to be moving back here this afternoon. Trentingham Manor was a lovely home, but at Lakefield he ran less risk of finding himself alone with a certain lovely daughter.

He felt much safer here. More in control. Less likely to have stupid things come out of his mouth.

I've thought about you for four years…

"Here it is," Ford said, setting the book on the table and taking a seat beside him.

"It" was Secrets of the Emerald Tablet, a small, brown leather volume that appeared to be of little consequence. Ancient and handwritten in a cryptic code, it looked like a simple diary. But it was much more than that. It was purported to hold the key to the Philosopher's Stone—the secret of how to make gold.

Ford had found the book years earlier and brought it to Rand to translate. When the task had proved a difficult one, they'd set it aside for a time. Now Rand looked forward to the challenge.

It would take his mind off another challenge that had much more personal repercussions.

"Awkward," Ford echoed thoughtfully, moving closer with a scrape of his chair. His laboratory was a homely space, huge but hardly luxurious, cluttered as it was with every toy a scientist and alchemist could desire. "My mother-in-law is generally good at setting her guests at ease."

"And her daughter is good at unsettling them."

"Rose?" Ford chuckled. "Although she can be rather forward, I assure you she's an innocent at heart."

"Rather forward hardly begins to define Rose. But I meant Lily."

"Lily? Lily soothes those around her. Creatures as well as people. What could sweet Lily possibly do to discompose you?"

Rand met his old school friend's eyes. "She can look at me. That's all it takes."

"Holy Christ," Ford said, borrowing his father-in-law's favorite phrase. "You're falling for her."

"I didn't say that," Rand protested. It was a long way from lusting after a woman to falling for her, wasn't it?

His friend's laughter was more irritating than supportive. With a huff, Rand opened the book.

His feelings on the matter seemed to get more complicated by the minute. These cryptic writings would be a hell of a lot easier to figure out.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Downstairs, Lily and Rose had joined their oldest sister in her cheerful, turquoise-toned drawing room. With the three of them together, it felt just like old times.

Almost. Violet, of course, was married now, and a mother of three herself. Although she lived close by and they got together often, Lily did miss the nights when they'd all snuggled in one of their chambers, chatting and giggling away the hours.

She watched Beatrix wander the room, poking her little black nose here and there as she searched for something familiar. Suddenly Lily wished for the old and familiar, too. "You should come home to sleep one night, Violet."

"At Trentingham?" Violet stopped pacing, which meant tiny Rebecca started snuffling. The baby seemed to prefer constant motion.

"I'll walk with her," Lily offered. She couldn't wait to get her hands on her niece.

When Rebecca was settled in Lily's arms, Violet dropped onto one of the turquoise velvet chairs. She lifted her spectacles and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Why should I stay the night at Trentingham?"

"A sleeping party. It would be like the old days." As Lily walked back and forth cuddling Rebecca, her gaze swept over little Marc asleep in a cradle. She smiled to see Rose playing with Nicky on the floor, his miniature English warship in fierce conflict with her Dutch one. "I know you rarely let your children out of your sight, but you do have nursemaids. They could relieve you for one night, don't you think?"

Violet seemed to contemplate that odd idea for a moment before she grinned. "Perhaps I could find time to read a book."

"No," Lily said, then reconsidered. If solitary time to read was what her sister needed, she wouldn't deny her. "Of course you could read, if that's what you want. But I was thinking we could spend the night together. The three of us, like we used to."

Rose looked up with a wicked smile. "And read Aristotle's Master-piece?"

"Not that," Lily said quickly, remembering the hours they'd all spent together stealthily reading the scandalous marriage manual before Violet's wedding.

Lily had found Aristotle's Master-piece an uncomfortable combination of intriguing and embarrassing, and she hadn't been sad when the book moved to Lakefield along with her sister. But that had been years ago, when she was only sixteen. The mysteries of the bedchamber, which had seemed frightening and unimaginable then, were easier to imagine now.

In fact, lately her imagination seemed to be working overtime.

Still, dragging the Master-piece back out wasn't what she had in mind. "I just thought…I thought it would be nice to talk."

"Bang!" Nicky sailed his ship closer to Rose's. Beatrix's small head whipped back and forth, following the battle. "Bang, bang!"

"Quieter," Violet cautioned. "Your sister's sleeping."

Rebecca had nodded off in Lily's arms. Violet gazed at her daughter tenderly. "Of course I'll come sleep at Trentingham. Someday soon. It will be great fun." Though she sounded enthusiastic, her brown eyes were filled with concern. "Is there something in particular you'd like to talk about?"

"Nothing special. Just…life."

Rose aimed a tiny Dutch cannon. "I want to talk about Lord Randal."

The one thing Lily didn't want to talk about. Despite her promise, she felt she'd heard her sister gush over the man quite enough. Especially because, regardless of all their plotting, Rose seemed to be making no headway.

"How many times," she said, more peevishly than was her nature, "do you suppose he's asked you to call him Rand?"

"Oh, about a million," Rose answered gaily. "But I like to think of him as a lord. My lord."

Lily feared Rand would never be Rose's lord. He'd made it clear, with words and a kiss, which sister he preferred. And while she had no intention of going back on her word by allowing him to get closer, she'd seen nothing to make her believe he'd turn to Rose instead.

She met Violet's gaze, sending her a silent message.

"Has he shown interest?" Violet asked Rose carefully.

Their sister's lovely nose went into the air. "He walked with me in the garden today. He's been very kind."

"Bang, bang!" Nicky yelled. "Auntie Rose, you're not watching. You're going to sink!"

"Quieter," Violet repeated—rather patiently, Lily thought, considering she'd probably heard her sister utter that word a thousand times or more.

Lily lowered herself to a chair, being careful not to wake the baby. "Rand is kind," she said, more dreamily than she'd intended.

Beatrix started hiccuping.

"That silly cat." Rose stood, abandoning her ship to the mercy of the English. She narrowed her eyes at Lily. "You made a promise. Are you intending to break it?"

Violet looked between them curiously. "What promise?"

"Well…" Lily began.

"She promised," Rose finished for her, "to stay away from Lord Randal." Her gaze whipped back to Lily. "And to help me win him."

Lily swallowed hard. She'd been helping her, hadn't she? Every way she knew how. "Have you ever known me to break a promise?"

Rose appeared to give that some thought. "No," she said at last. "You always do the right thing."

She said it as though always doing the right thing were a character flaw, which Lily was beginning to think might be true.

And how absurd was that?

CHAPTER TWELVE

Later that afternoon, the notes wafting from the harpsichord did their magic as always, transporting Lily from her family's cream-and-gold-toned drawing room to a much more peaceful place.

At the moment Trentingham was far from peaceful. The drive was crammed with carriages waiting to take friends and family home. Uncles and cousins were busy seeing that their things were properly packed and loaded onto the correct vehicles. Children ran through the corridors, their feet pounding on the planked floor as they chased one another in last-minute games.

Lily knew she should join everyone and say good-bye. And she would, after a few more minutes of playing behind the drawing room's thick oak doors. The music was too soothing to resist. Her fingers glided over the keys, picking out a tune of her own creation, one that matched her mood.

Pensive. Confused. Longing—although for what, she wasn't sure.

The door opened, and her mother slid gracefully into the chamber. Chrystabel waited for her to finish. "Dear," she started as the last note faded, "that was lovely, but you really should be—"

"I know, Mum." Lily rose, forcing her lips to curve in a smile. "I'll go make my farewells."

"That's my Lily." Mum smiled in return. "Aunt Cecily could use some help bringing Lucy and Penelope downstairs." Lucy and Penelope were Lily's small cousins, aged two and three. "I'm afraid all our servants are engaged with the luggage."

"Of course I'll help." With one last wistful look at the harpsichord, Lily quit the room and followed her mother upstairs, looking forward to kissing the two girls good-bye.

But the nursery was empty. "Oh, well," Mum said cheerfully. "Aunt Cecily must have managed to wrestle the little rapscallions downstairs by herself. Come along, then." She turned back to the corridor.

Feeling like one of King Charles's tennis balls being batted back and forth, Lily followed. Then nearly bumped into her mother when she stopped before a door—the door to the room that had been assigned to Rand.

If Lily hadn't already known that, she would have figured it out on hearing the humming that drifted from inside.

Mum knocked and called through the oak. "How is it going, Rand?"

The door opened, and Rand stood there, a shirt dangling from one hand. "It's going well, thank you," he said, stepping back into the room to toss the garment into his trunk. He looked, Lily thought, like he was relieved to be heading over to Lakefield to stay.

Well, she was relieved, too. The less she had to watch Rose fawning over him, the better.

A frown on her forehead, Chrystabel pointedly scanned the room. "Where is the maid I arranged for? Did she never show up?" She turned to Lily. "Perhaps you can assist Rand with his packing."

"I—" Lily started.

"That's my Lily." Without waiting for her agreement, Mum turned to look down the stairwell. "Arabel!" she shouted. "Don't you dare leave without a bottle of perfume!" And before Lily could say anything, she was gone.

Lily shifted her gaze to Rand, suppressing a smile when she saw him roll up a pair of breeches. With a sigh, she walked into the room. "Let me help you with that."

"I can do it myself, although I cannot fathom why the maid unpacked everything. I brought enough for a two-week stay, but not here."

"She wasn't privy to your plans." She took the garment and folded it neatly, thinking it felt a bit scandalous to be handling his clothes. "As soon as some of these people leave, more help will be available."

Lady and Jasper watched from the sill, holding a noisy conversation. "What could a squirrel and a bird possibly be discussing?" Rand asked rather peevishly, then didn't wait for her to answer. "I told Ford I'd be back in an hour. He wants to work some more on the translation."

"Ford will have to understand." She walked over and bent to set the breeches in his trunk. "He can wait."

When Rand didn't respond, she straightened to find him near her. In fact, he was looming over her, near enough that her skin prickled in reaction.

"I cannot," he said, his voice lower and husky.

"What?" She blinked.

"I cannot wait. To kiss you."

A sudden awareness began pulsing through her veins. "My lord—"

"Rand."

"Rand," she whispered. He was so close she could smell him, soap and the faint remnants of all those warring perfumes, all layered over his own unique scent. The scent that was Rand. And he wanted to kiss her. Her lips tingled with the memory of last night's kiss, so innocent and yet so affecting. She wanted that again…that and more.

Rose. She'd promised Rose. She couldn't do this.

She backed up toward the corridor, her gaze darting around the chamber. "The door is open."

He followed her—and reached around her to shut it. "Now it's not."

She backed away more, until she was smack up against it.

"Lily." He followed her again and placed his hands on her shoulders. "I very much wish to kiss you."

Even through the fitted jacket of her riding habit, his fingers felt warm, their imprints sending a rush of sensation through her. Her mouth dried, and she licked her lips. "I very much wish…"

"What?"

She could hardly breathe. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do." His eyes glowed silver, a mixture of confidence and desire. "You want to kiss me, too."

"Maybe. But…I cannot."

"Oh," he said, "I think you can."

And then he proved it.

His mouth on hers was gentle, like it had been the night before. Still, that light touch was enough to make her dizzy. Finding it impossible to think clearly, she reached to wind her arms around his neck. His hands slipped behind her, settling on the small of her back to draw her against him.

He felt warm, solid. She moved even closer and fit her curves to his body. A low groan rose from his throat, and his lips slanted more urgently, coaxing hers to open.

Lily knew about this kind of kiss—she was, after all, the youngest of three sisters. She'd anticipated the day she might try it, with both excitement and some trepidation. It had sounded…well, rather messy and not entirely pleasant, no matter that she'd been assured otherwise.

So it was with some apprehension that she responded to the pressure of his mouth, opening her lips the barest measure. His tongue traced a slow line between, and she shivered and opened wider, giving him what he wanted.

And goodness, she wanted it, too. His tongue invaded further, teasing hers with a heavenly skill that made her weak in the knees. Her eyes drifted closed. Her arms tightened around him, and she breathed in his heady scent, tasting him in return.

Quite suddenly her world seemed filled with him. He tasted glorious. And the mysteries of the bedchamber no longer seemed frightening—not when her entire body thrummed from only a kiss.

At last he gently eased away and rested his lips on her forehead. "I have to leave," he said, the words gruff against her skin.

Lady tweeted from the window, and Jasper answered with a chirp. Lily hadn't heard them while Rand had been kissing her. She hadn't heard or felt or seen anything—except for him.

She was trembling all over. And Rand was right.

"Yes," she said. "You should leave."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was a week later, when Lily was exercising her horse, Snowflake, that she spotted Rand running along the bank of the Thames.

He'd avoided her all that time. Or she'd avoided him. Or both—she wasn't sure. But now, riding toward him, her heart began to race…and it wasn't from the exertion of the gallop.

She slowed deliberately, both Snowflake's gait and her own breathing. It didn't matter that the mere sight of this man set the pit of her stomach to tingling. She wouldn't let him kiss her again.

She'd promised Rose. Never mind that Rose had contrived to visit Violet every day this week and come back reporting she'd seen neither hide nor hair of Rand. A promise was a promise.

Lily was seeing a considerable amount of Rand's hide now. Above plain buff breeches, his loose white shirt was unlaced and open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Tied back into a queue, his glorious hair streamed on the wind behind him, shimmering in the sun. His unfashionably low-heeled boots pounded along the grassy bank in a rhythm measured and unceasing.

He ran, she thought, like a wildcat, lithe and sleek.

She knew the moment he saw her. There was a telltale stumble in that perfectly smooth motion. And a matching hitch in her heartbeat.

He stopped and leaned over, hands to bent knees, panting hard as he waited for her to ride closer. When she did, he straightened and looked up at her, using a hand to shade his eyes.

His face was flushed; his shirt clung damply to his skin. That piercing gray gaze swept her from her toes on up. When it met her eyes, searching, it seemed almost as though he were seeing her for the first time.

Holding her reins in one hand, she self-consciously smoothed her butter yellow habit with the other.

"Good day, Lily."

She swallowed tightly. "Good day."

"I'm finished running," he said, stating the obvious. But for some reason, she had a feeling he spoke of more than exercise. Moving beside her white horse, he reached to help her down. "Will you walk with me? I like to do that after I run."

There was no harm, she supposed, in walking. But when his hands spanned her waist to ease her to the ground, she felt a disturbing jolt of sensation. And he let his fingers rest there longer than he needed to before he stepped back.

She deliberately looked away, taking Snowflake's reins and looping them over the branch of a scrubby tree.

A sparrow fluttered from the sky and alighted in the sparse foliage. Rand looked up, then raised a questioning brow. "Lady?"

"Yes. She thinks she's protecting me."

"She thinks I cannot defend you without her help?" His laugh sounded strained. "She's insulting my masculinity."

To the contrary, Lily suspected Lady was acknowledging his masculinity—protecting her from Rand rather than in spite of him. But she certainly wasn't going to encourage him by telling him that.

They turned and walked along the riverfront, settling easily into a comfortable tempo. Keeping far enough away from him that he couldn't take her hand, Lily focused on the water. Swans glided majestically, and faint laughter drifted from one of the boats filled with people enjoying the summer sun.

"Do you run often?" she asked, then realized she knew the answer.

Here was the reason he looked so browned and healthy, so lean and sleekly muscled. Apparently not all academics spent their days locked away in research.

"Often enough," he said. "It helps me think."

Surprised, she turned her head to meet his gaze. "How can you think while you run that hard?"

"Not during." He smiled, his teeth blindingly white in his heated face. "After. Like now. When my body is pleasantly worn-out and I can feel the breeze cooling my skin."

It had always done that for Rand, the running. It wasn't only the speed. It was the strain of pumping muscles, the sound of pounding feet, the delicious gulps of air rushing in and out of his lungs. The rhythm. It all combined to clear his head—to fill his head—leaving no space for worry or concerns. When he was running, he was only running.

And when he stopped, he could always think more clearly. Life seemed simpler. Problems seemed surmountable. For him, it had worked that way as long as he could remember.

But this time, when he'd stopped, Lily had been there. And he'd thought, quite clearly, that he must be falling in love.

The realization had come out of nowhere, as though he'd stumbled on a key and unlocked a cryptic code. His heart had hammered against his ribs. Was still hammering against his ribs.

He wasn't sure he believed in love, wasn't sure he was ready for it. Without his family's help—without anyone's help—he'd made a life for himself. A good life, a comfortable life, a life in which he didn't have to answer to anyone.

A lonely life, a little voice whispered.

"How long have you lived in Oxford?" Lily asked, then watched Rand shake his head as though to clear it.

"Half my life—since I was fourteen. I couldn't wait to get out of my father's house. The man doesn't approve of what I've become, but it suits me better than living under his thumb and following his orders."

"Did he expect you to assist him with his estates?" She knew that Rowan would do that someday, but Rand seemed so independent. Besides, it was different for Rowan. Someday Rowan would be Lord Trentingham, but Rand would never be more than Lord Hawkridge's younger brother. "I can understand why you wouldn't want to do that, or live the life of an idle gentleman. Between your lecturing and your research, you have so much to contribute."

"It's a shame my father doesn't see it that way. I believe my leaving for Oxford was the only thing we ever agreed on. He was as happy to see the back of me as I was to turn it upon him."

He grinned as though that was supposed to be amusing, and she smiled in return. But she sensed a sadness lurking beneath his good humor. There was so much more to Rand than his father was willing to see. So many admirable qualities. And underneath them all, that loneliness she'd glimpsed. That lack of a family who believed in him.

No matter what, she'd always have her family and their support. She'd never realized how lucky she was. Rand had made his place in the world, but he'd done it alone.

No one should have to be alone.

Her heart aching for him, she glanced toward him as they walked and found his gaze fixed to where she was absently rubbing the back of her hand. "How did it happen?" he asked.

Embarrassed, she waved the scarred hand dismissively. "It doesn't hurt anymore, if that's what you're wondering. It happened long ago."

"But how?"

Though he didn't seem at all repulsed, she stared down at the thin white lines. The proof of her imperfection. "A cat. Not Beatrix. And it wasn't his fault—I was teasing him. I learned to respect animals after that. All animals."

"I cannot imagine you disrespecting anything."

Something in his voice made a nervous laugh bubble out of her. "I try," she said, "but I'm far from perfect."

"You're close enough to perfect for me," he said very seriously. He stopped walking and took her by the shoulders to stop her, too, gently turning her to face him. "May I kiss you again, Lily?"

Her pulse skittered. His shirt had dried, and it billowed in the soft breeze. She wanted to lay her palms against the front of it and run them up to feel the warm, tanned skin revealed in the open placket.

But she couldn't. And she couldn't let him kiss her again, either. It didn't matter that her lips seemed to be tingling with remembered anticipation.

She licked them. "Rose…"

A puzzled frown appeared on his brow. "Rose? What has Rose to do with this?"

She hesitated. They were standing beneath a tree, and a flutter of wings heralded Lady alighting above them. But Lady couldn't help her, couldn't protect her.

Only the truth could do that.

Holding Rand's gaze, Lily took a deep breath. "Rose wants you."

His lips curved in a crooked smile, and one hand drifted from her shoulder. He touched a fingertip to the little dent in her chin. "So you're being a good sister, is that it? Let me tell you, Lily, Rose may very well want me. But I want you."

He couldn't, she thought.

Maybe he did. But he just couldn't.

His finger traced a featherlight pattern on her chin, making her melt, making her crave his kiss even more. But this wasn't right. She'd promised. She'd broken her promise twice already, and twice was two times too many.

While Lady twittered, Lily struggled to keep her head. "You're so like Rose. You both sing, the languages…"

Her words trailed off. Lady flew to a lower branch.

Rand seemed to consider that line of reasoning for a long moment.

When he finally spoke, his tone was laced with quiet conviction. "Maybe I am like Rose. But I don't want someone like me. I want someone to complete me."

His voice was so deep, the sentiment so earnest, his eyes on hers so sure. When he leaned closer, when his hand slipped from her chin to curl around the back of her neck, when he lowered his lips to hers…all she could do was surrender.

And surrender felt entirely too good.

Slowly he backed her against the tree, his mouth working its magic. Her lips opened willingly this time, eagerly, her tongue reaching out in tentative exploration. His mouth felt soft but made hers burn with fire. She pressed closer, reveling in the feel of his hard, toned body against her.

Leaves rustled overhead as he moaned, deepening the kiss. An answering sound rose from inside her. His hand tightened on her nape while his other arm went around her, a clear bid for possession. He tasted of Rand, and she sucked in his scent, stronger and more heady following his run.

Her senses reeled, and a ripple of excitement began flowing through her, building toward a crescendo. It made her dizzy, made her knees weak, made her want more.

She arched her neck as his lips trailed down her throat. "Lily," he whispered, her name a damp promise in the sensitive hollow. "I want you."

Her eyes fluttered open.

"You cannot," she said, afraid it was the same for her. She tried to pull away, fought to regain her senses. This was wrong. "We…we haven't known each other long enough for you to know what you want."

"Four years."

"No," she argued, biting her lip. Tears threatened, but she blinked them back. This couldn't be happening. "Not four years. Not even a month. A few weeks four years ago, and nine or ten days now. Most of them spent apart."

"Well, then," he said quietly, so guilelessly she knew he believed it, "it must have been love at first sight."

Love. The single word made her heart knot and grow heavy in her chest. Feeling his hands against her nape and her back, the humming warmth of his body against hers, she knew, without a doubt, that he really, truly did want her.

And she wanted him.

But Rose wanted him, too.

Blood pounded in her head, filled her ears, rocked her senses. He'd spoken of love—and if he loved her, Lily, then he'd never marry Rose, would he? What was the point of keeping her promise if Rose's hopes were destined to be dashed either way?

For one single moment, she wanted, more than she'd wanted anything in her life, to break a promise to her sister. Then she gasped, appalled that she'd even had such a disloyal thought. Her word meant everything to her.

"I have to leave," she said, echoing what he'd said a week earlier. And she turned toward Snowflake and ran, Lady flying after her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

For three solid days, Rand did nothing but eat, sleep, work on the translation, and run. And think. And run and think some more.

At the end of that time, he still wasn't sure how—or even if—his feelings for Lily had turned from simple lust to something deeper. The mechanics of falling in love seemed cryptic, as elusive as the symbols in Ford's ancient alchemy book.

But Rand Nesbitt was a man who prided himself on his ability to figure things out.

Leaving Ford's laboratory for supper, he asked, "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"No," Ford said flatly. "It makes no logical sense."

"Then you didn't feel…with Violet…"

"On first sight?" Ford's mouth twitched as though he were holding back a laugh. "Absolutely not. I thought her rather plain and more than a little odd. Though I cannot imagine why," he added thoughtfully.

Rand followed him down the winding staircase to Lakefield's cozy, burgundy-toned dining room, where Violet was waiting with their children.

She didn't look plain at all—she was practically glowing, as a matter of fact, as she handed one of the twins to a nursemaid. And as for odd, well, if that word didn't describe Ford Chase, Rand didn't know one that did.

When it came right down to it, who wasn't odd, anyway?

He took a seat and waited while a footman set a plate of chicken and artichoke pie before him. "Do you believe in love at first sight?" he asked Violet.

"Of course," she said. "But lust at first sight is more common."

A becoming blush touched her cheeks, making Rand suspect she'd experienced lust at first sight. He felt suddenly— absurdly—jealous, wishing her sister would feel the same lust for him. If his own experience was anything to judge by, lust could be a solid foundation on which to build heavier emotions.

Love. He'd uttered that frightening word, risked baring his soul, offered his heart in his hands…and had it rejected.

Lifting his fork, he shifted his gaze to Ford in an attempt to gauge his old friend as an inspiration for female lust. If he looked hard enough, he could almost understand why ladies might find Ford handsome, but truth be told, what he really saw was the gawky schoolboy the man had been when they'd first met.

Who knew what drove women? Lily had allowed him to kiss her three times. Perhaps there was hope for him, after all.

"Why are you asking?" Violet tucked a cloth under Nicky's chin, then pulled his plate closer and put a spoon in his chubby hand. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"I'm not sure," Rand said. He certainly hadn't until recently. Besides, his first sight of Lily had been so long ago. After all this time, how was a man supposed to remember what he'd felt way back then? In the intervening years, he'd probably built her up in his mind.

And on that flimsy basis, lately he'd found himself daydreaming about a lifetime of wedded bliss. Clearly he was going soft in the head.

Violet speared a piece of artichoke heart. "Of course, love—sustainable love—is dependent on more than physical appearance."

"Which is why," her husband said, "love at first sight is a myth."

"Not at all." Her voice took on the tone of a philosopher waxing philosophical. "Love occurs when something in one person recognizes something basic and true in another. To borrow a term from my mother's perfume-making, call it that person's essence. One would see this essence embodied in everything the other person does—those thoughts, actions, responses, and choices that go to display her values."

"One cannot see all of that at first sight," Ford argued.

"I beg to differ." Clearly enjoying this sort of debate, Violet waved her fork. "One person's essence responds innately to another's—it's not a conscious response, nor one that knows time. Upon meeting a woman, some part of you will notice how she moves, gestures, talks, smiles—how she carries herself in general. Her essence—not only her surface appearance." She focused back on Rand. "Take my sister Lily, for example."

Though the pie was delicious, swimming in rich gravy, Rand nearly choked. "Lily?" He shot a glance to Ford, whom he'd told about Lily in confidence. But his friend avoided his gaze, industriously cutting an already-small-enough bite of chicken.

"Just as an example." If Violet's expression might have revealed ulterior motives, she expertly concealed it while sipping wine. "Lily is beautiful, isn't she?"

Rand sipped from his own goblet. Lustrous mahogany hair, deep blue eyes, that irresistible face and figure…

"I don't expect any male would argue with you about that."

"And perhaps most males would notice that first, but there's so much more to Lily. She makes beautiful music. She's also quite intelligent. One needn't be bookish to be intelligent."

"Did I ever say—"

"Those are all obvious things, but now let's look at her essence, those values we can see in the way she carries herself and behaves. She's nurturing and compassionate. People feel good around Lily, because she cares. She really cares, about everyone and everything. She's benevolent, she seeks harmony, and above all, she endeavors at all times to make the right choices. The sum of these is what makes her Lily."

"Her essence," Rand murmured.

"Yes!" Beaming, Violet set down her goblet. "And the sort of man who would recognize a kindred essence in Lily, most especially on first sight, would also recognize that she will someday make a wonderful mother." With that, her gaze lovingly went to her babies in their cradles.

And Rand was rendered speechless.

He wasn't sure he could even eat.

He was just getting used to considering love and marriage…fatherhood was another matter entirely.

"Lily, are you ready to leave?"

"Just a moment, Mum." With a sigh, Lily stroked Randolph's soft brown fur one last time. She'd put it off more than a week, but she knew what had to be done. Setting her jaw, she crouched to tenderly place Randolph on the grass.

Without so much as a thank you, the rat scampered happily into a flower bed.

Lily sighed again and fished Beatrix out from beneath her skirts. "May I bring her?" she asked as she rose.

"I suppose she'll contrive to come along either way." Chrystabel sifted through the basket on her arm, checking that all her perfumes were in order. "But you must leave her in the carriage. You know cats make Lady Carrington sneeze."

Half an hour later, Lily stood on the steps of Carrington House with her mother and Rose. As Chrystabel lifted the knocker, a sneeze resounded from inside.

"Beatrix is in the carriage," Lily said defensively. Glancing back to make sure, she saw a small black nose pressed to the vehicle's window. Jasper and Lady sat atop the carriage's roof, looking similarly innocent.

The door opened, and a butler ushered them into the drawing room, where Lady Carrington was waiting with coffee, expensive imported tea, and cakes. Judith sat on a sturdy carved chair, dabbing at her nose with a lace-edged handkerchief.

Chrystabel set her basket on a table and raised the cloth covering. "Your usual blend," she said to Lady Carrington, handing her a bottle of scent. "And for you, Lady Judith, a new blend to celebrate your betrothal. More fitting for a lady of your status."

"It's more spicy," Rose explained.

Judith's eyes widened. "Oooh, may I see?"

Lily brought the perfume to her friend, pulling the stopper out as she went. She waved the bottle under her own nose and smiled before handing it to Judith. "It smells lovely."

Judith dabbed a bit on one wrist and raised it to her reddened nose. "It does. Even all stuffy, I can tell. Thank you ever so much, Lady Trentingham."

"You're very welcome, dear."

Replacing the stopper, Judith stood. "Would you care to see the fabric for my wedding gown?" she asked Lily and Rose. "And the style? Madame left a fashion doll for me to show you."

They followed her up the curving oak staircase.

"I think the dress will be ever so beautiful," Judith said, pausing for a sneeze. "Lord, I'm so excited about my wedding."

"You should be," Rose said somewhat wistfully.

The wedding dress fashion doll reclined in a place of honor against Judith's mauve pillows in her feminine room. "Isn't it lovely?"

"It is," Lily agreed softly. The doll's gown was palest blue with a wide neckline and golden ribbons crisscrossing the stomacher. The underskirt was cloth of gold.

Suddenly, quite unbidden, an image popped into her head—of herself wearing such a gown and standing beside Rand. The blue fabric brought out the hue in her eyes, which were fastened on Rand as she recited her vows. The golden underskirt shimmered, rustling when she moved…

"You're so lucky," Rose told Judith, snapping Lily out of her reverie.

She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened them with new determination. She should be picturing Rose standing beside Rand, rather than thinking disloyal thoughts.

Settling into the window seat, Judith sneezed again. "Pardon me," she said with a sniffle. Then her voice dropped a notch. "I'm lucky about the wedding," she mumbled, "but I'm worried about the wedding night."

Her heart aching for her friend, Lily forgot her own troubles. She sat beside Judith and took her hands. "You'll be fine," she told her with all the confidence she could muster. "All brides are nervous."

"Do you think so?"

"Goodness, I'm sure of it." She slanted a glance to Rose before looking back to her friend. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Absolutely. But I've seen Lord Grenville, and—"

"I didn't mean to pry," Lily rushed to clarify. "I just wondered if you believed. In the abstract."

"Yes. Oh, yes." Judith had always been a romantic. "That's why I—"

"I believe in love at first sight," Rose interrupted. "I fell in love with Lord Randal the very first time I saw him."

Despite her worries, Judith grinned. "You fall in love with every man you see."

"I do not," Rose protested. "Only the handsome ones. Like Rand."

Rand, Rand, Rand. Lily rose and paced back to the doll, staring at its pale blue magnificence. She would never feel right wearing a wedding dress before Rose was Lady Somebody.

"There are cakes downstairs," Judith said into the sudden silence.

Lily was all too happy to escape the discussion, but no sooner had they reentered the drawing room than Rose revived it. "Mum," she asked, "do you believe in love at first sight?"

"What nonsense," Lady Carrington said, her chins trembling with indignation. "Love grows between two suited individuals. It was that way for me, and it will be the same for my Judith and Lord Grenville." She brushed crumbs from her mouth and motioned her daughter closer. "Come here, dear. Have a cake."

Judith took two. Evidently her illness wasn't affecting her appetite.

"Mum?" Rose pressed.

Chrystabel set down her teacup. "I do believe in love at first sight," she said firmly. "I experienced it with your father."

Lady Carrington harrumphed.

"Of course," Mum continued undaunted, "dear Joseph took some convincing. I've yet to meet a man who believes in love at first sight."

Lily knew one. One who was trying to convince her.

"Nonsense," Lady Carrington repeated as she reached for another cake.

Lily's mother smiled charmingly and changed the subject. "Have you heard the latest?" she asked, lifting her cup. "Two more of my introductions are culminating in marriages. Lady Eleanor Randolph is betrothed to Lord Ducksworth. And you're not going to believe this." She paused to sip for effect. "I've managed to match the eternal bachelor."

Lady Carrington's eyes widened. "You don't mean…"

"Yes." Chrystabel nodded proudly. "Lord Percival Newcombe."

"No!" her friend gasped, a cake halfway to her lips. "To whom?"

"Joseph," Chrystabel said as she slid into bed beside him that night, "do you believe in love at first sight?"

He came up on an elbow and eyed her warily. "Is this a trick question?"

"No."

"Then no. I don't believe in love at first sight."

"No?"

"Yes? Is yes the right answer? I've never thought about it, my love."

She laughed. He was such a man.

Chrystabel loved the nights, the precious hours spent alone with her husband in their thick-walled bedchamber. Here, where the sound of her voice competed with nothing but an occasional crackle from the fireplace, her Joseph could hear her perfectly.

And he knew how to touch her perfectly, too. How to make her feel perfectly wonderful…

He rolled closer and reached to untie the ribbons that secured the top of her night rail. "Does this have something to do with Lily and Rand? Are your plans not working out?"

She sighed, delightfully distracted by his fingertips brushing her skin. "I'm certain he desires her."

"Love at first sight?"

"Maybe. Do you remember how he looked at her, even four years ago?"

"No. I don't remember." He slipped the gown from her shoulders. "I'm not sure I even noticed."

Of course he hadn't. He was a man. "Well, it was quite obvious he was drawn to our Lily then, and it's even more obvious now. Surely you've noticed it now?"

"Not really." He lowered his lips to her neck, kissing the sensitive hollow while he worked the night rail lower.

"Even since I pointed it out?" she asked breathlessly.

"I have eyes only for you, Chrysanthemum," he murmured against her throat. "Only you."

Half charmed, half exasperated, she shivered. "Well, Lily isn't immune to him, either—of that I'm sure. But despite all my efforts to get them alone together, the poor boy isn't making much progress. After I noticed Rand runs every day by the river, I told Lily that Snowflake needed some exercise, but—"

"Poor boy must not have my talents," her husband interrupted, cupping a breast. Making skilled use of his thumb, he pulled back to grin at her indrawn breath. "Are you sure he's good enough for Lily?"

"You're incorrigible," she said. But she didn't remove his hand, instead arching her back in blatant invitation. "I told you, didn't I, that Violet said Lily promised Rose she'd stay away from Rand? Besides feeling bound to that ridiculous vow, Lily is genuinely concerned for Rose. I can see it in her eyes, in her attitude. She's afraid to put her own happiness before her sister's."

"Give it some time, love. She'll come to her senses." He lowered his mouth to where his fingers had been.

"But Rand's house will be ready soon," she choked out on a gasp. "He'll be leaving."

"Give it some time," he repeated against her tingling flesh. "If he wants her, he'll be back. You didn't win me in a day."

Oh yes, she had, she thought with a secret smile as she helped him wiggle her out of her night rail. It just proved her finesse with men that he hadn't noticed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Once in a great while, a man had to get drunk. And it was always better to do that with a friend.

Sitting in Ford's laboratory, Rand stared at a nearly blank piece of paper. He blinked hard to make out the words. "We've been here all night and translated only a single sentence," he muttered, finding himself fascinated, in an odd, detached sort of way, at hearing the slur in his own voice. "We'll never finish. You'll never make gold."

"What's a few more years when these words have been waiting for four hundred?" Ford reached across the cluttered table for a decanter of brandy, impressing Rand when he didn't knock over any of the assorted paraphernalia. He filled Rand's beaker for the third time.

Or maybe the fourth. Rand had lost count.

"So you're in love, are you?" Ford said.

"Maybe. Probably not. I cannot be sure." Rand paused for a sip, trying not to speculate on what chemical concoction the beaker might have held the day before. "I think so."

Topping off his own beaker, Ford nodded. "You're in love."

"She won't have me. It's that older sister of hers. Rose." Rand took another sip—or rather a gulp that he'd intended to be a sip. "She keeps pointing out how Rose and I are more suited," he complained. "Rose sings and can speak Italian. As though I'm looking for those qualities in a lover." Then another thought occurred to him—one that made the liquor seem to sour in the pit of his stomach. "What if she's only using Rose as an excuse? What if she won't have me because I'm only a professor? She lives in a bloody mansion, and I—"

"Lily's not like that," Ford rushed to interrupt. "She cares about her animals. She cares about other people. She doesn't care where she lives."

Rand nodded—slowly, to keep the room from blurring—as he tried to believe that. He almost succeeded. "Then why does she keep bringing up Rose?"

"Guilt," Ford said succinctly.

"Guilt?"

"Look, we all know Rose wants you—"

"Every woman wants me," Rand said with a wide, drunken grin. He was intelligent, he was financially stable, he was charming, he was tall and—from what women had told him—apparently easy on the eyes…and as much as he hated to admit it, he had the title Lord in front of his name.

No female had ever turned down Rand Nesbitt.

Then his expression fell. "Except Lily."

"Guilt." Taking his time about it, Ford drained his beaker. "She doesn't want to steal you from Rose."

"Rose doesn't have me. Therefore Lily cannot steal me from Rose." Rand felt inordinately proud of that observation. "Those two statements make rational sense, don't they? And I'm a professor of linguistics, not logic."

"You're brilliant," Ford said dryly. "But you're forgetting something."

"What's that?" Rand asked, marveling at the way the words sounded once they'd left his mouth. Whazzat. Had he said whazzat?

"The way women's minds work. Or don't, as the case may be. Would you care for some more brandy?"

Rand held out his beaker. "I think I need it."

Ford refilled his own, too, then leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. "Listen," he said, rolling the beaker between his palms, "it doesn't matter whether Rose has you. The salient point here is that Lily knows Rose desires you, and she's unwilling to hurt her sister by taking what Rose considers hers—never mind that you're not and never will be—because Lily is putting her sister's feelings before her own. She won't allow herself to marry—"

"Who said anything about marriage?"

"Hold your tongue and listen. Lily won't allow herself to marry before Rose, most especially to a man Rose wants for herself."

Rand sipped more brandy as he attempted to absorb that convoluted line of reasoning. He found himself truly amazed. "How the hell do you know all that?"

"Violet told me. And she also said that Lily made Rose some harebrained promise to stay out of her way, which further complicates matters."

"Did Violet give you a solution?"

"She said it was hopeless. But that's where she's wrong." Ford leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as he focused on Rand's. "Listen, my man. It's time for you to take your own advice."

Rand sat up straighter and then waited until the world stopped spinning around him. "Advice? About love? I'm not even sure I believe in it. I've bloody well never given advice—"

"When Violet didn't want me, remember? You helped me devise a plan. And it worked."

"I did?" He blinked, trying to recall. "I must have been gloriously drunk."

"You were," Ford assured him. "Now, listen. Seduction was the key. You must make Lily desire you so very much that she doesn't give a damn about her sister. Her lust for you can overcome her loyalty to Rose. If you give it your best, it will work, my friend. Take it from a man with experience."

Rand rubbed the ends of his hair, warming to the idea. It sounded like an excellent plan. And certainly an enjoyable one. He would put it into effect starting tomorrow.

But for now, he felt like he was going to be sick.

The burn of overworked muscles. The sound of his own labored breath. The rhythm of his feet on the turf. All worked to clear Rand's mind…but disturbing thoughts insisted on creeping in anyway.

He'd stayed indoors yesterday, fuzzy-brained and out of sorts, the pounding in his head quite enough without the jarring beat of a run. He hadn't felt up to putting the seduction plan into action, either. It had been years since he'd indulged in drink like that—for good reason. This recent bout would serve to ensure he drank moderately for another decade at least.

Still, he'd managed to make progress on the translation—enough, in fact, that he and Ford had come to the sad conclusion that Secrets of the Emerald Tablet held no secrets to making gold. Over the past few weeks, Ford had tested every formula Rand could find, with results ranging from hopeful-but-disappointing to all-out laughable.

Now there were no more formulas. There was no point in laboring to decipher what little was left of the text.

"I'm sorry," he'd told Ford when they'd closed the book last night.

"I always knew this was a possibility. Hell, the mere idea of making gold was too good to be true. I'm sorry you wasted so much time on it."

Rand had shrugged, even that small movement hurting his aching head. "You know I'm always up for a good puzzle, and I enjoyed this one thoroughly. Besides, it gave me a sound excuse to escape all the construction. Kit should be finished by now."

Now there was no reason for Rand not to go home to Oxford.

Except Lily.

Today, sunlight sparkled off the Thames, and the fresh air felt good in his lungs. Pounding along the banks, his feet seemed to be saying, se-duc-tion, se-duc-tion, se-duc-tion.

He laughed at himself; what a pathetic case he'd become. His next breath was a huge one, drawn in through both nose and mouth, meant to cleanse his body and head. But with it came a faint scent that made alarm slither down his spine.

Fire.

He stopped and turned, scanning the horizon. There it was. Slightly inland and to the west, dark smoke puffing up to smudge today's clear blue sky.

Trentingham was over in that direction, he realized with a jolt of panic.

A moment later he was running faster than ever in his life.

Yesterday Lily had awakened with the sniffles and a scratchy throat, so she'd stayed home while Chrystabel and Rose went out calling. Today, she'd awakened coughing and sneezing and could barely drag herself downstairs to tend to her menagerie. After completing her chores and nearly nodding into her breakfast, she'd crawled back into her night rail and collapsed into bed for a much needed nap, half expecting not to open her eyes again before dark.

But now she lay teetering on the brink of wakefulness, vaguely wondering what had roused her from sleep. She was tired, so tired her whole body ached, and she could tell from the color behind her closed lids that it was still midday. She rolled over, intending to drift off again, to seek more healing slumber—

Shouts. The stench of burning wood. Her eyes popped open, and she leapt from the bed and rushed to the window, her knees trembling.

Smoke billowed into the sky—light gray, dark gray, menacingly black—and below that, red and orange flames licked upward, rising from what looked like the soon-to-be-roofless barn.

Her animals were in there. Her heart racing, she grabbed a wrapper and struggled into it even as she ran for the door.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"You cannot go back in there, my lord! It's about to collapse! They're only animals! Not worth your life!"

Rand ignored the frantic stable hand's warning, waving him toward the long bucket brigade bringing water up from the river. Coughing, he set down the badger and quickly scanned the small collection of dazed creatures.

The hedgehog, the fawn, a rabbit, a weasel…Lily had said she was planning to release the rat, and he prayed that she had, because he hadn't a chance of finding anything that small in the blinding smoke. But he'd seen a shadow in the grayness…the fox cub, he suddenly realized. The fox cub with the broken leg.

This one cannot run, he heard Lily say in his head. This one couldn't survive without him.

He'd originally raced into the blazing barn because he'd needed to make sure Lily wasn't in there. But once inside, he'd remembered her face, her gentle hands as she cared for her strays. He couldn't leave them to die. Not the ones he'd already saved, and not the fox cub, either.

To more cries of "No!" and "Stay back!" he charged once more into the conflagration. What air remained was hotter than his first two trips, and drier, searing his lungs. Flames thundered, their orange, white, and blue tendrils licking up the wooden walls. Billowing black smoke threatened to blind him.

He stumbled toward Lily's makeshift pens, coughs wracking his body as he peered through the haze, his eyes blurred with burning tears. Frantically he searched the enclosures, finding nothing. The blaze roared all around him, the sound filling his head, battering his senses.

Heat lashed him in scorching waves. He couldn't see; he couldn't breathe; he couldn't stay in here a minute longer.

This one cannot run…

He pictured Lily saying the words, kneeling beside a pen, right there. Sucking in acrid air, he reached down blindly, his fingers encountering soft, trembling fur.

And then he was on his way out, the cub a gasping, hot bundle in his arms, both of them searching for cool, healing air. Just as he cleared the door, a mighty crash sounded behind him, and for one terrifying moment he seemed surrounded by raining sparks.

Then there was light, and he could breathe, and someone was pulling the cub from his arms. "Oh God, oh God, oh God," someone cried, whacking him on the back. It made him cough more, and he tried to twist away, to run away, but he only stumbled. His eyes were still streaming and he couldn't see, but whoever it was followed him.

"You're on fire!" she screamed, and it was Lily's voice, and he stood still and let her beat upon his back until at last she stopped.

"Oh God," she said again and took him by the hand to pull him farther from the flames. They both collapsed to the ground. Rand rubbed his eyes, feeling grit, his head swimming in a haze of smoke and unreality.

He blinked until his vision cleared. He and Lily gazed at each other, ash and soot drifting around them and settling slowly to earth like a dark, eerie snowfall.

"You saved my animals," she whispered, quiet tears rolling down her cheeks.

"You saved me," Rand croaked through his raw throat. Still coughing, he reached a hand behind to touch his back, but it didn't hurt enough to be burned.

"It was your hair." Lily coughed, too. "Your hair was on fire."

He reached higher then, to the ribbon that bound the queue he wore when he ran, and it was still there—but the hair below it felt wiry and crumbled in his fingers.

"I'm sorry," she said, coughing some more.

He shrugged, still feeling dazed. "It hardly matters. It will grow back." They both coughed together. "Did the smoke get to you, too? Or are these sympathy coughs?" he said with a weak smile, then frowned, peering closer, finally noticing how she looked. "You're wearing a nightdress. You're ill, aren't you? Rose is at Lakefield now, as usual, but she failed to mention you're ill. You'll catch your death—you shouldn't be out here."

Her cheeks flushed pink. She took the dressing gown clenched in her fingers—the one she'd used to beat out the flames—and draped it over herself. Once white, it was streaked gray and black from his hair. "You shouldn't be here, either," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"I was running and saw the smoke." His head cleared, and suddenly he realized the fire was still raging. "Go inside, Lily. Lie down. Your animals are safe." Even now, a couple of women were busy moving them to the stables. "I need to help here."

He pushed to his feet and came face-to-face with Lily's mother.

She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "You should go inside, too. You've done enough."

"But the barn—"

"It's hopeless, and the rest is under control."

Rand turned to see. Although the bucket brigade was still operating full force under the direction of her husband, the men weren't fighting the fire, instead drenching the surrounding area to prevent its spread. The barn itself—or what was left of it—was burning merrily despite their earlier efforts.

Lady Trentingham forced a wan smile. "It was old and needed replacing. So long as no one's hurt, it's no great loss. Come inside. I'll fetch some water so you can rinse off the soot." Without waiting for his agreement, she hurried toward the house.

His hands were coated in black, and he wanted to wash his face. Imagining he looked like hell, he reached to help Lily rise. The sunshine was dimmed by the veil of smoke overhead, but not so much that he couldn't see the outline of her body through her thin white nightdress. He thought it wise not to mention that, however. She sneezed twice during their slow progress to the house and looked even worse than he felt.

Well, her poor red eyes and nose did, anyway. The rest of her looked magnificent.

By the time they stepped indoors, Lady Trentingham had a basin and towels set up in the drawing room. She ushered them both inside, handing Rand a clean white shirt and Lily a fresh dressing gown and a pair of shears. "I must see that ale is brought to the men," she said and rushed off.

Lily looked shocked to be left alone with him, but Rand was too tired to care. She hurried into the dressing gown and belted it tightly at her waist. He pulled the ribbon out of his hair, then looked down at his grayish shirt, noticing all the tiny black holes where sparks had singed it. With a shrug, he began to strip it off.

Her mouth dropped open, but she didn't avert her eyes.

Seduction, he remembered.

Hoping she was enjoying the view, he pulled the shirt over his head and turned to the water.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lily's gaze was glued to Rand's back, watching the muscles ripple as he washed all the black soot off his hands and arms, then his face and neck. She'd never seen a man's bare back, unless she counted Rowan's, but he was still just a boy. And Rowan's back didn't look like Rand's, either; it looked rather like her own or Rose's. Rand's tapered from wide shoulders down to narrow hips, and every muscle was defined beneath the taut skin.

Feeling her fever rising, she dropped onto a chair.

Drying his face with a towel, he turned. "Why did she give you scissors?"

"Hmm?" Swallowing hard, she tore her gaze from his chest and looked down to where her fingers, white-knuckled, gripped the shears. "I suppose she thought you'd want to cut off the burned part of your hair."

"Oh. That makes sense." His voice sounded huskier than normal—from the smoke, she imagined. But whatever the reason, the deep words seemed to vibrate right through her. He tossed away the towel and grabbed her father's shirt. "Will you cut it for me?"

"Me? Cut your hair?" Her breath was coming short. He dropped the shirt over his head and tugged it into place. Though it was a bit small, it did cover him sufficiently.

She couldn't decide whether she found that a relief or disappointing.

"Well, I cannot cut it myself, not and make a good job of it," he said reasonably, shoving the bottom of the shirt down into his breeches. For some reason, watching that made her breath come even shorter. "Most of it's on the back of my head," he added.

"It? Oh, your hair. Yes. I suppose it is." She began to clear her throat, but when that hurt, she coughed instead. "Sit down, and I'll do my best to cut it."

"I cannot." He indicated his filthy breeches and the cream-colored upholstery. "Can you stand?"

She did, noticing her knees felt shaky. Her illness must be worsening. Her arms felt weak when she raised the scissors and began snipping off the scorched hair. It smelled terrible and looked awful.

"I'm so sorry," she said from behind him, mourning the gorgeous mane.

He shrugged, the shirt tightening across his wide shoulders. "It was my only vanity. It's probably as well that it's gone. I'll have more time for my work now that I won't be caring for it."

She laughed, glad he wasn't angry. And her animals were safe. Her heart lightened as she carefully snipped. "Why?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"Why did you risk your life to save them? You don't even like animals."

"I don't dislike animals, and I'd certainly never want to see any creature suffer. Just because they're not my reason for living doesn't mean I don't care."

"Oh." It sounded so simple when he put it that way. So reasonable. So Rand. And she wanted to say that animals weren't her reason for living, either—that people, especially special people like him, were much more important.

But she shouldn't be saying something like that, because he might get the wrong idea. And then she might be tempted to break her promise to Rose, and then—

"But if you want the God-honest truth," he continued, "I wasn't thinking of the animals when I saved them. I went in looking for you, afraid you might be trying to save them yourself. And then, when you weren't there—" His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. "When I rescued those creatures, I was thinking of you, Lily, and how you'd feel if they perished."

She stopped snipping and started shaking. He'd saved animals for her, risking his life and losing his hair in the process. He couldn't…she couldn't…

"Lily?"

"I'm almost finished." She drew a deep breath and made a few more cuts. But it was hard to concentrate, because she was afraid she'd just fallen in love with Rand Nesbitt.

She hadn't seen him in a week—a week spent craving his kisses, a week spent searching her soul. A week spent at war…a ceaseless battle between her own growing feelings and her loyalty to her sister. A sister who was getting more and more annoying in her seemingly hopeless pursuit of Rand.

And this—this impossibly selfless, wonderful thing that he'd done for her—was threatening to push her over the edge. Push her, for the first time in her life, into breaking a promise. Rose would never forgive her, but that hardly mattered, because even more important, she would never forgive herself.

He turned and met her eyes, and she feared her knees might buckle.

"Are you finished?"

"I think so." She sneezed, and then coughed, and then gave a long, deep, miserable sniffle. "Yes, I'm finished."

"You should go to bed, then. I'll walk you to your chamber."

"Rand, you cannot."

"Of course I can." He took her arm and started marching her toward the staircase. "You're ill and I'm exhausted. I can assure you nothing untoward will happen."

Truth be told, she was glad for his support as she trudged up the steps. Beatrix appeared and followed behind. "Thank you," Lily said primly when Rand had delivered her to her door.

"Go on, get in bed."

Supposing he wouldn't leave her alone until he saw her settled, she sighed and picked up the cat, then climbed under the covers, still wearing her wrapper. "Thank you," she said again.

Rand remained standing on the threshold. "May I come in?"

Lily's heart hitched, and Beatrix began hiccuping. "That would be quite improper."

"Your mother left us alone."

"She does things like that. Mum has never been overly concerned with propriety." When she sneezed, embarrassingly loudly, Beatrix leapt to the floor. "At least so long as others are not around to observe."

"Ah," he said, "I remember. The Ashcroft motto. Interroga Conformationem, Question Convention." He glanced down to where Beatrix was ribboning between his legs, rubbing against his smudged boots. "What the devil is she doing?"

"She likes you."

"Why?"

Lily shrugged. "Why not?"

"I'm a dog person." In an attempt to get away, he sidled into the room, apparently forgetting that Lily hadn't granted permission. Bored by his disinterest, Beatrix scampered out the window to join Jasper on a tree branch right outside.

Rand immediately strode to the window. "There's ash drifting in," he said as he slammed it shut. When he turned, he stood stock still and looked around.

Lily followed his roaming gaze, trying to envision her bedchamber through his eyes while she dabbed her stuffy nose with a white-on-white monogrammed handkerchief.

White carpeting covered much of the dark oak floor. Her bed was hung with white lace panels and piled with plump white pillows. More white lace draped the windows. Her dressing table and washstand boasted white marble tops.

"It's very virginal," he finally said.

She blushed, then grimaced, knowing her cheeks now matched her red nose and eyes. She watched him wander to the mirror above her dressing table. It was framed, of course, in white.

He stared at himself, skimming his fingers along the bottom of his hair, which now stopped short of his shoulders. "Do I look bad?"

"No. Only different. You…I suppose you could wear a periwig," she added, hoping he wouldn't, although most noblemen did.

He turned from the mirror. "I think not," he said tersely.

She nodded, absurdly relieved. Even now, Rand's hair was too pretty to cover up, all those shimmering colors mixed together. Long hair or short, he looked utterly handsome. So handsome her throat tightened just looking at him, and it was sore, so that made it hurt, and anyway, she couldn't tell him how handsome he was, because that might give him the wrong idea.

He'd worried that she might have been in the barn. He'd saved her animals. She was afraid she might love him, for all of that and for so much more.

What on earth was she supposed to do now?

Nothing, she reminded herself. She'd made a promise. One that was getting increasingly harder to keep.

"I'm tired," she said. "Could you possibly leave now?"

He didn't. Instead, he walked over and leaned down and set his lips on hers, claiming her mouth in a gentle kiss.

Hot already, she melted into the heat of the caress. His lips tasted of Rand, but also of the smoke he'd encountered rescuing her strays.

When he drew back, he looked blurry, and she blinked her eyes to clear them. "How?" she asked in a daze.

Completely uninvited, and apparently forgetting his stained breeches, he shoved aside white lace and sat beside her on the bed. "How what, sweetheart?"

She blinked again at the endearment. "How can you kiss me when I'm so ill and ugly?"

"You're not ugly." He grazed his knuckles along her heated cheek. One finger trailed from the little indent in her chin to trace the ruffle edging her wrapper. Then it slipped beneath, and beneath her night rail, too, skimming the swell of a breast.

No man had ever touched her there, and it felt marvelously scandalous. Her skin prickled with excitement, and her head swam with more than fever. Despite being hot, she shivered.

"You'll always be beautiful to me," he said in a way that convinced her he meant it.

And he wanted her. She remembered that. She'd been thinking about that all week, at times even getting angry—her, Lily, angry!—with Rose for so stubbornly standing in her way.

But Rose would never, ever forgive her…

"I missed you," she blurted out without thought. "This past week, I've missed you."

Rand's fingers stilled as he gazed at her, the deliberate seduction forgotten.

Had anyone else ever missed him? Really missed him? He seriously doubted it. He and his closest friends, Ford and Kit, could spend months apart—years, even—without truly missing one another.

For Lily to miss him seemed a great gift. An honor he could only hope to deserve. He wanted her more than he'd thought it possible to want another human being.

"I missed you, too," he said simply, because he couldn't think of a way to put it better. He leaned to kiss her again, hoping his lips would tell her what he couldn't seem to put into words. Feeling the heat in her skin, he made it a chaste kiss, but no less heartfelt.

He pulled away before the need pulsing through him drove him to try something he might regret.

"Oh, Rand," Lily said on a sigh…and then, "Oh, Rose," in a pained whisper.

Refusing to register the rejection in her eyes, he gave her another gentle kiss. "I'll come see you again tomorrow afternoon, Lily. I hope by then you'll be feeling better."

The plan was working; he was sure of it. Despite the fact that three sets of eyes watching from the tree outside the window made him more than a bit nervous, he walked away humming.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next day, Lily was feeling somewhat better and refused to stay in bed. Having always believed that looking better made one feel better, she chose a pretty periwinkle gown. When her maid dressed her hair, she asked her to wind silver ribbons through the curls to match the trim on her dress.

None of this, of course, had anything to do with the fact that Rand had said he'd be paying a call.

As her maid was finishing up, Rowan wandered in, looking much worse than she felt. His black hair stuck up in places, as though he'd been plowing his fingers through it, and his eyes appeared dark and haunted.

Lily nodded permission for the maid to take her leave, then turned to face her brother. "Rowan, what's wrong?"

"I'm just…" He came closer and began playing with a perfume bottle on the dressing table where she was seated. "Did you tell Father and Mum about the fire-making things I took from Ford's laboratory?"

"No, of course I didn't." She rubbed a hand over the back of his head, smoothing his hair where he'd mussed it. "That was between us."

His narrow shoulders relaxed, then tensed again. "How about Rose? Did Rose tell them?"

"Not that I know of. Why are you so worried about this? It was a mistake, and you learned not to take things, didn't you? Everyone makes mistakes."

The bottle made a rhythmic noise as he ran it back and forth on the marble tabletop, its gold painted designs glinting in the sun from the window. "I thought…well, I thought maybe Father and Mum would think I started the fire with the fire-making things. But I didn't have any of those things, I swear. I gave them all to Lord Randal, and I haven't taken any more from Ford's laboratory. Truly, Lily, I haven't." His hand stilled as he met her gaze in the mirror. "I…I just don't want anyone to think the barn burned down because I was playing with Mr. Boyle's fire-making things."

"Nobody thinks that. Has anyone said that to you?"

He shook his head.

"Nobody is blaming anyone for starting the fire. These things happen, and we're all happy that no one was hurt. It was an old barn that Father was planning to replace anyway."

He looked relieved—almost—before he resumed playing with the bottle, making circles this time. "You know what you said about making mistakes? How everyone makes mistakes?"

"Yes, everyone does." Goodness, did she know. She may have made the worst mistake of her life promising Rose.

"Well, I made one," Rowan said. "A really bad one. I thought something would be funny, but it wasn't. It went wrong, and it wasn't funny at all."

Her promise had gone wrong, too. Horribly wrong.

But knowing her brother, she was sure his mistake had been nothing like hers. Lucky for him, he wasn't old enough to make such a monumental mistake. A mistake serious enough to ruin his whole life.

She put her hand over his, stopping the motion. "Was it a practical joke?"

Not looking at her, he nodded.

"Sometimes," she said, "we don't think things through before we do them." She hadn't thought at all before making that promise. Not for one moment. If she'd stopped to think, maybe she would have said no.

"But I feel terrible, Lily."

She raised a hand to turn his face gently toward her, meeting his regretful green gaze. "If it was truly an honest mistake, you cannot let it make you feel so terrible. Just learn from it and act differently in the future. This mistake—did anyone get hurt?"

He shook his head violently.

"Then don't be too hard on yourself. You shouldn't suffer for the rest of your life because of one simple mistake."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Don't you even want to know what happened?"

"No. It's between you and your conscience," she told him, glad to find he had one. Her brother was growing up. Besides, it had only been a misfired prank. "Do you want to tell me?"

"No." He smiled, a true smile. "You're right. I shouldn't suffer for the rest of my life. I think I'll ride over to Benjamin's house and see if he wants to go fishing."

"You do that," she said. And with one more grin, he was off, knocking over the pretty bottle in his mad rush to leave.

She righted the blown-glass container, wishing she could right her own wrong so easily. Hers had been a simple mistake, too, an honest mistake. A promise she'd made impulsively, never dreaming it would come back to haunt her.

Rand would be here this afternoon, and she hadn't the faintest idea what she'd say to him. But he wouldn't arrive for hours yet. Feeling restless but not up to anything strenuous, she decided to closet herself in the drawing room and pass the time with some soothing music.

As the chiming of the gilt mantel clock struck noon, Parkinson ushered her friend Judith inside.

"Keep playing," Judith said with a wave of one plump hand. She walked closer and brushed her fingers over a bright new flower arrangement that Rose had set atop the harpsichord. "What's this song?"

"I'm not sure." Her fingers flying over the keys, Lily smiled. "Rand hums this sometimes."

"It's cheerful."

"I thought if I could work out the notes, he might enjoy hearing it, whatever it is. He told me he would visit this afternoon, so—"

"Visit you in specific?" Judith looked delighted. "I knew there was something between you. Has he asked your father for your hand?"

"No!" Lily's fingers stilled, the abrupt silence a statement all its own. "You know I've been told I can make my own decision," she said quietly. "And Rose wants him."

She couldn't tell Judith about the promise, because suddenly she was embarrassed she'd even made it. But how could Rose have asked it of her? Like earlier in the week, anger burst forth, and she tried her best to push it back down inside.

Judith sat beside her on the bench. "You look sad," she observed. "What do you want, Lily?"

"Does it matter? Rose is older." Lily coughed. "She should wed first, don't you think?"

"Nonsense. Not if you're in love." Judith paused while Lily coughed some more. Her tone turned melancholy. "I would give anything to be in love with Lord Grenville."

Maybe Judith was right. If Lily truly loved Rand, should she suffer all her life because she'd made a simple mistake? What had she told Rowan?

But unlike Rowan's mistake where no one had been hurt, breaking her promise would hurt someone. Someone she loved dearly, even though she was angry with her now.

Lily gazed at her friend, tears welling in her eyes for them both. Then she gave an enormous sneeze—a sneeze that made the flowers atop the harpsichord quiver.

They both laughed as she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and noisily blew her nose.

"Lily," Judith said. "I'm so sorry I made you ill."

"It was worth it to see your wedding gown." Wiping her eyes, Lily smiled. "You're better now?"

"Much. I was really very ill for only a single day. The next day I was a little better, and the day following that, I was almost good as new."

"Well, I was very ill yesterday, and I feel better today, so tomorrow I shall be good as new, too."

"You're so nice." Judith's golden curls swished as she shook her head, her voice laced with admiration. "How do you do it?"

Lily shrugged. "I'm not all that nice." She didn't feel all that nice, not inside, not when she was so angry with Rose.

"Yes, you are. Most folks wouldn't be so charitable if a friend made them ill. But you're always ever so nice."

"It's the only talent I have, being nice," Lily said. "Violet is intellectual, and Rose is a brilliant linguist and has an artistic touch with flowers. I'm just nice." When her friend stared at her disbelievingly, she bristled. "It's what I am, Judith. If I wasn't nice to everyone, I'd be nothing."

"You're not nice to everyone," Judith argued.

"I'm not?" The two words came out faint and forlorn. Lily swallowed hard, ignoring her sore throat. "I try to be nice."

"You're not nice to you," Judith told her impatiently. "You put everyone else first."

"But that's the nice thing to do."

"You're so worried about everyone else's happiness, I think you forget about seeing to your own. Stop being so nice, and I think you'll be happier." Frowning, Judith glanced out the window. Her eyes widened. "There he is now."

"Who?"

"Rand." Judith blushed. "Lord Randal, I mean. Lord, he's handsome. What happened to his hair?"

"Did you not hear our barn burned? While he was rescuing my animals, his hair caught fire, and he had to cut it." Lily rose and went to the window, just in time to see Rand slide off his horse—and be greeted by her sister.

"He saved your animals? Oh, Lily, that's so romantic."

"It was very kind." She watched Rose laugh and take Rand by the hand, leading him toward the small redbrick summerhouse. Though he looked confused, he shrugged and went along.

Lily froze for a moment, feeling betrayed. By Rose? By Rand? Then she told herself not to be silly—Rose probably just wanted to show him something. Perhaps she was working on some flower arrangements in the summerhouse. And Rand certainly had no obligation to avoid Rose—not after Lily had repeatedly refused his suit.

Then Rose turned to say something to Rand, and Lily saw her face. Animated. Too animated for languid Rose.

"Something's up," Judith said beside her.

Exactly what Lily had been thinking.

"Come along." Judith took her by the arm. Firmly. "We're going to investigate."

"Investigate?" Lily stared at her friend. "You mean spy on my sister?"

"She would spy on you in a heartbeat." When Lily didn't budge, Judith turned her to face the window. "Look. They're both gone. She's taken him into the summerhouse." She pulled on Lily's arm. "Come along. You cannot tell me you don't want to hear what's happening."

Since Lily couldn't honestly tell her that, she went. She felt like a sorry excuse for a sister, spying on Rose, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

By the time they made it outside, they were both running. When they stopped before one of the round summerhouse's four doors and Lily reached for the latch, Judith closed a hand over her fingers. "Wait," she whispered. "Listen."

"Judith!" Lily protested, her voice hushed but fierce. "There's spying, and then there is spying. I refuse to—"

And then she was spying, after all—riveted in place by the conversation that drifted from inside.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"I'm flattered, my lady," Rand's wry voice came through the door. "But as it happens, I've set my sights elsewhere." He sneezed. "Pardon me. I seem to be coming down with something. Where are those flowers you wanted to show me?"

"Gemini! They seem to have disappeared." Lily heard Rose's practiced laugh, a tinkling, feminine sound. "Perhaps a kiss might compensate for the loss?"

On the other side of the door, Lily was so aghast she could find no words to express her feelings. "Poor Rand has caught my illness," she whispered irrelevantly.

"How is that?" Judith whispered back. As Lily blushed, her friend's pale blue eyes widened. "Oh, my Lord. He kissed you, didn't he?"

"It's not a crime. Besides, what makes you think he kissed me? I caught your illness without kissing you."

"I can see it in your face," Judith declared. "You—"

"Hush. I cannot hear." Lily wondered if Rand and Rose were kissing.

No. Rose was talking. "I wonder," she mused in a speculative tone, "if the lady you've set your sights on has ten thousand pounds to bring to a marriage. It seems to me a mere professor could use that sort of money. A windfall like that would allow you to live the gentlemanly life you were born to."

Judith's mouth dropped open. "Lord, she must be desperate," she said over whatever Rand replied. "I cannot imagine—"

"Hush!"

"And I wonder…" When Rose paused, Lily imagined her running a seductive hand down Rand's arm. Or worse. She was relieved when her sister continued talking. "I wonder what my father, who is out in his gardens as always, would do if he found us alone in here together, hmm?"

Lily gasped. "That's so unfair to Rand, threatening to trap him like that! She's the one who lured him in there!"

"Unfair to him?" Judith's whisper came through gritted teeth. "How about you, Lily? Is Rose not being unfair to you?"

"Goodness, Rose would never hurt me on purpose! We love each other. But she's so focused on herself I doubt she's even considered I might be seriously interested in Rand."

"Well, then, it's about time she found out," Judith said, and with that, she flung open the door.

Since Rand was opening it at the same time, Judith fell into his arms, landing with a thud against his chest. He took the time to steady her before stepping away. "Pardon me, my lady. I was just leaving."

"Thank you, my lord," Judith said dreamily.

And a little inanely, Lily thought. She stepped into the summerhouse to join them. "This is my best friend," she told Rand, "Lady Judith Carrington." She turned to Judith, not at all sure she liked the dazed look in her friend's eyes. "And this is Lord Randal Nesbitt."

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," Rand told Judith pleasantly. "But I'm afraid I must take my leave."

"No." Judith seemed to regain her senses, casting a glance to where Rose stood in the shadows. "It's Rose who's leaving." She marched over and took Rose by the arm. "Come along, Rose."

Rose planted her feet. "I'm not finished talking to Lord Randal."

Slender Rose was no match for Judith's solid build. "Oh, yes, you are." Undeterred, Judith tugged her through the door.

"You're supposed to be my friend," Rose protested loudly as she found herself dragged through the gardens.

"I am your friend." Judith's voice was getting fainter. "And as your friend, I insist on saving you from further embarrassing yourself."

Their voices faded. Lily and Rand were left alone. The cool, shaded summerhouse seemed filled with an expectant silence.

Rand sneezed.

"I'm sorry," they both said together.

He cracked a smile. "What are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry you had to put up with my sister's nonsense."

"I'm sorry you had to overhear it."

"I'm sorry I made you ill."

His smile widened. "Ah, but I'm not sorry I kissed you."

"I'm sorry you're not kissing me now."

"I'm sor—what?"

He blinked and took a step closer, and she rushed into his arms.

Whatever had been holding her back had suddenly vanished, like the moon on a cloudy night. Promise or no, Rose didn't deserve Rand, not after she'd called him a mere professor. Not after she'd tried to bribe him and then trick him into marriage. If Lily had thought she was angry with her sister before, now she was really learning the depths of that emotion.

But she didn't want to think about Rose now. Not when Rand was right here, holding her close, not when she finally felt free to touch him without feeling like she was betraying her sister.

She raised her hands to his face, feeling the slight roughness on his cheeks. She slid her fingers into his hair, the short strands soft and slippery as silk. He wore no fragrance but just smelled like Rand. Clean and warm. His scent made her head swim, more enticing than the costliest perfume.

She went on her toes to press her lips to his, but couldn't quite reach. He was so tall, and she was too short.

"I never dreamed you would ever come to me for a kiss," Rand said, sounding stunned. "Shall I meet you halfway?"

She laughed, the noise joyous to her own ears. Her heart felt light enough to escape her chest and float away. Rose had put Rand in a very awkward position, and Lily had overheard it, and somehow, that had changed everything.

When their lips finally met, the moment felt like a gift, an instant that would live in her heart forever. The kiss sang through her veins, and Lily knew for certain she was in love.

She could no longer deny that she wanted this man more than she'd wanted anything else, ever.

She parted her lips, inviting him in, sinking into the velvet warmth of his caress. What started out sweet and tender turned reckless and hungry, his mouth slanting over hers, his tongue sweeping inside, making her dizzy. A happiness burst in her—a happiness that made her feel as though she could touch the stars in the sky.

He kissed her eyes and her cheeks and her chin, the wild pulse in her throat, the skin revealed by the wide neckline of her silver-trimmed gown. Her hands sneaked beneath his midnight blue surcoat and around him, skimming his thin cambric shirt to feel the sleek muscles she'd seen yesterday. Her legs threatened to buckle under her, and she pressed herself closer, wanting more.

She'd felt something, a magical something, from the first time this man had touched her. Now, suddenly, the kisses weren't enough. Her heart beat madly, and she ached for more of his touch. When he began easing down her bodice, instead of protesting, she arched, wordlessly offering herself to him like some forbidden fruit.

Rand knew the moment she gave herself over. He sensed desire singing through her body, heard need in the soft moan that escaped her lips. At that moment, he suspected she'd let him take her right there on the hard brick floor.

And at that moment, he also knew he couldn't do this. He dropped his hands and stepped back.

They gazed at each other, their unsteady breathing the only sound in the small, round building.

He wanted her. He wanted her so much that he hurt. But he would wait. Because his need for her now went beyond the physical—even more than he wanted her body, he wanted her heart.

Love. Ford was right, this had to be love. It wasn't a comfortable emotion, but it was there, and it wouldn't be going away. Rand needed Lily—her sweetness, her faith in him, the way she made him feel—more than he needed to breathe. And he wanted, more than anything, to make her feel cherished in return.

He couldn't remember ever putting anyone else first, before himself. It could only be love, no matter that he'd believed it would never happen for him.

Never say never, he thought with a rueful laugh.

Readjusting her gown, Lily looked flushed and beautiful—and disconcerted. "Why are you laughing? Why did you stop kissing me?"

He couldn't explain it. The plan had been working. He and Lily were bound by a certain something—magnetism, Ford would call it—that he'd never felt with any other woman. He could win her, he knew, with the plan.

With seduction.

He was glad it had worked for Ford. But the plan, both times, had been conceived in a drunken haze. And the sobering reality was that no matter how much Rand's body begged him otherwise, seduction was not the way he wanted to win Lily.

Strong as it might be, there was so much more between them than lust. When she agreed to be part of his life, he wanted that decision to be made with her head and her heart, not just her body.

He moved closer but kept some necessary distance by placing his hands on her shoulders. "I want you to play a song for me."

"Pardon?" Unsure she'd heard right, Lily searched his intense gray eyes. Her senses were still spinning. Her knees were still weak.

"I want you to play a song. On the harpsichord. And I'll sing."

"Now?"

"Now. Right now. In your family's drawing room. Will you do that for me, Lily?"

She nodded, too confused to bother asking why. Right now, there was little he could ask for that she would refuse.

He took her hand to leave, but before she could even register how good it felt to have his fingers linked with hers—before they cleared the door—her father walked in.

"Have you seen my ironclad spade?"

Struggling to control her heart rate, Lily took a deep breath and quickly scanned the dim summerhouse. There was no spade. There wasn't anything in here, in fact, save the narrow wooden benches attached to the circular wall.

"It's not here, Father. Why don't you ask the head gardener?"

"Hmm," he said. "I was hoping it would be in here. Perhaps I should ask the head gardener." Muttering to himself, he turned and left.

Rand sneezed, using his free hand to block it. "Pardon me," he said.

"You are falling ill."

He shrugged. "Your father didn't hear your suggestion."

"I never expect him to hear anything. If he does, I consider myself lucky."

"He wouldn't have said a thing had he found me alone with Rose, would he?" Sounding incredulous, Rand raised their still-joined hands. "He didn't even notice I was here."

"Well, what did you expect?" Lily grinned. "You're not a flower."

CHAPTER TWENTY

In the fickle way of summer, the sky had clouded up while Rand and Lily were in the summerhouse. Beatrix, Lady, and Jasper appeared and followed them back to the house. Claiming he didn't want an audience, Rand maneuvered to get through the door without allowing them inside.

The animals went around and entered through one of the drawing room's windows instead.

Lily sat at the harpsichord and arched her fingers over the keys, then hesitated. Her nose was dripping. She pulled the handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed.

"Go ahead," Rand said. "Blow."

Love, she supposed, meant being able to blow your nose in front of the man. So she did, even though she was no timid nose-blower.

It didn't seem to scare him away. In fact, in the middle of her blow, he sneezed again, and then he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his own nose, too.

"We're wrecks," Lily said, thinking it felt strangely wonderful to comfortably share an illness. She faced the keyboard again. "What do you want me to play?" She suspected the tune she'd been practicing for him wasn't what he had in mind.

He thought for a moment. "Do you know the one that starts 'Let's love and let's laugh'?"

Like so many popular songs, it had no title, but she did know it. She nodded.

He leaned against the harpsichord. "Then play it, please."

When she did, his gaze locked on hers as he began to sing.

"Let's love and let's laugh,

Let's dance and let's sing;

While shrill echoes ring;

Our wishes agree,

And from care we are free,

Then who is so happy, so happy as we?"

Although there were three more verses, he stopped singing, still holding her gaze. She played a few more bars and then stopped, too.

For a moment, the room was so quiet she could hear the clock ticking on the mantel.

"Did you hear that, Lily?"

He wasn't referring to the clock. "The words?" she wondered. Let's love. Could he mean…

Her heart skipped a beat, and she nearly missed what he said next.

"The words fit us, don't they? But no, I didn't mean the words. What did you hear?"

"What did I hear?" she echoed faintly, feeling confused. But her heart began pumping a little faster. "It sounded good. You sound good. You have a wonderful voice."

He stepped closer. "But my voice doesn't sound nearly as good alone as it does together with your music. It doesn't sound as complete." His gaze still held hers in thrall. She could lose herself in those eyes. "I want that with you, Lily. I want you to provide the melody for my songs. And I, the words to your tunes."

He seemed to be talking about more than music. Her blood rushed even faster. Did she dare to hope she could hold on to this newfound happiness?

"Don't say anything," he said, still watching her. "Not yet."

Lady chirped in the window, and Jasper chattered, and Beatrix wound around Rand's legs.

Yet he had eyes only for Lily.

"I'm just a professor," he said.

Rose's thoughtless words had affected him. Hurt him. For a moment, Lily felt a degree of anger toward her sister she hadn't thought possible. "Rand, you aren't just anything. Not to me."

He slid onto the harpsichord's bench and shifted to face her, taking her hands. "I want you to listen. I am just a professor. I live in a house. Once it's finished it will be a very nice house, but just a house all the same, not a mansion like Trentingham. And it isn't perched on land that stretches as far as the eye can see. It sits in the middle of a town with other buildings all around it."

Was he asking her to marry him, or explaining why he couldn't? "I don't care—" she started.

He stopped her by squeezing her hands. "I'm a second son. I may have the word Lord in front of my name, but that's only a courtesy title. I'll never sit in the House of Lords like your father. I could attend court if I wished, and London balls, but the fact is, I don't. Or I haven't," he corrected himself. "I'm willing to go to such events if doing so would please you, as long as it's not during term time."

This was a prelude to a proposal. Her breath caught, and she coughed in reaction. "I don't care," she repeated. "Rand, I—"

"I'm not finished." He coughed, too, then furrowed his brow, as though he was trying hard to remember everything he wanted to say. "You should know that I earn a nice living. But you should also know that it's been years since the marquess supplemented my income."

"The marquess?"

"My father. But like I said, I do well enough." When his gaze swept her gown, she felt as though he were disrobing her with his eyes. "I expect I can afford to dress you in the lovely manner to which you're accustomed," he added with a grin.

She smoothed her periwinkle skirts. "I'd wear sackcloth to be with you," she said quietly. "You just sang of love and laughter. Money cannot buy that. Besides, I do have a marriage portion. Three thousand pounds."

Three thousand pounds was a more than respectable dowry, considering the average shopkeeper earned less than fifty pounds a year. But Rand didn't look as though he cared, as though the money mattered at all.

At their feet, Beatrix started hiccuping, and he leaned to pick her up. "What of your animals?"

It was startling to realize she hadn't considered them, even more startling to see Rand—an avowed dog person—with her cat on his lap.

He absently stroked Beatrix's striped fur. "I do have a garden," he started; but then a corner of his mouth curved up in a rueful half smile. "Well, I don't expect your father would consider it a garden, but I've a patch of land behind my house. I can ask Kit to toss up a shelter of sorts…but it won't be the grand animal home you've been envisioning."

The fact that he cared about her dreams made tears prick in her eyes. "It sounds perfect, Rand, enough for the strays I have now. And once I come into my inheritance…well, I always envisioned building here at Trentingham, anyway. I can hire local people to care for the animals." It was what she did for the weeks when she and her family went to London, and the employment, however temporary, had always been appreciated. "Perhaps I'll be able to visit—"

"Of course you will. Oxford isn't far, and I expect you'll want to see your family often."

"A positive statement," she observed, risking a tiny smile. "Does that mean you're finished trying to talk me out of…"

She couldn't say the rest of it. He hadn't, after all, formally asked her to marry him. And the possibility was so shockingly new to her, she hadn't yet thought it over. So she let the words hang there, waiting.

It seemed like forever.

"Yes," he said at last. He squeezed her hands again and leaned near, until his mouth nearly touched hers. His eyes were so close she could see flecks of black and steel blue in the gray. His breath teased her lips, making them tingle. "Since I've apparently failed to talk you out of it, what do you say, sweetheart? Can we play and sing together for the rest of our lives?"

His words were calm and measured, as though he were proposing a business arrangement.

But his heart was in those amazing eyes.

Unlike Rose, Lily admired Rand's success in the face of his family's disapproval. That strength was one of the things she loved about him—through good times and bad, a woman could depend on a man like Rand. But she knew him better than Rose did. She knew that beneath the self-sufficiency lurked a hurt little boy who needed someone to hold him.

Did she want to be that someone? Was she willing to do it at the expense of her sister? Could she, for the first time in her life, be selfish enough to put herself first?

She remembered Rose's behavior in the summerhouse and knew the answer was yes.

And she didn't even have to say it. He read her response in her eyes, and both joy and relief leapt into his.

Then their lips met, and her heart took flight. She'd never thought she could feel such happiness. He was everything she'd wanted, and she hadn't even known it. He kissed her over and over, and she wished he would never stop.

A part of her wondered if this was really happening, because it felt like a magical dream. A fantasy come true.

When he finally pulled away, he uneasily eyed the assorted creatures who'd been watching. Appearing startled to find Beatrix on his lap, he set her atop the harpsichord. "I certainly hope they don't expect to witness our wedding night," he said wryly.

She blushed and laughed, then laughed even harder when they both began coughing.

Life was wonderful, even with a stuffy nose.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When Lily and Rand told Chrystabel they had news for the family, her eyes sparkled with delight.

"Since your father's already in the gardens," she said, "why don't you find him and then wait by the twenty-guinea oak? In the time it would take me to explain why I want him to come inside, I can gather everyone else and meet you there." A wide smile on her face, she hurried off.

It didn't take long to find Lily's father, who happened to be weeding a flower bed near the oak, using a hook and a forked stick. Lily decided to let him continue puttering.

She and Rand waited beneath the tree. "I should have told Rose first," she suddenly realized, knowing her sister was going to be devastated. A stab of sympathy took her by surprise.

Rand shot a glance to her oblivious father before wrapping an arm around her waist. "Because of your promise?"

"You knew?"

He squeezed, drawing her closer. "Your mother would never forgive you if you told your sister first."

"True," Lily murmured, realizing a second truth: She didn't want to tell Rose first. She didn't want to deal with her own anger or her sister's.

"Hey." He tilted her face up and touched a finger to the dent in her chin. "You're supposed to be happy right now."

"I am," she said and smiled.

Next Rowan hurried out to meet them under the gigantic oak. "Benjamin couldn't fish," he said with a pout. "Mum said you have something to tell us?"

"Yes," Lily said, "we do."

"So what is it?"

She tweaked his nose. "You'll have to wait for everyone else."

With a small huff of impatience, he leapt to catch the lowest bough that branched off the huge, twisted trunk.

"It's a big tree," Rand commented, looking like he didn't quite know what to say to Lily's little brother. She supposed that living at a university, he hadn't much experience with eleven-year-old boys.

"Zounds, it's bigger than big." Rowan swung back and forth, looking up at the cloudy sky through the canopy of leaves. "This tree has been here for more than three hundred years. And Father says we must never chop it down, even though it destroys the symmetry of his gardens."

"Symmetry." Rand raised a brow. "That's a big word for a lad your age."

Hauling his feet up, Rowan crouched on the big branch and began climbing. "I know," he said proudly, his voice drifting from above. "What does it mean?"

Rand and Lily both laughed.

"What's that?" Father demanded, noticing all of them at last. Lily laughed even harder, her amusement ending in a volley of coughs.

"It means balanced proportions," Rand said loudly enough for even her father to hear.

"Ah, symmetry," Father said. "You know, I've been advised to chop down this twenty-guinea oak for the sake of symmetry."

Amid more laughter, Rand moved closer to Lily's father so the man could hear him better. Rand was patient with him, she thought. Not many men would be.

Yet another reason to love Rand Nesbitt.

He raised his voice. "Why do you call it the twenty-guinea oak?"

Father smiled, always eager to answer that question, eager to tell the story that Lily had heard countless times. "A passing timber merchant once offered me ten guineas for the wood, saying it was quite the most enormous tree he'd ever seen."

"Ten guineas, not twenty?"

"I'm getting to that," Father said. "Well, the truth was, I'd been thinking of chopping the old boy down anyway, seeing as it impairs the symmetry of this garden. But I'm not one to act too rashly, you see, and so I told the merchant I'd like to think about his offer overnight. Next morning, bright and early, the fellow was at my door, increasing his offer to twenty guineas." Father waved the long, pointed fork in his hand. "I figured that if the wood's value could increase by a hundred percent overnight, the tree was an investment worth keeping."

Rand laughed out loud, and Father grinned. Lily was glad they seemed to get along. But her smile faded when her mother arrived with Rose and Judith.

The gray sky might be threatening a gentle summer rain, but Rose's expression looked like thunder.

Fresh sympathy tightened Lily's sore throat.

Rowan dropped from the tree. "What is it? You can tell us now. Is it something happy?"

It was, for her and Rand. Lily felt like her emotions were riding a seesaw, but she couldn't help the smile that returned to her face. "Lord Randal has asked me to marry him."

Suddenly everyone was talking at once.

Chrystabel threw her arms around her. "I knew it! Congratulations, dear."

"Can Jewel come to the wedding?" Rowan asked.

"No," their mother said. "Jewel is related to Violet's husband, not Lily's." She kissed both of Lily's cheeks, then pulled back and winked. "Even though I didn't arrange the marriage, I wish you every happiness." Not one to stand on ceremony, she turned into Rand's arms next. "Welcome to the family."

"Thank you," he said, hugging her back rather awkwardly. Lily gave him credit for trying, knowing her family could be overwhelming.

Rowan tugged on her gown. "Lily?"

She kissed his forehead, laughing when he blushed and pulled away. "Jewel may attend," she told him, "if her parents agree." She wanted her brother to be happy, too, and after all, it was her wedding. She ought to have a say in the guest list.

Her wedding, she thought in a daze. It still didn't seem real.

"What's all this?" Father asked.

Rand cleared his throat and raised his voice. "With your permission, sir, I'd like the honor of wedding your daughter."

"If you know my daughter well enough to wed her," the earl bellowed back, "you know she's not about to ask my permission. None of my flowers ask me before doing anything."

"We can all hear, darling," Chrystabel reminded him. But he had Lily wrapped in a hug and wasn't paying attention. When he released her, he turned to shake Rand's hand.

"Well done," he yelled, and Lily just smiled and shook her head. If Rand could get through this day with her family, she reckoned he would learn to fit in just fine.

Judith tapped her on the shoulder, her pretty face lit up with a grin. "We're going to become old married ladies together!"

Lily gave her friend a hard hug, wishing Judith could be as happy about her own wedding. "Let's get married before we worry about growing old."

"Yes," Rose said, "I'm the one who's old."

Finally, having put it off as long as she could, Lily turned to her sister.

Rose's dark eyes were black with fury. "How could you?" she asked.

How could she what? Lily wondered.

What did her sister mean by those three words? How could she break her promise? How could she marry before her older sister? How could she steal a man her sister wanted? How could she be so selfish as to see to her own happiness?

All of it, undoubtedly, Lily thought with a resigned sigh. But while her heart ached for her sister's pain, and she regretted her part in causing it, she refused to accept the guilt.

Rose had no right to ask for that promise. She'd never had a prayer of winning Rand. Some things weren't meant to be.

And others were meant to be, like Rand and Lily.

Wanting to explain, Lily took her sister's arm to draw her aside.

Rose shook her off. "Don't touch me. You promised." She did move away from the others, though, closer to the oak. "How could you?" she repeated.

"Because I love him, and I should never have promised, and I couldn't believe the way you treated him in the summerhouse—"

"You said you'd help," Rose interrupted through gritted teeth, "and then you told me to do the wrong thing on purpose." As she talked, she advanced on Lily, backing her into the oak. "I went over to Lakefield every day to try to assist with that translation, but he wouldn't even hear of it." Mindful of everyone else, she spoke in a harsh whisper, but her face was right in Lily's, her eyes flashing fire. "I always knew showing my intelligence was the wrong way to win a man!"

The rough bark bit into Lily's back, and she hit her head against it, trying to get some distance from Rose's vehemence. "No, it isn't," she protested. "It's the right way. Rand was just the wrong man."

"Oh, I don't want to talk to you!" With a swish of her skirts, Rose crossed her arms and turned away.

Shaking, Lily walked back to the others.

"I think we shall have a picnic tomorrow to celebrate," Mum said brightly. "With champagne."

Rowan made a face. "No champagne."

"You don't have to drink any," Lily said woodenly, rubbing her head where it hurt. She looked up at the sky and wished she felt more like celebrating. "It will probably be raining anyway."

"Nonsense," Mum said. "If it rains tonight, it shall be clear and beautiful tomorrow."

"A picnic sounds very nice." Shooting Rose a concerned glance where she still stood near the tree, Rand moved to wrap an arm around Lily's shoulders. "Thank you, Lady Trentingham. And I should like to invite your family to Oxford the day after that. Lily should see her new home. I'll give you the grand tour, and you can all stay overnight. I've no furniture yet in my house, save in the one room I've been using to sleep, but an inn lies directly behind it."

"An inn," Rowan breathed. "May we go, Mum?" He looked more excited about the journey than he had about the champagne—or the marriage, for that matter.

"We've stayed at an inn only once since Rowan was born," Chrystabel explained to Rand, "and he was too young to remember." She smiled at her son. "Yes, Rowan, I expect that we can go. I should like to see where my daughter will be living. And Rose always enjoys traveling, don't you, Rose?"

She looked to Rose, but Rose wasn't there.

Lily turned just in time to see her march up the portico steps and slam into the house.

"I'll go after her," Judith said sympathetically.

"No, I'll talk to her." Mum started toward the house, then paused to look back at Lily. "Don't worry, dear. You've done nothing wrong, but she's hurting now, and I can't say I really blame her. She'll come to terms with it sooner or later."

"I hope it will be sooner," Lily said with a sigh.

Despite her love for Rand, if her own sister couldn't be happy for her, she wondered if she could be truly happy herself.

"Well, Chrysanthemum," Joseph said as she crawled into bed that night, "your daughter is betrothed as planned. Are you happy?"

"Happy? I'm not sure who's more miserable, Rose or Lily. Or me."

Rand and Judith had left. Rose had taken supper in her room. Chrystabel had spent over an hour trying to soothe her, then another trying to convince Lily that her sister wouldn't hate her the rest of their lives.

Rain pattered on the window, spelling doom for her picnic, and a headache was brewing, relentlessly hammering her temples. She hated when everything didn't go the way she'd planned.

"Roll over," Joseph said. "I'll rub your back."

She did, snuggling into the feather mattress and sighing when his hands began to work their magic. For a spell she just lay there, letting his fingers knead away her tension.

"Better?" he asked after a while.

"Getting there." The pounding in her temples was fading to a mere annoyance. "I'm afraid Lily might change her mind."

"No, she won't." He rubbed circles on the small of her back. "She's in love."

"You finally noticed?"

Running his thumbs down her spine, he snorted. "I haven't the talent you seem to possess of discerning a person's feelings by the look in his or her eyes. I know she's in love because you told me."

"Ahh." The sound was half agreement, half bliss. "Lily is feeling very badly, though, that Rose is hurting. I'm afraid she'll break the betrothal because her sister is unhappy. Choose her relationship with Rose over Rand."

He trailed his fingertips lightly down her legs. "Have you no sympathy for Rose?"

"Of course I do. She's my daughter, and I ache for her. Although she had no right to bind her sister to that ridiculous promise, I understand that she feels betrayed. And yes, her words in the summerhouse were unwise, but I don't believe for a minute that our Rose is truly that calculating. I suspect she sensed Rand slipping away and acted unthinkingly, out of desperation. Alas, our Rose never has been one to think before words leave her mouth. But she doesn't truly love Rand, and Lily does, which is why I'm worried that Lily…um…Joseph?" One hand was sneaking under the hem of her night rail. "That's not my back."

"Is it not?" he asked, his voice a study in innocence. "I expect I should rub up higher." He did—higher on her bare legs. "I'm sure Rose will recover."

"Of course she will. She'll be after another man by next week. Which is why I'm more concerned about Lily at the moment." She paused, listening to the soft rain, her body beginning to tingle as Joseph reached even higher. "I hope it's still raining tomorrow," she said suddenly.

"Hmm…?" While his fingers sent pleasure spiraling through her, he began kissing the back of her neck, little kisses that made her shiver. "Won't the rain destroy your picnic?" His warm breath stirred the baby hairs on her nape.

She flipped over to look into his eyes. "Lily and Rand will still picnic. In the summerhouse. Alone. There isn't room for all of us in there, as you know…but it would be a shame for them to miss their betrothal picnic."

Moving over her, he blinked. "Chrysanthemum, you know what happens when two people in love are left alone."

"Exactly," she said, curling a hand behind his neck. "And after that, there will be no more thoughts of ending the betrothal, will there?"

"My love, you have a devious mind."

"And you adore me for it," she assured him, tugging him close for the kiss they both craved.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The soft drizzle of the night before had given way to real rain today, but Rand borrowed Ford's old carriage and rode to Trentingham even though it was obvious there wouldn't be a picnic.

He was surprised when Lady Trentingham came to meet him, carrying one of the new umbrellas imported from France. As he climbed down, she stepped closer than he would have expected and held the contraption over both of their heads. "Come along!" she said. "My skirts are getting wet."

Obediently he walked beside her, feeling silly under the expanse of oiled canvas. Only women carried umbrellas—only wealthy women, come to that. Rich or poor, men wore hats and got drenched. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"To the picnic, of course." Both her hands clenched on the curved ebony handle, she hurried him through the gardens. "Lily was so disappointed that it was raining, I decided to set up the picnic in the summerhouse. I was nearly finished when I heard your carriage arrive. Here we are." She stopped before one of the four arched oak doors.

He opened it, blinking at the dimness beneath the dome. It was empty—of people, in any case. Though it was a bit hard to tell in the gloom of the dreary day, there seemed to be items inside that hadn't been there the day before.

"Go on in," she told him, shifting the umbrella to one hand to fish a little paper package out of her pocket with the other. She gave it to him. "Light the candles. I'll go fetch Lily."

As she went back through the gardens, almost but not quite running in her fashionable Louis heels, he unfolded the package and found a few more of Mr. Boyle's fire-making things. He drew one of the sulfured sticks through a fold of the paper and began lighting candles.

There seemed to be dozens of them spaced out on the benches along the wall. After nearly tripping over something in the center of the summerhouse, he decided to skirt the perimeter instead.

When he was finished, the little circular chamber was alight with a cheerful glow. Plenty enough to illuminate the "picnic" Lady Trentingham had set out on the benches. Platters of fruit, bread, sliced cheese, and sweets. A bottle of champagne and two goblets.

Only two?

And the thing that had almost tripped him turned out to be a pallet set in the center of the brick floor. He stared at it, dumbfounded, until Lily blew in through the door, wearing a summery apricot gown that belied the rainy day.

Lady Trentingham stood on the threshold, the front of her umbrella dripping onto the bricks. "Well, then, I'll leave you two to enjoy your picnic."

Rand glanced at Lily, but she looked as confused as he felt. "Where is everyone else?" he asked.

Lady Trentingham waved a hand. "Unfortunately, there's not enough room." She didn't look particularly sad about that. "I didn't want you and Lily to miss your betrothal picnic, but the summerhouse is rather cramped, don't you think?"

"We could take everything into the house," Rand suggested. "Or we could get rid of this." He indicated the pallet, which covered most of the floor.

"Heavens, no. It wouldn't be a picnic in the house. Nor if you're sitting upright on a bench, now, would it? And unlike the grass in Joseph's gardens, the bricks are entirely too hard to make do with a blanket or rug."

While that was true enough, Rand eyed the pallet warily. Although there were no covers or pillows, it reminded him too much of a bed.

A bed he'd be tempted to use.

Lily was an earl's daughter, a sheltered country girl. He respected that. He respected himself for doing the right thing yesterday. For not seducing her before they were wed.

"Don't you think we should have a chaperone?" he asked her mother.

"Of course not." Her laughter sounded a bit forced. "You're betrothed, and it's the middle of the day. Besides, you have Lily's menagerie to watch over you."

He hadn't noticed them wander in after her, but now he looked around. Lady was perched up in the rafters, Jasper was under a bench, and Beatrix was winding between his feet.

They would likely make very good chaperones, Rand thought wryly.

Since he had run out of protests, Lady Trentingham wished them a good picnic again and took her leave. When the door banged shut behind her, all was quiet save for the sound of the rain on the copper that capped the domed roof.

For a moment Rand just gazed at Lily. "Were you that disappointed to miss the picnic?"

"What are you talking about? Mum said you were disappointed."

They both began laughing.

It felt good to laugh, Rand thought. His life had been all too serious up until now.

He removed his wide-brimmed hat and set it on a bench. "So, do you picnic in here often?" he asked, reaching for a strawberry. He popped it into his mouth and moved the platter to the pallet.

"Never." She pulled a grape off a bunch, but stood rooted in place. "It really is too small, as Mum said. When we entertain in the garden, though, we sometimes use it to shelter the food. And my sisters and I like to come out here in the summertime. It's a nice place to sit and read or play a game. If you open all four doors, the breeze flows through, yet it keeps the sun off our faces."

He moved the platters of cheeses and sweets. "Preserves your lily-white complexion, does it?"

She smiled at his play on words. "When we were young, Violet and Rose and I could spend days in here. We used to take playing cards and lay them out end-to-end on the floor to divide the space into pretend rooms. Then we'd play house."

"Divide it into rooms?" He stopped setting up the picnic in order to eye the small area. "They must have been minuscule."

"When you're tiny, even little spaces feel large." Her grin widened, but she looked awkward, tracing the scars on the back of her hand as though she didn't quite know what to do with herself.

"Come and sit by me," he said, drawing her down beside him on the pallet. She tucked her legs beneath her, her movements graceful as a swan.

Lady Trentingham had neglected to supply any tableware, so he broke an apple slice in two and fed half to Lily, enjoying the way her eyes widened as his fingers brushed her mouth. "It sounds as though you had a happy childhood here at Trentingham."

"I did." She swallowed, concern darkening her eyes. "Was there no happiness in your childhood at all?"

"Oh, yes, until I was six. Then my mother died and my father changed. Or maybe he'd been that way all along, but I hadn't noticed. Mother had always been there for me, perhaps taking my part…I was young…I don't remember." He shook his head. "I remember only how it felt after she was gone."

"Lonely," Lily said softly.

He nodded, thinking that loneliness was a feeling he'd carried with him for far too long. But now, with her, it was gone. "I don't feel lonely now."

Her smile was a little bit sad. "Do you never see them, then?" she asked. "Your father and your brother? Or hear from them? Ever?"

"Not in the last eight years." He'd thought that if he forgot about them the anger would disappear, but there were others at Hawkridge he'd done an all-too-good job of ignoring as well. Like his endearing foster sister, who had followed him around with hero worship in her eyes. "But my father has a ward, a girl named Margery Maybanks who was brought to our home as an infant. She writes to me sometimes."

Not nearly often enough, and he missed her. Of course, that was his fault. Reading news of his family made ripples in the nice calm life he'd made for himself—so much so that he often went months before answering Margery's letters.

"Does she tell them about you, then? Does your father know you're now a professor?"

"Oh, he knows. According to Margery, he said that just went to prove I never belonged in his privileged world."

Her heart leapt into her eyes. "I cannot imagine what it would be like if my parents weren't proud of my accomplishments. And my sisters and brother, too. That's what family is all about, why we need them around us."

"I've done all right without family."

"Because you didn't have one," she said stoutly. "But you will now."

Rand's throat seemed to tighten. Her support meant the world to him. Although he'd decided long ago that his father and brother could go to the devil, he'd never realized how important it was to have someone who cared.

Lily crumbled some bread for the bird and the squirrel and broke up some cheese for the cat. "I thought you'd be deathly ill today. I was certain you'd send your regrets, and here you are, all recovered it seems."

"I'm surprised I fell ill at all. You'll find I'm of a strong constitution—perhaps it's all the running."

Rand watched warily as the animals came closer to claim their portions. When Beatrix climbed right over him, Lily laughed.

"How is Rose doing?" he asked, pouring more champagne. He dropped a strawberry into Lily's. Watching the drink fizz, he remembered the first time he'd tried this new beverage, at Ford and Violet's wedding.

Lily sobered and took a big gulp of the bubbly wine. "Rose is very angry with me."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Violet told Ford you'd never consent to wed me, for fear of hurting your sister." He raised his goblet in a toast. "I'm glad she was wrong."

They drank, solemnly, gazing at each other over the goblets' rims—and Rand's heart seemed to swell with unaccustomed emotion. Setting down both their goblets, he gathered Lily into his arms.

She surprised him by pressing her lips to his in a kiss both sweet and seductive. He wondered if he'd ever get used to her coming to him for kisses. His heart melted as he kissed her back, thanking the Fates for sending her to him.

Rain pattered on the roof far above. "I love you," she said quietly.

"I know," he returned, his voice filled with husky wonder. Until now, he'd never realized that love could make him whole. Never realized a part of him had been missing.

She filled that gap, making him complete. And now he wanted to show her how very grateful he was that she'd come into his life to make that incredible difference.

He shrugged out of his surcoat before easing her back on the pallet, snuggling his body over hers. When he kissed her again, she released a blissful sigh. He kissed her mouth and her forehead and her throat, trailing his lips over her soft, fragrant skin. The scent of lilies. For the past few weeks, just a whiff of that scent had sent his pulse to racing, and now he could hardly fathom that he was here all alone in a summerhouse with his sweet Lily.

Well, nearly alone. Midkiss, he cracked open an eye to find three creatures watching. As though daring him, Lady pecked at more bread and then took flight, landing right on his head.

He jerked up, breaking the kiss and sending the bird fluttering to a bench. "Do you think we could put them outside?"

"Hmm?" Lily's lids fluttered open, the blue of her eyes hazy, dreamy.

"Your animals." He swept them with an uneasy glance. "Could we just…lock them outside for a while?"

She blinked. "It's raining. They'll get wet."

"They're animals, for God's sake. So what if they get wet?" But she looked determined, so he added, "Never mind."

Maybe if he closed his eyes he could ignore the fact that they were there. He did that and went back to kissing Lily. She felt so warm against him, and so soft, her curves melding to his body, her mouth tasting so right. He wished he could kiss her forever.

Or at least his head wished he could kiss her forever. Other parts were telling him that would never be enough.

"When shall we be married?" he asked the next time he came up for air.

Looking flushed and a little bit flustered, Lily levered herself back to a sitting position. "Violet and Ford were wed two weeks after they became betrothed, and—"

"Two weeks?" Still lying on his side, Rand leaned up on an elbow. He propped his head on one hand and reached to play with a lock of her hair. "It won't be easy, but I suppose I can survive that long."

"That long? Mum has been complaining about that rushed wedding ever since. She wishes to make a proper job of it this time. Six months, she said—"

"Six months! I cannot wait six months."

She smiled. "Neither can I. That is why I talked her into six weeks."

"Oh. I suppose six weeks is survivable."

"It will pass quickly enough. I'll be busy with wedding plans, and you with your house. We'll be married before Michaelmas term starts in mid-October. And I hope that in the meantime Rose will come around…"

Her voice trailed off sadly.

"You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

She took a minute to answer, a minute during which he held his breath. "No," she said at last. "Not really."

The words had come too slowly, too reluctantly. Rand's heart hitched. "Lily—"

"I'm not having second thoughts," she repeated and then launched herself at him, knocking him back to the pallet as she crushed her mouth to his.

He kissed her and laughed, sheer joy mixed with relief. But something inside him had shifted. All at once, even more than he wanted to show her how grateful he was that she'd come into his life, he wanted to make her his. Permanently.

Six weeks suddenly seemed a long, long time.

With a wistful sigh, he pulled away before things could go any further. Lily's little sound of frustrated disappointment matched his own feelings all too well. He sat and reached for another strawberry. "Does she always hiccup so much?" he asked, indicating the cat.

"No. Or at least she didn't used to. It's odd the way she's been doing that lately." She pulled off her shoes and reached beneath her skirts to untie a garter.

Rand blinked. "What are you doing?"

She rolled down a stocking. "Do you usually wear shoes to picnic?"

"I don't usually picnic," he said dryly. He'd allowed little time for idleness in his life. As her other stocking came off, he swallowed hard. "You're not going to take anything else off, are you?"

"No," she said quickly; then her eyes glittered. "Unless you want me to."

Oh, he wanted her to, all right. He forced a laugh. "Your mother shouldn't have left us here alone."

"Perhaps not." She looked down, then raised her lashes slowly, revealing a steadfast blue gaze that pierced him to his soul. "But I'm glad for it," she added in a breathy whisper.

Rand was finding it hard to breathe. He sipped more champagne and watched her stretch her bare feet out before her, fluffing her skirts over her legs and allowing him a glimpse of slim ankles.

Her actions were innocent, he was sure. But innocently seductive.

She wiggled her pretty toes. "Oh, that feels so much better." Leaning forward, she smiled. "Let me help you with your boots."

Not sure he could stand her help, he tugged them off before she had a chance. She smiled knowingly, as though she were aware of her own allure and his resulting discomfort.

Maybe Lily wasn't as innocent as he'd thought.

"Have a nun's biscuit," she said. "They're my favorites." She handed him one of the thin, round treats. "You look hungry."

He was, but not for almonds and lemon. A nun's biscuit, of all things. Just what he needed: a vision of chaste nuns while the woman he loved was tempting him to sin.

He bit into the sweet, crisp biscuit, then tensed when she reached to wipe stray crumbs from his mouth before replacing her fingers with her lips.

Lily's mouth was sweeter than any biscuit he'd ever tasted. It was all he could do to keep from tearing her gown off then and there. As it was, he found himself drawing her down to the pallet again.

Or maybe she drew him down. He wasn't sure. And lost in the moment, in the pleasure of her mouth on his, he didn't care. For several long, heady minutes, his world was he and Lily and the incredible wonder of two people made for each other.

Until he felt sandpaper rubbing his toes. "What the devil—"

She laughed, a sound of pure merriment that drowned out the rain. "Beatrix, stop licking Rand's feet." Leaning on an elbow, she held up a bite of cheese, and the cat wandered over to take it with its delicate pink tongue.

At least it looked delicate. "I thought it would feel wet," he said. "And soft."

"Has a cat never licked you?" Lily laughed again. "Beatrix seemed to find you so delicious, I'm tempted to taste your toes myself."

That would be his undoing. Just imagining that scenario made the aforementioned toes—and other parts of him—prickle with awareness.

He sat up and shoved the rest of the nun's biscuit into his mouth, and then, for good measure, began humming a distracting tune.

Only it wasn't nearly distracting enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lily smiled to herself. That song again. She'd almost worked out how to play it, and she looked forward to the surprise.

But not right now. Now she only wanted more kisses.

Rain beat on the roof above, blending with the tune that wafted from Rand's throat. The sounds combined to create a rhythm that went right through her, mirroring the excitement that thrummed through her body.

Despite the wetness outside, the summerhouse was warm and snug. Candles flickered all around them like stars, seemingly working magic. Although, in all honesty, she wasn't sure whether this cozy wonderland was Rand's doing or her mother's, the romantic ambience worked on her all the same.

Or maybe it was just Rand. Ever since he'd first touched her, she'd burned for more. For everything. For weeks she'd denied it, but now they were going to be wed.

Everything had happened so fast. Only yesterday she'd thought of Rand as Rose's, but now, miraculously, he was hers. And she wanted him with a fierceness she'd never even imagined. A fierceness that completely took her by surprise.

Six weeks. It seemed like forever. She moved closer again and pressed her lips to his.

The humming stopped. "Oh, Lily," Rand said, but his words sounded more like a groan. She worried for a moment that he was angry, but he didn't seem angry. He didn't push her away. Instead, he curved a hand around the nape of her neck and deepened the kiss.

The lips that had been soft and gentle earlier were urgent now, more fervent. He kissed her until she felt breathless, senseless, his mouth trailing down to play in the sensitive hollow of her throat.

His lips felt so good against her skin. His tongue drew warm circles on her flesh, moving lower, delving closer to the cleavage revealed by her low neckline. Her heart raced faster as new sensations rippled through her, not only where his mouth teased her, but other places, too. An ache was building inside her, a most strange and wondrous feeling.

Wishing to make him feel the same way, she reached to unknot his white cravat.

Rand lifted his head. "You cannot do that," he murmured.

The lace-edged fabric came untied, and she began drawing it from his neck. "I want to do to you the same thing you're doing to me. I want to make you feel—"

"You cannot."

She stopped, stunned by the vehemence of his words, the steely gray of his eyes. "Why?" she breathed.

"Because if you do," he said very slowly, "I fear I may not be able to keep from doing more."

Was that all? She smiled as the cravat slid free.

"Lily—"

"Rand." Her mouth feeling suddenly dry, she licked her lips. Her heart pounded so loudly she feared he could hear it above the rain and her own harsh breathing. Rising to her knees to face him, she caught his silvery gaze. "I want you to do more. I want you," she clarified, echoing his words from weeks earlier.

Now she really knew what he'd meant.

His smile looked painfully forced. "You're going to have me. We're going to have each other. In six weeks."

"I want you now." As her fingers went to loosen the lacing at his neck, she watched his eyes widen in shock. She'd never felt like this before—like a wanton, truth be told. And she was every bit as shocked as he—shocked not only at her boldness, but at the desire that raged through her, sweeping clear her resistance and all her inhibitions. She'd never imagined feeling free enough to offer herself to a man.

But then, she'd never before been in love.

He just stared, dumbfounded, while she opened the placket of his shirt and put her mouth to his skin as he had to hers, tasting him, faintly salty and musky, a heady flavor that was his alone.

"Lily." He raised her face and touched a finger to her chin, looking wistful. When Jasper hopped from the bench to the pallet, his bushy red tail flicking up and down, Rand swallowed hard, then sighed. "Even your menagerie disapproves."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You're truly bent on seducing me, aren't you? No matter what your animals think."

"They're not thinking, Rand. They're just watching."

She felt a shudder run through him. "I don't like it."

Under other circumstances, she might have laughed. "The animals watching?"

"Yes." He gave her a light kiss before his face set in determined lines. "Your parents wouldn't like it, either."

"The animals watching?" she repeated, nonplussed.

"Yes. I mean, no." He looked deliciously flustered. "I mean they wouldn't like this." He yanked her against him and kissed her again, hard.

She let herself slide into the demanding caress. He plundered her mouth, tasting of strawberries and champagne and Rand. When at last he let her go, she found herself trembling with ill-contained desire.

"My parents kiss all the time," she informed him shakily. "They would certainly like it. As a matter of fact, Mum told all us girls we should make sure to kiss a man before we marry him. To ascertain we're well matched in that area. And she's an accomplished matchmaker, so I'm sure she knows of what she speaks."

Despite everything, Rand's lips quirked in a half smile. "It isn't the kissing they wouldn't approve. It's what it will lead to should you insist on going any further. Your parents certainly wouldn't like that."

He quite obviously didn't know her parents.

"Violet was born six months after they wed. And she wasn't an undersized baby."

His forehead furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"They didn't wait, Rand. And I don't see why we should, either." She watched his jaw drop open as she continued. "We'll be married in six weeks…but I want you now."

He shut his eyes momentarily. "If you say that enough times, I'll begin to believe you."

"How many times?" she wondered. "Will five or six more do? A dozen? I want you now, I want you now, I want—"

He silenced her with another kiss, a kiss so fierce she wondered if perhaps he'd given in. But when he drew back, he gazed at her, gauging her—and also gauging his own power to resist, she guessed.

Then slowly his fingers moved to unfasten her stomacher, and her heart soared. She'd won. She wanted this. She burned for him.

And besides all that, if they made love now, then later, on her wedding night, she wouldn't have to worry about—

"Are you certain?" he asked, his voice low and earnest, his eyes more intense than ever, his fingers fumbling on the stomacher's tabs. He glanced down, then dropped his hands. "I'm undressing you, and you're not stopping me."

"No." She took his hands and brought them back to the stiff, embroidered garment. "I'm not."

His hands didn't move, just rested lightly against her front. Her pulse skittered. Beneath his fingertips, her breasts felt firm and overly sensitive.

A silence stretched between them. His expression steadied and grew serious. "You do know what you're asking?"

She nodded. "I want you to make me yours."

For a moment—one split second in time—everything stopped. The rain, the animals' chattering, Lily's pulse. When it all started again, she found herself locked in Rand's arms. He pressed his lips to her forehead, a caress so cherishing it made her heart twist painfully in her chest.

At last he pulled back, his fingers returning to her stomacher, less tentative this time. Her own fingers fluttered up to untie his cuffs. Beatrix hiccuped louder. The stiff stomacher made a soft plop as Rand dropped it to the pallet.

Beneath where the stomacher had been, Lily was laced tightly into her bodice. As Rand untied the bow, then went to work on the laces, his gaze strayed to watch Lady flit from the bench and land gracefully beside them.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. "Are you sure we cannot put them outside?"

"You cannot tell me they're really bothering you."

He couldn't back down now.

Suddenly feeling frantic, she tried to free his voluminous shirt from where it was tucked into his breeches. All she wanted, it seemed, was to feel Rand's skin against her own. He seemed covered with so much fabric. Yards and yards of the frothy white stuff, all standing in her way.

With a pained chuckle he pushed her hands away and drew the shirt off over his head. One smooth, lithe motion that revealed all that warm, tempting skin, reminding her of the day in the drawing room when he'd removed his shirt to wash off the soot from the fire.

Only this time, she could touch him.

She did, running her hands up his chest, feeling the taut skin and the muscles underneath. With a small moan of pleasure, she shifted forward and spread her bodice wide. A soft gasp escaped Rand's lips as she pressed herself against him, the gossamer material of her chemise the only barrier between their upper bodies.

She released a long, languid sigh. "Heaven," she murmured.

"Not even close." Rand lifted the heavy bulk of her double-skirted gown over her head, bringing her chemise along with it…and baring her to his hot gaze.

She'd always anticipated feeling shy and embarrassed in this moment, but with Rand she felt gloriously free. She pressed against him once more. His hard chest felt warm against her nakedness—warm and sensuous as silk. Her breasts tingled, and the ache inside her spread.

"Heaven," she whispered again.

"Not yet." His fingers were frantically unlacing his breeches. He rose quickly to push them down and off, but before she could get a proper look he'd dropped to kneel again before her and reached to pull her close.

His arms went around her, and they met, skin to skin, from their shoulders to their knees. His hands splayed on her bare back, pressing her closer. Down low she could feel a hardness, a hardness that made her blood race, a hardness that told her he wanted her as much as she craved him.

"Heaven," she breathed. "This is really, truly heaven."

"Sweet Lily, you have no idea."

As Rand eased Lily to the pallet and came down beside her, Beatrix's hiccuping intensified. Lady twittered. He swept them with an uneasy glance.

"Rand?" Lily whispered.

Tearing his gaze from the creatures, he kissed her quickly, wildly, then bent his head to let his lips trail down her throat. A hot stab of lust lanced through her. And love. It was all mixed up together, in her head, in her heart, in her body so aware she felt if Rand just kissed her once more she'd explode.

But he didn't kiss her. Instead his mouth skimmed her breasts and then fastened on one rosy peak. Warm. It felt warm and damp, unbelievably exquisite. Her hands threaded into his hair as he licked his way to her other breast and suckled there until she arched toward him. When he swirled his clever tongue, desire shot to somewhere deep inside. Her fingers fisted in his hair. Suddenly she felt the sensations were more than she could bear.

"Now, Rand."

He chuckled, sending low vibrations through her. "Slower is better, love. We've a long way to go before—"

"Now."

His head shot up. "Don't you like this?"

"I like it too much." Her breath was coming short, and her entire body sang with an awareness she'd never imagined.

But besides all that, the anticipation was killing her.

It had been four years since she and her sisters had huddled here in the summerhouse, secretly reading Aristotle's Master-piece. The Master-piece had said making love would hurt the first time, and for four years, she had worried about that.

Now it was about to happen, and she wanted to get it over with. She wanted to enter her marriage free of this fretful anxiety.

"Please, Rand, join with me now."

He hesitated.

"Please."

She held her breath, watching while he shut his eyes and swallowed hard. "Sweetheart—"

"Please."

He kissed her once, softly, then opened his eyes and nodded.

Lily's heart pounded, excitement blending with fear as he began moving over her. Instinctively she raised her knees. Supporting himself on his elbows, Rand took her face in both hands and kissed her while he eased his way between her legs.

He settled against her, fitting there like they were made to go together. An incredible urgency radiated from where his body was poised to enter hers. Her blood pumped faster.

Beatrix let out a long, loud meow.

Rand broke the kiss and froze, only his eyes moving—darting between the cat and the squirrel and the bird, all scattered across the summerhouse.

"I cannot do this," he gritted out. His eyes settled back on Lily, holding her captive. "I cannot do this with them watching."

Passion burned in that gray gaze.

"Oh, I think you can," she murmured with a soft smile. And deliberately she raised her hips, welcoming him into her and at the same time bracing for the pain.

It was sharp, so sharp she cried out. Still holding her face, Rand whispered senseless endearments, raining little kisses all over her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

But the pain was fading already, rapidly becoming an ache of another kind…an ache so exquisite she found herself straining against him in hope of easing it.

He kissed her mouth, and then, still holding her gaze, he moved in her.

A gasp of wonder escaped her lips.

"This, sweet Lily, is heaven," he said.

She couldn't seem to speak at all.

Then they moved as one in a duet as old as time, a perfect harmony that went far beyond music and words. Slowly and then faster, the feelings building to a crescendo, higher and higher until Lily erupted in pleasure so intense she was half convinced she really was glimpsing heaven. Up and up, flying higher yet when she felt Rand go with her.

At long last, she drifted back to earth. Rain still pattered overhead, but more softly now. Across the summerhouse, the animals had quieted. Beatrix had even stopped hiccuping.

Lily opened her eyes to the magic of candles winking in the dimness. Rand was still pressed close, his heart beating in a cadence to match hers. He lifted his head to find three creatures staring at him, and with a groan, he buried his face in the crook of Lily's neck.

A soft laugh rippled from her. "You managed," she said. "With the animals watching."

"Ah, yes." His words vibrated against her throat, sounding amused. "But I hope they're not expecting a repeat performance. I'd just as soon not have an audience next time—not that this time wasn't good."

"It was heaven. I saw heaven."

"Did you?" He kissed her nose, her mouth, then leaned up and shot her a smile. "Please don't tell me you saw cherubs playing harps."

"No." She laughed again. She'd never expected to laugh at a time such as this, but it felt right.

Everything with Rand felt right.

"No cherubs," she whispered. "Only you."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It took three carriages to get to Oxford. A valet and two maids rode in the first, along with all the luggage. The second held Chrystabel and Joseph.

"Do you suppose the children will be all right alone?" she asked.

He laughed. "Three of those 'children' are in their twenties. Relax, Chrysanthemum. It seems like years since we've had a carriage to ourselves. Come over and sit on my lap."

Smiling, she did. It had been years. But their offspring, with the exception of Rowan, were finally grown. "I love you," she said.

"I love you, too." He kissed the top of her head. "And I can hear you without all the chatter."

She settled against his warm form, using his body to cushion her from the jarring ruts in the road. It was a calmer ride than many, though, the landscape mainly gentle green slopes. Cattle roamed, grazing aimlessly. "Ah, this is nice." Chrystabel snuggled closer. "I wonder how everyone else is doing."

"You worry too much, Chrysanthemum."

She sighed. "I'm just wondering what happened yesterday. If anything."

"If anything? Two young people in a summerhouse…"

"One of them was sweet Lily."

He snorted. "The other was a healthy male. I used to be a healthy male, which means I know of what I speak."

"You still are a healthy male," she protested, knowing he wanted to hear it and also thinking it was true. He was only forty-six, after all. "But regardless, Lily remains worried by Rose's attitude, not that I can blame her. I must figure out a way to get Lily and Rand off alone together some more. Much more."

"Hey." He tilted her chin up and placed a kiss on her lips—a somewhat bouncing kiss due to the ride, but a nice one nonetheless. "Can I entice you to forget about our children for a while? Here I've succeeded in getting us off alone together…why aren't we taking advantage of it?"

Conversation was abandoned in favor of blissful sighs.

The third carriage wasn't nearly as peaceful.

On one of the upholstered benches, Rand sat beside Lily, holding her hand. Across from them, Rose glared at their linked fingers while Rowan chattered, excited about his first trip to Oxford.

"You've never been?" Rand asked.

"Never."

"Neither have I," Lily added.

"And you, Rose?" Rand asked, trying to bring her into the conversation.

"No," she said shortly, still glowering.

He squeezed Lily's hand, knowing her sister's disapproval was hard on her. Remembering their encounter in the summerhouse yesterday, he could only be glad it had happened. Lily would have no thoughts of changing her mind now. Perhaps the seduction hadn't been planned or honorable, but he couldn't be sorry, not when it had bonded her to him as tightly as a book to its cover.

At least he hoped it had, he thought suddenly, relieved when her fingers squeezed back. After all, she could be with child. Although that was one thing he didn't hope for—not yet, anyway.

Of course, he knew the potential consequences of what they'd done, of what he expected they'd do over and over in the months and years ahead of them. And when children came along, he was certain he'd love them as much as he loved Lily. But he'd prefer some time alone with her first. He was just getting used to the idea of being a husband; he felt woefully unprepared for fatherhood as yet.

"Do you know," Lily said, dragging his thoughts back to the conversation, "we've never been much of anywhere besides London and the area that surrounds Trentingham. Oh, and Tremayne, but not for years."

"Tremayne?"

"A castle and lands our family owns near Wales. We stayed there during Cromwell's Protectorate, and again in '65 when the Great Plague was a threat. Now that Grandpapa has passed on and Father become the earl, Rowan is Viscount Tremayne."

"Are you?" Rand asked Rowan, smiling when Lily's brother nodded and puffed out his narrow chest. "Well, then," he told the boy, "you're certainly more important than I. I'm a mere lord."

"You're important," Lily protested sweetly.

Across from them, her sister groaned.

"Have you never been out of Britain, then?" he asked Rose.

"No," she said as shortly as before.

"None of us have." When the carriage jounced in and out of a rut, Lily jostled against Rand. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, Spain, France, Italy, Greece…I'll take you those places, and more."

Rose smirked. "She won't be able to talk to anyone."

Rand's concern for Lily's sister was rapidly transforming to annoyance. Deliberately he dropped Lily's hand to wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "I'll be happy enough to communicate for Lily."

The look in Rose's eyes told him she hadn't missed the declaration of possession—not that he found that surprising. Rose might have her faults, but he'd never considered a weak intellect among them.

They fell silent for a while.

Lily watched out the window. She rubbed the scars on her hand, determined not to let her sister's bad temper spoil this special day. As they descended toward Oxford the grazing land gave way to water meadows, and now the road was peppered with charming houses, each with a lovely, well-tended garden.

Rand began humming, that same old tune, somehow both quiet and cheerful at the same time. Lily's mind drifted, and she touched her fingertips to her lips, imagining them tender and a little bit puffy like they'd been yesterday after Rand's kisses. She'd gone to sleep last night with one hand on her mouth and awakened that way, too, lying abed too long this morning while she recalled every exciting moment of their time together in the summerhouse.

Sharing herself with Rand had been an incredibly amazing experience, and it couldn't have been wrong—not when they'd pledged their hearts. But she'd thought of little else since, and now, sitting beside Rand but unable to kiss him, to really touch him…she thought she might very well go mad.

Whenever she remembered what it had felt like to lie next to him, to have him within her, her entire body tingled. And it seemed she was remembering constantly. Now that she was no longer worried about the pain, she could hardly wait to lie with him again.

She squirmed on the seat, ordering herself to concentrate on the scenery as they crossed a river and entered Oxford. "Oh, look." She smiled at a beautiful square bell tower built of mellow stone. "It looks so old."

"Charmingly old, I hope." Rand's fingers tightened on her shoulder. "I hope you won't mind living here."

"It's beautiful," she breathed.

"We're on Magdalen Bridge, and that tower is part of Magdalen College. It was built by Cardinal Wolsey. Every May Day since 1501, the college's choir ascends the tower at dawn to greet the coming of spring with hymns."

"Oh," she said, "I imagine that must be lovely." Beyond Magdalen, they passed through the low-arched East Gate, and then they were within the city wall, its battlements interspersed with turrets. Towers of Oxford's many other colleges rose to punctuate the horizon, monuments to centuries of education.

Among the huge buildings of the university, townspeople lived and worked in smaller homes and shops under steep, sloping roofs. Few people walked the streets, but those that did looked prosperous, unlike in London where the poor slept in the gutters. "It's a quiet town in the summer months," Rand said, "but it will be bustling come October, full of students in their billowing black gowns."

"Can we climb all the towers?" Rowan asked, nearly bouncing on the seat.

"Sit still," Rose muttered.

"Not all of the towers, but certainly one or two," Rand promised. "I'll take you all on a walking tour later."

Following instructions Rand had given the coachmen earlier, they turned onto New College Lane, a narrow street that ran between New College and Hart Hall. Behind a small rectangular courtyard, his new house rose three stories, the left side still cloaked in scaffolding.

"Here we are," he said, somewhat unnecessarily given that the carriage had stopped behind the one holding Lord and Lady Trentingham.

The door opened, and the driver lowered the steps. Upon exiting, Rand waved at Lily's parents, noting that they looked particularly happy and, in Lady Trentingham's case, perhaps a bit flushed.

Smiling to himself, he prayed to find such long-lasting companionship with Lily.

Looking lovely in a cornflower blue traveling gown, Lily stepped out and stared up at the rows of Palladian windows. "It's very big!"

"Did you think I'd expect Lady Lily Ashcroft to live in a cottage?" he teased. But his heart warmed to see she approved of her home-to-be.

He followed Rowan to the scaffolding, reaching a quick hand to grab the boy's arm. "No, you don't."

"Holy Chr—I mean zounds, I just wanted to climb it."

"It doesn't appear at all safe for young men," Rand said. "Come, let me see if I can find Kit. I'll introduce you all—and find out why he hasn't finished as promised."

A workman came out the front door, burdened with two buckets of paint. He smiled and bowed awkwardly. "Lord Randal."

"Henry. How goes the job?"

"All but done. Mr. Martyn should return soon. He was called away—"

"Of course he was," Rand interrupted. "Isn't he always?" With a short laugh, he waved the man and his paint toward the scaffolding and ushered Lily's family inside the house.

Even though Kit was off-site, the interior swarmed with industrious men, a testament to the man's skill as a builder. "The house is designed in the classical style Kit favors," Rand explained as he led the Ashcrofts through an impressive entry and into the first chamber, a drawing room where a man was noisily installing a marble fireplace surround. "I admired many homes like this while touring Italy, so when he started sketching elevations of what he had in mind, we found ourselves in complete accord."

"It looks different," Lily's mother observed. "Plainer than other homes, but somehow more elegant, too."

"Kit and I designed it together." Rand clearly loved this house; Lily could hear the pride in his voice. "I wanted the decorative elements understated, not so grandiose as in most new homes today. And Kit has an eye for grace and balance."

"Come along!" Rowan yelled.

A bundle of energy after having been pent up in the carriage, he directed a whirlwind tour through the main rooms and the kitchen—no matter that he didn't know where he was going. Upstairs, he led them all on a merry chase down a narrow hallway between the five bedchambers.

"We designed the house with corridors," Rand explained, "so there's no need to go through one room to get to another."

Since the master bedchamber was the only room in the house with any furniture, their footsteps and voices echoed in the empty spaces. When Rowan had finished racing in and out of every chamber, he slid down the slick new banisters to the bottom. The others followed more sedately and gathered in the entrance hall on the ground floor.

"It's beautiful." Lily hugged herself and smiled, looking slowly around the square, high-ceilinged room. She loved all the architectural details, the niches built into the walls, the light that streamed through the many large windows to brighten the interior. Rather than being covered with heavy, dark paneling or a riot of intricate carving, the walls were smooth plaster.

"All white," Rand pointed out with a grin. "Virginal. Like your bedchamber."

Thinking she was virginal no more, she blushed and looked up at the classic coved cornice around the ceiling. "Will the walls be staying all white?"

"I don't expect so. My last house came furnished and decorated in a style that never quite felt like home, but I hadn't any idea how to fix it. For this one, I was planning to hire someone to choose fabrics and furnishings and wall coverings. But now that I have you—"

"She'll leave it all white," Rose interrupted.

"Rose," her mother started.

But then someone walked in, silencing Rose more effectively than Chrystabel ever could.

Lily turned to see what had captured her sister's attention. Or rather, who. Dressed in deep blue velvet with white linen and lace, the man was tall, lean, and had the carriage of someone used to being in charge. His hair was black, his eyes a unique mixture of green and brown.

A very pleasing mixture.

"My house is still unfinished," Rand said without preamble, but Lily could tell he wasn't really angry. His long-suffering sigh was just for show. "What might be your excuse this time?"

"Will King Charles do?" the man asked, a lazy smile curving his lips. Those unusual eyes narrowed. "What the hell happened to your hair?"

"A fire," Rand said without elaborating. He turned to Lily's father, raising his voice. "Lord Trentingham, may I present Christopher Martyn, distinguished recipient of the Procrastinating Architect Award."

Lily's father smiled vaguely; then his ears seemed to perk up. "The Christopher Martyn?"

Kit bowed. "At your service, my lord."

"Atchur—?"

"Lord Trentingham is hard of hearing," Mum said warmly as she walked over to pull Rowan down from a ladder. "You'll need to speak up."

But apparently Kit didn't need to speak at all. Father stepped closer. "I'm looking for an architect to design one of those newfangled greenhouses—"

"Lord Martyn is busy," Rose broke in loudly. "Working for the king."

"I'm not a lord, my lady. Just plain Mr. Martyn. Although Kit will do."

Rose looked very disappointed to hear that, and Lily took perverse pleasure in thinking her sister couldn't call the man Lord against his wishes. Having decided she didn't always have to be nice, she was turning out to be rather bad.

But it felt better than she'd expected.

Rand performed the rest of the introductions, and then, while Kit took over explaining the details of the building, he drew Lily aside.

"What do you think?"

"I think Rose likes your friend Kit."

"That's not what I meant." He tapped her on the chin. "What do you think of the house? Will you be able to stand living here?"

Feeling wickeder by the minute, Lily pretended to consider. "I saw only one master chamber. I'm not certain that's acceptable."

He looked a bit startled. "When the plans were drawn up, I was expecting to live here alone. But it's a large enough room, don't you think? Wouldn't you rather share—"

"Let me see," she interrupted. "You're asking me to give up living with my moody sister in the dull countryside and move to this busy, academic town…hmm…and then I'll have to sleep with you every night." Watching his alarm turn to amusement, she grinned. "It sounds perfect."

"What about your menagerie?"

"Though I've yet to see the garden, I'm sure it will do fine." Perhaps it wouldn't be ideal, but it would be much, much better than living without Rand. Even suffering her sister's distemper was better than living without Rand.

Why hadn't she been able to see that all along?

"Are you certain?" he pressed, moving closer. He ran his hands up her arms until they were resting on her shoulders.

Out of habit, she shot a glance to Rose, but she really, truly didn't care what her sister thought. She, Lily, deserved happiness, too. "I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

Rand looked like he wanted to pull her against him and kiss her then and there. And she wouldn't have minded, even right in front of Rose.

But Kit interrupted. "Oh, Rand, you have some mail."

Rand was still gazing at Lily. "Later, Kit."

"One thing looked important. A missive from Hawkridge."

"Hawkridge?" That succeeded in seizing his attention. He jerked his head around and squinted at Kit. "I never hear from my father."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"Never say never," Lily said softly.

And Kit burst into laughter.

"What?" she asked, half distracted by Rand's distress but unable to ignore his friend. "What's so amusing?"

"That's Rand's saying. He's been dogging me with that phrase ever since we were wee lads."

"I think my mother used to say it," Rand said absently. "Where's this letter?"

Kit nodded. "I've been collecting your mail as it comes in. I'll get it."

"I expect we should all go upstairs to my bedchamber." Rand led the way while Kit went off to fetch the mail. "It's the only room where we can sit."

Even there, the seating was lacking. Rose took the single chair at his desk, while Rand waved the rest of them toward his enormous bed, a heavy oak four-poster with hunter green hangings. "I'm sorry there are no other chairs," he said, perching himself on a carved wooden chest. "All my furniture is in storage, and in any case, it needs replacing." He forced a distracted smile. "I'm hoping my new wife will help with that."

"I'll be honored to." Lily sat beside him. "And I promise not to choose white."

"Nothing white?" Rose looked incredulous. "Nothing at all?"

"White isn't a good color for a home with children," Lily said, feeling her cheeks flood with heat.

Why had she mentioned children? Surely nobody knew what had happened in the summerhouse. They couldn't tell just by looking at her, could they?

Her heart seized when she saw her parents exchange what seemed to be a knowing glance. But then Kit came in with a stack of accumulated mail, and her attention was drawn as Rand reluctantly took it.

He flipped through the letters and slowly pulled one out. "Here it is." Forgotten, the rest of the mail fluttered to the floor.

Kit bent to retrieve it. "You didn't believe me?"

"I was hoping you were wrong." Rand shrugged as he broke the seal. A big, black one. Then he just sat there with the paper in his hands. "Word from my father cannot be good."

Lily scooted closer. "Perhaps it's not from your father, Rand. Could it be from his ward instead?"

"I've yet to answer Margery's last letter. And she doesn't use the Hawkridge seal."

"Does your brother never send letters?"

"Alban has nothing to say to me." He stared at his name on the front. "No, this is the marquess's writing."

At last he unfolded the paper. As he scanned the single page, an expectant silence descended on the room. Impatient, Lily leaned to see the letter. The writer had a heavy hand. The ink was dark and decisive.

She looked up to Rand. His face matched the plain white walls, all the color drained, his eyes lifeless.

"What is it?"

Both his hands dropped to his sides, the paper dangling from one. "Alban has died," he said disbelievingly. "At the hands of another man."

The air left Lily in a rush. She knew Rand had harbored no love for his brother, but if she felt this shocked, she could only imagine how the news made him feel. Unsure what to say, she reached for his free hand and quietly laced her fingers with his.

"I'm so sorry," her mother murmured.

"What—" her husband started.

"Hush, darling." Chrystabel laid a firm hand on his arm. "Rand's brother has died."

Rand shook his head as though to regain his senses. The paper crackled when he waved off the sympathy. "I never liked the man, so condolences are unnecessary. But it seems I'm now my father's heir—and the old goat wants to see me at once."

"You're going to be a marquess?" Rose looked between him and Lily, her eyes dark with envy. "The Marquess of Hawkridge? And what are you now that your brother is gone? The Earl of Something?"

"The Earl of Newcliffe," Kit said. "But none of that matters."

Rose's expression said it mattered quite a bit, as well as displaying disdain that a commoner like Kit wouldn't think so.

Releasing Lily's hand, Rand stood and began pacing. "I've no wish to be a marquess. Or even an earl. I like my life."

"Your life may not have to change, Rand. Or at least not right now." Lily watched his agitated movements, feeling helpless to soothe him. He looked like a penned animal. She suspected that if it wouldn't be so impolite, he'd leave Kit and her family here and set off running through the streets. "How old is your father?"

"Only fifty-two," he admitted. "And last I saw him, healthy as a horse."

"Well, then…"

He waved the letter again. "He wants me at Hawkridge. He expects me to leave the life I've built and learn how to run his damned estate. I don't want to do that. I've been happy with my life here…" He finally stopped pacing and turned to meet Lily's gaze. "I'm even happier with my life now."

Chrystabel rose from the bed. "Then you should go tell him that. Both of you."

Although Lily was surprised by the idea, she still felt a prick of hurt when Rand said, "Both of us? I think not."

"Both of you." Mum sounded determined. "Since you've pledged yourself to Lily, and she to you, the two of you should face life's difficulties together. And in any case, Lily should meet her future father-in-law."

"Why? If I have my way, she'll never meet him at all."

Lily rose and moved close to him. "Rand…" Much as she loved and admired him, his relationship with his family was one area she thought could see improvement. Especially now that his "family" was just his father.

Glancing around at her own family, her heart ached for him. Now, more than ever, he needed a reconciliation. Whether he knew it or not.

"Of course I want to meet your father," she said softly. "He's part of what made you the man I love."

His gray eyes turned hard as steel. "Whatever I've made of myself, it was despite him, not because of him."

Feeling like she was becoming less nice by the minute, she set her jaw. "I'm coming with you."

Silence reigned for a span of time, an unspoken battle of wills.

When Rand finally sighed, Lily took that as agreement. "Shall we leave immediately?"

Tempered by her loyalty, the steel in his eyes softened. "No, we'll leave tomorrow. Today we'll tour Oxford and you'll all stay the night at the inn as planned. The letter was written early last week; my father can wait another day." He folded the paper as he addressed Kit. "This turn of events will give you a few more days to finish."

A gasp came from Rose. "A few more days? You two are going to stay at Hawkridge overnight? Together?"

Rand's lips curved in a wry smile. "Together with a staff of a hundred, the meanest dogs in England, and my very formidable father. He's a marquess, if you'll remember."

And Rose, Lily reflected, was unlikely to forget that.

"It's entirely proper," Mum said. "Lily and Rand are betrothed, and I'm certain there will be chaperones aplenty."

Father frowned and reached for his pouch. "Who needs a loan of twenty?"

"No one needs any money, darling." Chrystabel patted his cheek. "Our Lily is going to visit Rand's family, that's all." She, for one, didn't look the least displeased with the developments. She turned back to Lily and Rand. "I'm glad you'll be staying until tomorrow, though. Rowan would hate to miss his tour, wouldn't you, Rowan?" She glanced around. "Rowan?"

Lily quickly scanned the chamber, although given the lack of furniture there was certainly nowhere to hide. "He's not here, Mum. Did he even come up with us?"

A moment later, they were all fanning out through the house. Knowing her brother well, Lily headed straight downstairs. Her heart lurched when sounds of a crash came through the front windows.

She hurried outdoors to find Rowan sprawled on the ground, splattered with white paint from a bucket lying nearby, its contents splashed all over the bare dirt yard. Above him, the scaffolding tilted at a crazy angle.

He swiped at his face, only smearing the paint more. "Zounds, that thing is rickety."

She paused long enough to shout back through the door. "I've found him! He's outside!" Then she turned to him, a hand to her still-racing heart. "Rand told you it was dangerous. Where's the painter? You shouldn't be out here alone. You shouldn't be out here at all."

Rowan shrugged. "I'm all right." He pushed to his feet—or rather, he tried to. "Ouch!" he hollered and collapsed back to the dirt.

She rushed to kneel beside him. "Is it your ankle?" She tugged off his boot.

"Ouch!" Unmanly tears sprang to his eyes. "It hurts. This is God's reckoning for my stupid mistake; I just know it."

Gently she probed his ankle, relieved to find no indication of a break, although it was swelling rapidly. Her pulse calmed. "Yes, I suppose you should have listened to Rand," she said sympathetically, still exploring the injury.

"Rand? What does Rand have to do with this?"

"Rowan, what are you talking about?"

"Ouch!" he wailed. "The barn!"

"The barn?" She released his foot and glanced up at his paint-stained face. "What about the barn?"

His cheeks flushed red under the splatters. "I told you about the barn."

"Told me what?"

"About the joke, and how it went wrong, but I didn't have any of Mr. Boyle's fire-making things…it was a mistake," he finished weakly, obviously realizing that although they'd talked about mistakes, he'd never admitted to starting the fire.

Or not in so many words. She should have realized, though—she liked to think she was smart enough to put two and two together. But she'd been focused on her own problems, her own mistakes, her love for Rand and her promise to her sister.

Shock and anger made her voice shrill. Rand could have died in there—as it was, his hair had burned. "You set it? You set the fire?"

"No, I didn't set it." Rowan looked half guilty, half petrified, his face gone white as the paint. "It just happened. I was trying to—"

"Rowan!" Mum called as she raced outside. "Dear heavens, you're covered in paint!"

Rowan just stared at his sister, silently willing her to stay quiet.

When he didn't say anything, Chrystabel shifted her attention to Lily. "Is he hurt? Is something wrong?"

Lily watched Rowan swallow hard. Inside her, a sense of duty battled with sibling loyalty. By not telling Mum, was she as good as a party to the crime? The fire was a serious thing, not some minor offense like straying too far from home on a fishing outing with a friend. Rand and her animals could have perished in that fire. Or someone else.

But in the end she held her tongue. The Ashcroft offspring had never been tattlers.

"Nothing's wrong. Rowan's fine." She pushed to her feet, the anger draining away. Everything was fine, after all. "His ankle is hurt, but he's otherwise unharmed."

Rowan shot her a grateful glance, but he needn't have worried. He was her brother, and his secret was safe with her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

After much fussing by all concerned, it was determined that Rowan had only sprained his ankle.

Rand shook his head at Lily. "I thought you said he was a monkey."

"I should have said he's an accident-prone monkey. At least this time no one will have to stitch him up."

"Would you like to see my scars?" Rowan asked, past his fright and cheerful as ever.

Rand declined, and Rowan didn't remain quite so cheerful when he realized he wouldn't be able to walk around Oxford, let alone climb any towers. Since Lily's father had been to Oxford before, he volunteered to stay behind with his son. The rest of them left the two playing draughts in the common room of the Spotted Cow, the inn behind Rand's house where they would return to stay the night.

"King me!" Lily heard Rowan yell as they walked out the door, much later than they'd originally planned. Knowing that her family's raised voices would ring through the inn from now until they left the next day, she imagined the proprietor would be happy to see the backs of them tomorrow.

Their walking tour started at Wadham College, where Rand had begun his years here at Oxford. The college was on Parks Road, around the corner and down one street from his house. "You really live in the center of things," Lily remarked.

"We will, yes." Clearly trying hard to set his troubles aside, he took her hand as they all crossed the smooth green lawn toward Wadham's elegant facade. "I hope you'll like it here."

"I love it already. This town feels so peaceful and alive, all at once."

"Wait until it's teeming with students." He nodded to the porter at the stone-vaulted gateway. "Good afternoon, Dickerson."

"Afternoon, Professor Nesbitt."

Rand led Kit and Lily's family into a graveled quadrangle. "Do you not go by Lord?" Rose asked.

"Too pretentious. Besides, I earned the title Professor."

"But now you're an earl."

Lily saw Rand's jaw set. "Here, I'm a professor."

It seemed he was determined to keep it that way. Not that Lily minded, but she wondered what sort of a struggle he'd be up against tomorrow. And she could tell, from the tenseness in his body, that in spite of his valiant effort to ignore the letter he was worried about it, too.

She looked around the quadrangle at the stately stone buildings, built in Oxford's traditional Gothic style. All was quiet now, but she smiled as she imagined students hurrying to meet with their tutors, young Rand and Ford among them. "The architecture matches the old colleges, but somehow it looks new."

"Only Pembroke is newer," Kit said. "Dorothy Wadham built this college in 1610."

Rose's eyes widened. "A woman built Wadham? I thought Oxford was strictly for men."

Rand nodded. "It is—even the servants in the colleges are all male. But as Nicholas Wadham's widow, Dorothy carried out his wishes. There are portraits of them both in the hall and statues just outside it. Come, I'll show you."

Gravel crunched beneath their feet as he led them across the quiet quadrangle. The figures made a striking composition framing the door, King James on one side and the founders on the other. The statue of Nicholas Wadham was holding a model of the college.

"He never actually saw it," Rand said. "They began building after his death." He tugged the heavy door open. "Go in. The hall is beautiful."

While the others went inside, he held Lily back, leaning close. "With the exception of your parents," he murmured, "I've reserved each of you separate rooms at the inn."

His breath felt warm by her ear. "Hmm?" She turned her head to steal a quick kiss.

Evidently liking that, he gave a low laugh and kissed her again. "I have no intention of staying home alone all night long."

A frisson of warmth shimmered through her. "Do you not?"

"If I happen to wander through the alley and end up outside your window, I trust you'll let me in?"

The mere idea sounded wicked and wonderful. "I can hardly wait," she whispered, her body thrumming already.

"Lily? Rand?" Her mother's voice drifted from the hall.

Lily sighed. "We should go inside."

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her close and gave her one more kiss for good measure—a kiss that left her light-headed. "Until tonight," he said softly, turning her toward the door.

Feeling boneless, she let him walk her into the hall past an entrance screen of exquisite Jacobean woodwork. She gawked at the great hammerbeam roof before her gaze dropped to the portraits of the founders. Nicholas Wadham wore a tall black hat, Dorothy a flattish cap and an uncomfortable-looking neck ruff. "They look formidable," she said.

Chrystabel smiled. "I've heard tales enough of the pranks here to suspect they're disapproving."

Rose spun in a circle, taking in the solemn stained-glass windows and the long rows of tables with candelabras spaced down their middles. "I cannot picture Ford here."

"He came three times a day," Rand assured her, "dutifully wearing the required robe. Ford Chase was never one to miss a meal."

Rose laughed, looking more carefree than she had in weeks. As they exited the hall, Lily noticed Kit slanting her sister a sharp, appreciative look. Well, she always had been a beauty, so long as she wasn't scowling.

Rand took them to the chapel, so they could see its magnificent east window depicting Jonah's whale, then turned to lead them out of the college.

"What's this?" Rose asked, stopping by an unassuming door to stare at four lines of lettering crudely carved into the wood.

Rand smiled. "When King Charles slept in that room one night, the Earl of Rochester wrote that."

"He didn't." Sounding wickedly intrigued, Rose read aloud.

"Here lies a great and mighty king,

Whose promise none relied on.

He never said a foolish thing,

Nor ever did a wise one."

Their collective laughter rang through the empty quadrangle.

"Charles must have been livid," Chrystabel remarked.

"To the contrary," Rand said, "he found it quite amusing. He claimed his words were his own, while his deeds were those of his ministers."

In high spirits, they left Wadham and walked the unpaved streets. Lily already loved this city, a city so steeped in tradition that new buildings were built in old styles. She nearly burst out laughing when she noticed Lady flitting along from tree to tree, then glanced around and found Beatrix stalking them in the shadows. She decided to keep quiet about that, given that Rand was uneasy around her constant companions. But her heart sang to see that her animal friends would be comfortable here in Oxford, too.

Of course, that was assuming she and Rand ended up living here.

"The Sheldonian Theatre," Kit announced. They all stopped to gaze up at the cupola atop its domed roof. "A friend built it," he added, sidling closer to Rose. "Christopher Wren. His first large public building."

Rose failed to look impressed with either the building or Kit's friendship with the celebrated architect. "I've met Mr. Wren," she said. "He came to my sister's wedding."

Seemingly undiscouraged, Kit tried the doors and looked disappointed to find them locked. "The ceiling inside is amazing."

Rand nodded. "It's painted to look like the sky."

"But that's just ornamentation." Kit leaned against the double doors. "The ceiling itself is a wonder of advanced construction, designed with no columns to spoil the view. An apparent defiance of gravity, because Wren contrived all the weight to be supported from above."

"It's a beautiful building." Lily paced its columned front, enjoying the tour but wishing she were alone with Rand. "What is it used for?"

"Ceremonies, mostly." Rand caught up to her and took her hand, that small meeting of flesh making a shudder run through her. Perhaps sensing it, he slipped his thumb inside to tease her palm. "Matriculation, graduation, and the like. And the university's printing presses are housed in the basement."

"Can you see," Kit put in, "the street-level windows that let in light? Wren greatly values natural light. He told me he based this building on the Theatre of Marcellus in Rome."

Despite Rand's quite effective attempts to distract her, Lily didn't miss the admiration in Kit's voice. Or the touch of longing. "Have you seen the Theatre of Marcellus?"

"Sadly, I haven't." He gave a self-deprecating shrug. "I aspire to study the great buildings on the Continent, but I'm afraid I'm hopeless with foreign languages. I have nightmares of never finding my way home."

"Rose has an excellent head for languages," Lily told him.

Her sister swung to glare at her. If looks could kill, Lily thought, she'd be deader than the sculptured heads on the railing around the building.

"What's that?" Chrystabel asked, pointing to something up high in a transparent attempt to smooth things over.

"The Tower of the Five Orders," Kit said enthusiastically. "It's the most unusual structure in all of Oxford."

He led them through an archway, a short tunnel through a plain building, and into an open quadrangle. The buildings surrounding it were more imposing than the austere exterior would suggest. Many doors gave entrance, each with a Latin inscription in gold letters on a blue background.

Rose turned slowly, translating them all. "Grammar and history, logic, rhetoric. Music, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy. Philosophy." And at the far end, "School of Medicine, School of Law, School of Theology."

"Those three are the superior schools," Rand explained. "Before attending any of those, one must pass each of the other schools first and receive his Master of Arts."

Kit wandered closer to Rose again. "You are good at languages."

She shrugged, but looked pleased. Kit was making inroads, Lily thought. Flattery was one sure way to Rose's heart.

He cleared his throat as he looked to their mother. "You asked about the tower." It was wondrous sight in the otherwise rather sobering surroundings. "The Five Orders display the different styles of classical architecture, distinguished by differing columns, bases, and pedestals. From the bottom to the top, oldest to newest, we have Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, and Composite."

Rose looked more interested than Lily would have expected. "Who is sitting up there?"

"The statue? King James. Can you see that he's holding a book? The Bodleian Library is behind you—it receives a copy of every new book ever published. As for the rest of the building…"

Lily listened with half an ear as everyone gathered around to hear Kit talk about the Gothic carving and pinnacles. Bells began ringing from the various towers of Oxford's many colleges, their chimes all different yet harmonious. A beautiful sound. A sound she looked forward to hearing day after day, night after night, when she lived here with Rand, alone in their lovely, brand-new house.

For both their sakes, she hoped everything would work out so they could.

As though sensing her thoughts, he moved closer. When he took her hand again, excitement churned in the pit of her stomach. Though it was growing dark, it would still be hours before he could come to her, hours before they could properly kiss.

She wished she could kiss him properly right now. Or rather, improperly.

Goodness, it was fortunate her family was here in this otherwise empty quadrangle, or else she feared she might shove Rand to the grass and start ripping off his clothes.

One day in Rand's arms and she was turning into a shameless wanton!

"Lie still," Rose muttered.

Wishing she were sharing the bed with Rand instead of her sister, Lily rolled onto her stomach and rearranged her pillow. "I'm just getting comfortable," she said peevishly.

They'd arrived back at the inn to find a very apologetic proprietor. Apparently one of his clerks had miscalculated and rented out one too many rooms, leaving one too few for Lily's family. The most logical pairing, of course, was Rose and Lily together. Rand certainly wouldn't be able to join her here, nor could she join him—at least not without creating a scandal when Rose saw her leave.

Her body throbbed with newfound lust. She'd never imagined how it would feel to want a man, to wait all day, anticipating the night… and then end up aching and alone. It was torture.

Thinking she couldn't wait to be married, she flipped onto her back and sighed. At the foot of the bed, Beatrix sat up and meowed.

"Lily, will you please lie still?"

"All right. I'm sorry." She had to stop thinking about Rand. It had been a long time since she'd shared a bed with one of her sisters—since Violet had lived at home and the three of them had spent nights sharing their secrets. She had a whole lifetime ahead of her with Rand, and this night with Rose should be fun. Perhaps they could regain some of the closeness they'd recently lost.

"Kit is very nicely put together, isn't he?" she asked into the darkness.

"He's handsome enough," Rose admitted in a vast understatement. "It's unfortunate he's not titled."

Lily turned over again to search her sister's face in the dim light from the fire. "He's a famous architect. Goodness, he gets commissions from the king himself! I imagine he can afford to live in a grand style. Why should it matter that he's not titled?"

"Of course it matters." Rose averted her gaze, staring up at the old oak beams in the ceiling. "Violet is a viscountess, and you—soon you'll be a countess and eventually a marchioness. Why should I settle for less?"

"You're the Earl of Trentingham's daughter, which means you could marry a guttersnipe and you'd still be Lady Rose. Besides, if you love a man, it's not settling."

"Well, I'm not in love with Kit, am I? I've barely met the man, and I've no intention of getting to know him better when he's not what I want." Rose rolled away, presenting Lily with her back. "Go to sleep. You have a journey early in the morning."

End of discussion. Lily imagined she could feel Rose's cold calculation rolling off of her in waves.

So much for growing closer.

Deprived of conversation, Lily's thoughts drifted back to Rand. Over the next quarter hour, she tossed and turned, trying to ignore her body's cravings and failing utterly.

"Go to him," Rose finally said.

"Wh-what?"

"Go to him. I won't tell Father or Mum or anyone else. Just go, so I can get some sleep."

"Rose, I—"

"I'll never like the fact that you won him, but it's a fact nonetheless. Go, Lily."

"I—" She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. But it wasn't as though Rand were in the adjacent room. "I'd have to walk outdoors alone in the dark of the night. It isn't safe."

Her sister snorted. "It's fifty feet down an alley. Should anyone approach you, Beatrix will draw blood with her claws, Jasper will nip off the poor soul's toes, and Lady will peck out his eyes. Just go."

Lily didn't have to be told again. Nerves scrambling, she slid from the bed and began throwing on her clothes. "Thank you, Rose."

"You'd do the same for me."

"Thank you anyway." The Ashcroft siblings had always stuck together, but Rose's willingness to cover for her said louder than any words that Lily was well on her way to being forgiven.

She was relieved. And grateful.

But mostly, she was on fire.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"Lily?" Clearly shocked to find her on his doorstep, Rand opened the door wider, then blinked as her three animal friends scampered in past him.

Lily stood on the front step, shivering in the chilly night air but enjoying her surprise. The expression on Rand's face was priceless. The rest of him looked delicious, his hair tousled from sleep, his body wrapped in a dark brown brocade dressing gown tied loosely at his waist.

She wanted her hands on that body. "May I come in?"

"Oh." He blinked. "Of course." Holding a candle with one hand, he wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and drew her inside. As he shut the door, he eyed the assorted creatures. "How the devil did they get to Oxford?"

"I told you, they follow me."

"They follow you," he repeated dryly, as though that explained nothing at all. "What are you doing here?"

"I missed you." She moved closer and slipped her arms beneath the silk dressing gown. It was her turn to be surprised when she felt nothing but bare skin. She skimmed her hands over his back, smiling to herself when he bobbled the candle. "I came to talk about tomorrow. Your father—"

He hushed her with a quick kiss. "I don't even want to think about the old goat, let alone talk about him."

"I was jesting." She molded her body against his, feeling altogether wicked and wonderful. The house smelled of new wood and paint, and Rand smelled of warmth and temptation. "Since you couldn't come to my bed, I decided to come to yours."

His eyes widened, a new glint in the warm gray. "Well, then," he said, his voice turning velvet-smooth as he gazed down at her, "shall we go up to it?"

She suddenly realized what she'd said and how forward it must have sounded. Rose would say something like that and hold her head up, but Lily had just shocked herself speechless.

The look on her face must have amused him, because his lips twitched as he drew her hands from beneath his dressing gown, raised the candle, and motioned her toward the stairs.

Her cheeks burning, she preceded him up the steps.

"I cannot believe you're here," he said from behind her matter-of-factly, as though she hadn't just proved herself a wanton.

"Rose told me to come."

"Rose?"

"Yes, Rose. She couldn't stand my tossing and turning." Lily paused on the bedchamber's threshold. As she stared at Rand's bed, the wicked feelings faded. There was a big difference between sliding into passion in a summerhouse and showing up on a man's doorstep in the middle of the night.

Placing a gentle hand on her back, he urged her inside. "I was tossing and turning myself. Couldn't sleep, so I was puzzling out some old text." He pushed aside a jumble of papers to set the candle on the desk by the door. "But Rose?"

"She's accepting us, Rand." Her gaze was still fastened on the bed. The forest green hangings were pulled back, the sheets invitingly rumpled. "She may not be happy about it, but at least she's coming around. She's not going to hate me all our days."

"I'm so glad."

At the sound of the door slamming shut, she jumped and whirled to face him. "What was that?"

"They're outside."

She put a hand to her racing heart. "Who?"

"Your animals." He grinned. "They cannot come in here. But they're not out in the rain. There's no need to worry—"

"You're impossible." Now that the bed was out of sight, safely behind her back, she was feeling amorous again. She went closer and went on her toes for a kiss. "The animals really don't care."

"I care." He kissed her forehead, not her mouth. "This time I don't want any distractions." His hands on her shoulders, he slowly backed her up. "This time is going to be different." He kept going, his thumbs caressing the sides of her neck, inciting a delicious shiver. "This time—"

The backs of her legs bumped into something.

The bed.

"This time," he concluded, "we'll do it my way."

It was a high four-poster bed with two steps leading up to it. Rand lifted her by the waist and sat her atop the feather mattress.

She swallowed hard. "Your way?"

"My way. Slow and easy…"

The way he said that made her suspect there would be nothing easy about it.

Her suspicions were confirmed when he began removing her shoes. Slowly. And untying her garters. Slowly. And rolling down her stockings. Slowly.

Those hot cravings she'd been feeling—the ones that had driven her to run here, the ones that had prompted her to slide her hands under Rand's robe, to brazenly tell him she'd come to his bed—were returning at an alarming speed.

"Rand?" He looked like he was concentrating very hard, his gray gaze intent on what he was doing, his fingers tracing featherlight patterns on her skin. She quivered. "Do you think you could go a little faster?"

"We did fast yesterday. I told you, I intend to go slow."

"But why?" He was driving her mad. "If we go fast," she argued, "maybe we'll have time to do it twice."

His hands fell away from her as he burst out laughing. She crossed her arms, indignant, wondering which upset her more: him laughing at her expense, or the fact that he'd ceased touching her.

Then he smilingly shook his head and said, "God, I love you." And she wasn't upset at all.

The laughter lingered in his eyes. "My sweet Lily. You seduced me in the summerhouse, but it's my turn tonight. And if you're good, we'll do it twice."

"If I'm good?"

"If you let me do it my way."

His way was exquisite torture. It took him ages just to remove her clothing, and he managed to graze every bit of her skin along the way. By the time he finished, there wasn't an inch of her that wasn't tingling with anticipation.

At last he stood beside the bed and shrugged out of his dressing gown, his body gilded by the dim light of the single candle. He had a runner's long sculpted muscles, all shadowed in stark relief.

She could see he was ready to take her, and she was more than ready to be taken. She licked her lips and raised her arms to him, holding her breath when he eased her onto her back and moved over her.

"Lily." He felt so warm, his weight supported on his elbows, his fingertips dancing on her face. Barely touching, just enough to make her skin tremble in response. "Lily, you make me burn."

"Rand—"

"Hush." His lips grazed her ear, lightly, lightly. Pleasure rippled through her, and heat pooled in her middle. He took an earlobe into his mouth, sucking softly, and the room seemed to spin, rattling her senses.

"Rand—"

"Hush. Be good." His lips trailed down her neck, a warm swath of sensation. He rolled off her to lie next to her, tracing her waist with teasing fingertips while he bent his head to taste her breasts. It was too much at once, especially when he swirled his tongue around one rosy peak and then bit it gently.

She gasped, feeling it harden in response. Feeling him harden against her thigh. She reached down and wrapped her hand around him, eager to find what he felt like…warm velvet over steel. Her heart racing, she moved her fingers experimentally, and his moan made her blood race even faster.

When a scratching came at the door, his moan turned into a groan.

"It's only Beatrix," she whispered. "Ignore her."

He did. His talented mouth on her breasts roused a melting sweetness within her. He nibbled her neck while his hand moved to tease her legs, up and down their length, coaxing them apart, trailing between. His fingertips skimmed her thighs, and currents of desire rippled through her.

Then he kissed her until she was breathless, until she was senseless, until her entire world was consumed with the taste and touch of him. And all that long time his fingers worked closer to where she ached, until they were almost there.

Almost.

Lily touched him everywhere she could reach. He was so very male, his body gloriously hard compared to her softness. Her breathing quickened when his did; her heart pumped faster when she felt his pulse respond to her touch. But his hands and mouth on her remained slow and steady.

A sound of surprise escaped her lips when he rolled her onto her stomach. "Hush, Lily," he said. "Be good."

It was frustrating, because she couldn't touch him now, not really, not the way she wanted to. Her hands fisted at her sides. She felt his lips on the soles of her feet, warm and damp and ticklish, and was astonished to find her whole body was so sensitive. He nipped along her calves, paid homage to the backs of her knees, and nibbled the insides of her thighs, pausing in his upward journey to rain kisses across her bottom.

The ache was becoming unbearable. She squirmed and heard a low chuckle in response, his lips on her skin making the sound vibrate right through her.

Tiny pecking sounds came through the door.

Rand froze. "Lady?"

"Mmm-hmm." Lily came up on her elbows. "Ignore her."

Beatrix's scratching joined the pecking as Rand eased her back down to the sheets. "They seem unhappy. Maybe we should let them in."

"They're fine." She turned over and cupped one of his cheeks with a hand, loving the masculine roughness. "Ignore them. Please."

He smiled, a smile so darkly sensuous it made her breath catch in her throat. He turned his head and kissed her palm, a warm press of his lips as he held her gaze with his. "Be good, now," he said, rolling her back onto her stomach. He climbed over her and straddled her thighs. "I'm not finished."

She sucked in a breath. He was there, hard between her legs, nearly where she wanted him. His fingers danced over her back, massaging, tantalizing, teasing. She quivered beneath him, dying to have him inside her, feeling him there so close.

For a moment—a moment that felt like forever—he raised his hands. Lily waited, waited, her heart beating so hard she was sure he could hear it. Then she felt the sliding tickle of her hair as he swept it to one side, felt him lean forward and place a shivery, soft kiss to her nape. Felt his chest hard and warm against her back, felt his breath wafting over her.

Felt the cool air as he drew away…

…felt his tongue on the base of her spine, a long, hot swipe all the way to her neck.

She trembled uncontrollably and heard little taps on the door.

Jasper, hitting something against it.

And then Rand's heavy sigh. "Maybe we should—"

"Ignore them!" she cried, twisting under him, writhing until she managed to get faceup, until she half sat and grabbed him by the shoulders to pull him down upon her. "Ignore them and kiss me!"

He did, parting her lips, tasting of sin and seduction. She'd asked for kisses, and he kissed her. For what seemed an hour, he only kissed her. He kissed her and kissed her, hot kisses that spoke of possession.

She could touch him now, and she did…until his breath sounded as harsh as her own, until their hearts pounded in tandem, until she thought she might scream…until he rolled to his side, taking her with him, and slipped a hand between her legs.

He cupped her and then stilled.

Feeling an incredible urgency, an indescribable ache, she arched up against his fingers, waiting, waiting, waiting…

And he finally moved his hand.

Slowly. Too slowly. Over and over. And over and over, stroking her with exquisite tenderness, until she heard little cries and realized they were hers, until she wondered if one could die from this overwhelming need…

And then he slipped a finger inside her.

"Rand," she breathed. It was too much. Too, too much. The world spun crazily. He drew out, a dazzling glide of sensation, then plunged in again, making her hips lift off the bed. Again. Again and again until she thought her heart might burst from the pleasure.

And then it did. It burst into countless little pieces, and they hadn't even come back together yet when she felt him move up and slide into her as he covered her cry with his mouth.

He felt so perfect, joined with her, filling her, that tears came to her eyes. When he moved, they moved together. A dance of love, slow and measured and then fast and frenzied, until she burst again, this time taking him with her.

The candle guttered across the room, and the chamber went from dimness to darkness. Lily heard scratching and pecking and tapping, but she was blissfully limp on the bed. "Ignore them," she whispered, the words barely passing her lips.

Feeling his way in the blackness, Rand pressed a kiss to her slack mouth. "You sound tired." She heard a smile in his voice, a smile of pure masculine pride. "Do you still want to do it twice?"

"Oh, yes," she said on a sigh.

"I'm glad to hear it, sweet Lily."

Twice, she thought, would never be enough. But she needed some time to recover first.

As his tongue traced her lips, she decided five minutes would do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"You look very nice, Rand," Lily said the next morning.

Rand blinked. Standing outside the inn while they waited for the rest of her family, he'd been lost in thought, rehearsing in his head the upcoming interview with his father. Now he focused on her, noticing that her pale green dress was quite lovely. The underskirt was white, the stomacher and sleeves sprinkled with little white rosettes.

Very demure and aristocratic. His father would approve.

"Thank you," he said with a smile. "You look very nice, too."

She moved closer, sweeping him with an appreciative glance. "You look even better than at the baptism."

A special occasion, that baptism, and he'd dressed the part. His smile widened at the memory. But the smile turned wry as he suddenly realized he'd dressed for his father today, even going so far as to have hied himself off to a barber early this morning to have his hair properly trimmed.

Ruefully he ran two fingers along his freshly shaved jaw. After all these years, he was still trying to impress the old goat.

The thought stuck in his craw, and he briefly contemplated returning home to strip off his dove gray velvet suit in favor of one of the wool ones he usually wore. But they were running late already.

As was typical with the Ashcrofts, he heard them before he saw them. Along with the family came a valet and two maids and an incredible amount of luggage considering they'd left home for just one night. The trappings of nobility could be cumbersome, to say the least. It took a good bit of time to get everyone and everything settled, during which Rand was reminded why he'd never wanted to be a marquess.

The ride to Trentingham was a loud one with similar rigmarole at the other end. Rand breathed a sigh of relief when he and Lily finally set out for Hawkridge alone.

"How far is it?" she asked, leaning against him in the carriage.

"Not very. A couple of hours downriver."

She glanced up at him, looking surprised. "I wonder, then, why I never met you before Violet's wedding. I thought I'd been to every house within a day's driving distance with my mother and her gifts of perfume."

"There were no women at Hawkridge," he reminded her. "My mother died before you were born. And there were all those years you were at Tremayne, remember? Far away near Wales. Then, soon after you returned, I left for Oxford."

"But surely your father entertains."

"Not since the death of my mother. Even Christmas at Hawkridge is a rather dreary affair, with more attention paid to servants and tenants than any real celebrating."

"It sounds dismal," she said, rubbing the scars on her hand, her eyes apprehensive. "However did you make friends?"

"It wasn't easy." He'd met few young people during his years at home. "If Kit hadn't lived so nearby, I likely wouldn't have had any friends at all."

Lily's apprehension faded, replaced by a look Rand could describe only as resolute. "Well, if we end up living at Hawkridge, things will change."

Rand very much doubted that, but he did allow that Lily had a better chance of influencing his father than he did. He suddenly realized what a good catch she was for a man such as himself: an academic who, until recently, had borne a courtesy title only.

The Earl of Trentingham's daughter. He'd never considered her status before, since he didn't care about such things, but Lady Lily Ashcroft was the sort of wife the Marquess of Hawkridge would approve. He wondered if her mother had been thinking in that direction when she'd insisted Lily come along. He was beginning to suspect Lady Trentingham was a very cunning woman. But he liked her.

Lily yawned and laid her head on his shoulder. "Sleepy?" he asked.

"Mmm-hmm. But yesterday was nice."

He knew she meant last night, but pretended to misunderstand. "Oh, yes, it was very nice. Up until I received the blasted letter and Rowan fell off the scaffolding."

"It was nice after that, too," she protested.

And he realized it had been, even without counting their very nice encounter in the wee hours. "You're right," he said. "The afternoon went very smoothly, all considered. Your parents didn't let Rowan's prank ruin everything. They didn't seem angry."

"Events occur. You take them in stride."

His family hadn't. "They also don't seem upset that you're marrying a professor."

"You're an earl now, too."

"But I wasn't, and they never seemed to care."

"They trust my choice. Besides, they admire you and what you've done with your life."

He'd sensed that. Just walking around the city with them, he'd felt perfectly comfortable. He'd felt like he belonged. "You have a wonderful family."

"My father is half deaf, my mother is an unrepentant gossip, my brother thinks tricking people is a laudable achievement, my sister lusts after the man I love—"

"They're wonderful," he repeated. "You're all so close."

If he'd been envious of that closeness, yesterday had changed that. Because they'd accepted him as though he were one of their own. To them, he wasn't a disappointment.

They were the family he'd never had.

"I'm the luckiest man in the world," he said in a voice made husky by unfamiliar emotion. A day with Lily's family had made clear what he'd missed out on all his life: the laughter, the friendly bickering, the love, that amazing unconditional acceptance.

He wanted, more than ever, to create a family like that with Lily.

In no time at all—or so it seemed to Rand, who'd as soon it took forever—their carriage was turning away from the Thames and rolling up the wide drive to Hawkridge Hall.

"Oh, it's lovely," Lily said softly.

Rand couldn't help thinking she'd probably rather live here, in a mansion on the bucolic banks of the river, than in a smaller house smack in the middle of Oxford.

His gaze swept over the three-story redbrick building. Although its symmetrical H shape was typical of houses built this century, the house was atypical in size and appointments. And the marquess spared no expense to keep it that way. The windows had been replaced since Rand moved away, now the new sash style with double-glazed glass. The mansion was the height of contemporary fashion.

But it sickened him. He had few happy memories of this place.

"It shows no signs of damage," Lily remarked. "Yet your family supported Charles in the war, did they not? How is it that Hawkridge escaped Cromwell's wrath, and so close to London, no less?"

"We have my mother to thank for that. Publicly, she was great friends with Oliver Cromwell and went so far as to entertain him here. Privately, she was an important member of the Sealed Knot."

"What was that?"

"A clandestine organization that aimed to restore Charles to the throne. The members had secret names; my mother was 'Mrs. Gray.' When I was very young, she traveled to the Continent several times as a courier. Many letters went back and forth, always written in code."

"Ah, I see where you inherited that talent for deciphering your brother's diaries."

He grinned. "My mother even concocted an invisible ink that they used. In the Sealed Knot letters, Cromwell was 'Mr. Wright.' While on the surface she supported him, all along she was plotting his downfall."

"She must have been quite a woman."

"She was smart and principled and beautiful. And I suppose she made this home beautiful, too," he added, knowing, in a detached way, that it was. "But I don't want to live here."

"I, too, would prefer to live in Oxford," Lily assured him, sounding sincere.

He hoped she meant those words, because he meant to fight to keep his current life. And with her on his side, he had some hope he'd accomplish that goal. The marquess was sure to adore her.

"But I'll be happy living wherever you are," she added as the carriage rolled to a stop.

He pulled her close for a kiss. "Thank you for that." He dredged up a smile. "All right. Let's get this over with."

He was helping her down from the carriage when the mansion's arched front door yawned wide. His father stood in the opening. The man's gaze swept Lily from head to toe, then swung glaring to Rand.

"What took you so long?" he asked. "Your brother is already buried."

Just hearing that tone of voice, Rand felt, for a moment, like the small boy who'd always quavered in the face of his father's disfavor. The frosty gray eyes missed nothing, assessing him as they used to—and with no more approval. If Rand had harbored an unrealistic hope that the loss of the marquess's elder son would make him look anew at his younger one, those dreams were dashed.

Never mind how carefully he'd dressed; Rand felt slovenly under that gaze. For that moment he was ten again, pining for the man's love, willing to do almost anything to gain that elusive acceptance. But whatever he'd tried had always been for naught, and today was no different.

And he wasn't that small boy anymore.

Patience, he told himself. There was no point in starting out confrontational. The marquess had asked why he'd taken so long, and he would give him a civil answer.

He was opening his mouth to explain that he hadn't been home to receive mail when the man added, "And who the hell is she?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Patience fled, chased away by stunned disbelief. Rand lifted his chin and wrapped an arm around Lily. "This is Lady Lily Ashcroft, the Earl of Trentingham's daughter. We're betrothed and plan to marry soon."

The marquess's shoulders tensed beneath his jet-black velvet suit. "You'll marry her over my dead body."

For a moment, Rand wished he could arrange that.

Though he could feel Lily quaking beside him, her spine remained straight. He met the man's cold gray gaze with one of his own. "Might I request you get to know the lady before you forbid our marriage?"

"My lord," Lily added in a tone both respectful and steady, "I'm from good family, and I am in love with your son."

The marquess's expression didn't soften. "Then you will make him an excellent mistress," he snapped, and turned to go into the house.

"That's enough!" Rand called after him dangerously.

But the stubborn man didn't even glance back.

Appalled, Rand turned to Lily. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter." Her voice was quiet so as not to be overheard, but determination laced every word. "He won't keep us apart."

Rand hadn't known his sweet Lily had so much steel inside her, but he was supremely grateful to find out. "He won't," he agreed, matching her confidence outwardly.

But he knew that no matter how misguided his father's reasons, the man would fight to the bitter end. The Marquess of Hawkridge always got his way. Together, Rand and Lily would have to make sure this time was the exception.

Servants were milling around them, handing down luggage and carting it up the steps. Rand was surprised to find he still recognized most. They smiled, and he did his best to smile back as he drew Lily up the two sets of stone steps and into Hawkridge's imposing great hall.

Arms crossed, the marquess waited inside, eyeing the luggage sitting on the black-and-white marble floor. His expression of disapproval had given way to disbelief. "She cannot be thinking to stay the night."

Rand set his jaw. "Lily and I are betrothed. If she leaves, so do I."

The marquess thought on that a moment, but he'd always been a man who knew which battles were worth fighting. He beckoned to one of the waiting maids. "Etta, put her in the Queen's Bedchamber. For now," he added ominously. After pausing a moment for effect, he also added, "Randal, you'll join me in my study." Without waiting for agreement, he turned to leave.

The maid curtsied and touched a hand to the white cap that covered her gray curls. Rand blinked in shock. His old nurse had been demoted to a housemaid.

"Nurse Etta—" he started.

"You'd best go," she warned, though her voice was kind. Her gaze strayed to the marquess's stiff, retreating back. "I'll take care of your lady."

Lily went off with her head held high. Rand headed for the study, hoping she'd find the Queen's Bedchamber a comfortable place to wait.

The room had acquired the name years earlier, shortly after it had been redecorated for a visit by Queen Catharine of Braganza, King Charles's wife. Though Rand hoped Lily would feel honored to be assigned the chamber, he knew the truth: His father meant her to be intimidated. In anticipation of the queen's using it, the room had been fitted out in a way meant to display the marquess's power.

It also—by no coincidence, Rand was certain—sat as far from Rand's own chamber as physically possible. In the opposite wing, on a different floor.

In another move meant to intimidate, the marquess sat behind his desk, which rested on a raised dais toward the back of his study, and waved Rand toward a chair on the lower level.

Rand dropped onto it, sat back, and crossed his arms. Looking up at his father this way used to make him feel like a contrite child, but he'd come too far to fall for the old goat's tricks.

The marquess was one of the few men Rand knew who wore a periwig every waking hour of every day, even tucked away out here in the countryside. When that gray gaze settled on Rand, he braced, waiting for his father to make mention of his uncovered, chopped-off hair. Then he chided himself. It had been too long for the man to recognize the difference. Or he hadn't noticed. Or he simply didn't care.

Or all of the above.

The marquess wasted no time on preliminaries. "Your brother, as you know, had been betrothed since childhood to Margery. I swore to her father they would marry the day she turned one-and-twenty. That happens to be next week. I intend for you to fulfill that pledge."

Rand felt as though the air had been knocked out of him. He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open, a failing attempt to appear unruffled.

Margery. How could he have forgotten how these developments would impact Margery?

"Where is Margery?"

"In London. I sent her to obtain a proper wardrobe for mourning. She returns tomorrow." The marquess lifted a quill, pristine white lace falling back from his wrist. "I expect you to greet her as befits a husband-to-be."

"I cannot." Rand had washed his hands of the marquess long ago. He wasn't responsible for the man's twenty-year-old agreement. "I'm sorry for Margery, but I'm pledged to Lily."

Not to mention he'd bedded her as well.

"My honor is on the line," the marquess continued, breezing over Rand's refusal. "And the family wealth is at stake."

Looking toward the heavens for patience, Rand waved an arm, the gesture encompassing the overblown glory that was Hawkridge Hall. "I cannot imagine how the family wealth could be in jeopardy."

For once, his father looked almost uncomfortable. "I've never had any reason to discuss family finances with you. But you may as well know that I mortgaged the Hawkridge lands to raise funds for Charles."

Rand knew he meant Charles I, not the current King Charles, and that the funds had gone to support the king's side in the Civil War. The money would have been lost along with the battles, but William Nesbitt had been and still was a loyal Royalist. That he'd done such a thing was hardly surprising.

But his next words were.

"I was on the verge of ruin when Margery came into our lives."

Margery. Rand pictured her young upturned face, her delicate features framed by the palest blond curls. Between her sporadic letters, he hadn't thought of Margery often—he'd avoided thinking of anything at Hawkridge for years—but when he had, they'd been fond thoughts. He thought of her much like a sister.

Never, ever as a potential wife.

"I'm wedding Lily," he repeated. "Soon."

For God's sake, she could be carrying his child.

The marquess dipped the quill and began signing papers while he talked. "As Margery's guardian and eventual father-in-law, I've managed her extensive lands along with Hawkridge's for twenty years. The loss of those lands and income would be devastating, leading to eventual bankruptcy."

One of Rand's hands reached up to find the ends of his once-long hair, then fisted and dropped to his lap. "Surely you exaggerate."

"I do not." The marquess flipped a page.

Rand figured the man's half attention was calculated to make him feel worthless, but it wasn't going to work. He wouldn't let it work.

"Should you refuse to marry Margery," his father continued, "her land will be lost to us, and all of Hawkridge will suffer." At last, he looked up. "All, Randal."

All.

Not only what was left of the family, but the old family retainers. Etta and the other servants. The tenants, the villagers—everyone who depended on Hawkridge for their livings.

Rand knew his father was preying on his sympathies. The old man bore no great concern for the people—he worried for himself, and himself alone. But knowledge of the marquess's machinations did little to mitigate the effect of the threat.

Rand rubbed his palms on his velvet breeches. "I don't care," he said, afraid that he did.

A man didn't turn his back on people who relied on him.

The marquess's expression remained stony and resolute. He signed the paper in front of him, the scratch of the quill loud in the awkward silence.

"Lily has a dowry," Rand said. "Three thousand pounds."

"Three thousand wouldn't begin to make a dent in Hawkridge's needs." The page crackled when he flipped it to look at another. "You may leave now. I have much to do. We'll discuss this again tomorrow."

Rand was dismissed. He rose and walked to the door, then turned back. "Perhaps tomorrow you'll come to your senses."

Though it had often cost him dearly as a boy, he never had learned to resist getting in the last word.

CHAPTER THIRTY

For the first few minutes she was left alone, Lily wandered around the magnificent Queen's Bedchamber, alternating between worrying about what Rand and his father were discussing and marveling at the exquisite furnishings.

She supposed the queen really had graced this room at least once, for it certainly looked like it had been decorated for royalty. Even Lily, whose own family home was worth gawking at, found this chamber astonishing.

The enormous state bed, hung with costly cloth of gold, sat on a raised parquet dais behind a balustrade in the French style. Great poufs of ostrich feathers crowned each of the bed's four posts. The ceiling was elaborate painted plasterwork, the furniture gilt wood. The walls were hung with rich tapestries, and the marble fireplace boasted gilded crowns over the chimneypiece and on the piers.

But above all, the position of the room demonstrated its status. Beyond its windows, as in a royal palace, the gardens and avenues spread out in perfect symmetry, from this, the exact central vantage point.

However, Lily had little inclination to gaze upon Hawkridge's gardens. Her own father's were much more impressive. And while she had no doubt she'd been shown to this chamber in the hope it would convince her of the marquess's wealth and power, having fought Rose—and herself, she admitted—for Rand, she wasn't willing to give him up easily.

Along with the other priceless furnishings, the Queen's Bedchamber contained a lovely rosewood harpsichord. No matter the marquess's intentions, he really couldn't have assigned her to a more perfect room. Smiling in spite of her heavy heart, she sat down to play.

And that was where Rand found her half an hour later.

For a moment, or maybe longer, she'd managed to lose herself in the music. But one look at Rand's face brought her crashing back to reality.

"It didn't go well," she said. A statement, not a question.

He dredged up a smile—a weak, obvious effort. "Everything will be fine. I need to think. I need to…to go off by myself. Sometimes I do that, and I just wanted to let you know."

"All right." But she stood, reaching to catch the stool when she nearly knocked it over. "Where are you going?"

"I just need to run."

"I'll come along—"

"Alone, Lily. I'll be back soon." He took a step closer, close enough to meet her lips with his own. A soft, apologetic kiss. "I promise."

She searched his eyes, her fingers brushing the slight roughness on his cheek. "May I walk you out of the house?"

He shrugged, then silently peeled off his surcoat and tossed it on the bed. His cravat followed. As he strode from the room, he began rolling up his sleeves.

She hadn't taken him for a moody sort of man, but then, she admitted to herself, in truth she hardly knew him. But she knew she loved him. And if he needed some time to himself, how could she begrudge him that? It wasn't as though he were asking to go to another woman.

She followed him from the chamber and down the massive oak staircase, another feature of the mansion that had clearly been built to impress. Beneath the handrails, pierced wooden panels were carved with armor, cannons, muskets, spears, and lances. Trophies of war, their details highlighted by gold and silver leaf.

A display of force and power.

"What did your father say?" she asked Rand, watching his shoulders tense beneath the thin white cambric of his shirt. "Is he demanding you leave Oxford to live here?"

"That minor detail hasn't even been discussed yet." He sighed and paused, waiting for her to catch up. "He's forbidden our marriage."

She ordered herself not to panic. Rand sounded nothing if not resolute. And his father couldn't really prevent them from wedding, could he? They would wish for his blessing, of course, but as a last resort, they could always elope. Especially given that Rand claimed to care little for his inheritance.

As he resumed his descent, she reached for his hand. "Why?"

"My brother was to wed my father's ward, a woman named Margery Maybanks. I told you about her, didn't I? The marquess expects me to honor that commitment."

"Would you not make a poor substitute? She loved your brother, not you."

A short, harsh laugh tore from his throat. "Oh, I doubt she loved Alban. Aside from my father, I'm aware of no one who did." At the bottom of the staircase, he headed across the great hall toward the front door. "Margery's father saved the marquess's life in the Battle of Worcester, and the marquess promised him a boon. A few years later, on his deathbed, the man made his claim: that the marquess raise his motherless newborn daughter here and marry her to his heir on the day she turned one-and-twenty."

A footman opened the door, and they stepped out. After the dark tones that dominated Hawkridge's interior, Lily blinked in the sunshine. "And now you're the heir." She tugged on Rand's hand until he stopped and turned to face her. "Can you refuse?"

"I have refused. But…there's more."

"What—"

He hushed her with two fingers on her lips. "Let me think, Lily. I'll return soon." He bent to replace his fingers with his mouth, but after a quick kiss, he ran off around the corner of the house, his boots loud on the cobbled pavement.

His gait looked determined. She followed slowly, rounding the corner in time to see him cross a lawn and disappear into a tangle of trees. A wilderness garden, perhaps. It seemed to be more planned than the woods that bordered Trentingham, with man-made paths cut through it.

She would honor his request for solitude. She had little interest in the gardens, and should he look back, she didn't want him to think she was tailing him. Instead, she wandered around the perimeter of the house, vaguely following the sounds of barking dogs.

On the west side of the mansion she found a yard, bordered by several small buildings. A bakehouse, a stillhouse, a washhouse, a brewhouse, a dairy. She peeked in the diamond-paned windows of the last, seeing milking pails, pans, skimming dishes, and strainers. Inside, a young woman was bent over a cheese press. She straightened and gave Lily a puzzled look, then offered a tentative smile. Lily thought she would have been pretty if her poor face weren't covered in smallpox scars.

As she walked away, her fingertips went to her own smooth skin. Would Rand still love her if she succumbed to the pox?

She rubbed the scars on the back of her hand, telling herself not to be silly. She would love him no matter what disfigurement he might suffer, for better or worse, as the marriage vows said. And when she locked her eyes on his, she knew, for a fact, he felt the same.

Behind the dairy, another fenced yard was teeming with the dogs she'd heard earlier. Despite her worries, a grin spread on her face. She gathered her skirts to climb the rails.

"They're dangerous," someone said, not unkindly.

She turned to see Etta, the older woman who'd shown her to her room. Etta bore smallpox scars as well, but not nearly as many as the milkmaid, and her large green eyes and curly gray hair made Lily think she had probably been lovely as a young woman.

"I've been sent to look for you," Etta explained.

"By whom?"

"The marquess. He wishes to know your whereabouts."

"Well then, tell him I'm playing with the dogs," Lily said, amazed at her own boldness.

Why, Rose would scarcely recognize her. Loving Rand had given her that newfound strength.

A smile twitched at the corners of Etta's mouth. "If you won't mind my saying, my lady, nobody plays with those dogs."

Lily turned and looked again. They were huge dogs—mastiffs—and there were more than a dozen. But she'd never met a dog she didn't like. Or even more important, one who hadn't liked her.

"Well, then," she said blithely, "it's about time someone did play with the poor creatures."

And ignoring Etta's gasp, she bunched her skirts and climbed over the fence.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

When Rand returned from his run, he headed straight for his old room to wash his face and change his shirt. Then he went in search of Lily. Hoping to hear soothing music as he approached the Queen's Bedchamber, he was dismayed to find the room empty.

Damnation, he should never have left her alone. If the marquess was even now interrogating her…

Rand's stomach went queasy at the thought.

Steeling himself to go find out, he grabbed his surcoat off the bed and shoved his arms into the sleeves. He slipped his cravat back around his neck and strode over to a massive gilt-framed mirror to tie the neat knot he knew the marquess expected. In his rush, his fingers refused to cooperate. He swore at himself.

"Trouble, my lord?" The mirror reflected a woman poking her head through the doorway.

"Hmm?" He turned and, seeing it was Etta, experienced an absurd rush of nostalgia. She'd aged, of course, and she was newly scarred since he'd last seen her, though not too badly. She seemed shorter than he'd remembered. But the placid green eyes were the same.

Those were eyes one could count on. He hadn't thought about Etta in years, and he felt a wave of shame for that. But he hadn't wanted to remember the people here who'd cared for him.

The people who could be hurt if he failed to figure something out.

"Oh, please don't call me my lord, Nurse Etta. You're supposed to call me Randal in a stern tone of voice."

When she laughed, it wasn't an old lady's laugh—it was the one he remembered from his childhood. Nurse Etta may have been stern when it was required, but most times she had been kindly and good-natured.

"Then don't call me Nurse Etta." She came close and took over tying the cravat. "My word, that makes me feel as though I'm still responsible for you three young hellions." She smiled up at him, looking much like the younger woman he remembered, despite the smallpox scars. "I've been plain Etta for years."

"How did that happen?"

"Why so disapproving?" Finished, she patted his chest and stepped back. "When Margery grew into a young lady, I faced the choice of finding another household with small children elsewhere, or taking a different position here. Your father was kind enough to let me stay on."

He'd never expected to hear the words your father and kind in the same sentence, and his expression must have shown it.

"Circumstances change, Randal," she added in that old Nurse Etta tone of voice. "It's up to us to accept them and move on."

He suspected those words were directed to him and his current situation, but he didn't want to hear them right now. "I'm looking for Lady Lily."

"A lovely young woman." She bustled over to the bed and began straightening a coverlet that didn't need to be straightened. "She's outside playing with the dogs."

"What dogs? You cannot mean…no…"

She plumped a pillow, then looked up. "Yes. The marquess's dogs."

That was worse than learning Lily was with his father. His heart pounding, Rand headed outside at a run.

But when he reached the enclosure, he told himself he should have known better. He stood for a moment just watching. Lily was fine, if covered in dog slobber. In fact, she seemed to be in her element.

She had a fawn-colored dog fetching a short stick and a brindle dog playing tug-of-war with a longer one. Two more dogs seemed, miraculously, to be waiting their turns for attention. Another few were simply ignoring her, but that in itself was a wonder.

Some of the hounds stood as tall as her shoulder, and they were all trained to fight, bred mainly for their fierceness. Except the marquess, everyone on the estate was wary of the beasts, Rand included.

Thinking it might be more dangerous than running into a burning barn, he climbed into the enclosure and wove his way through the excited animals to Lily.

She glanced over at his approach, then focused on the brindle dog. "Let go," she commanded. The canine dropped his end of the stick, ending the playful tug-of-war.

Rand was unsurprised. Animals always listened to Lily. "Thank you for your patience," he said, drawing near.

She shrugged, clearly unhappy that he'd run off. But she seemed unwilling to make trouble, either. She tossed the shorter stick and watched the fawn-colored dog chase after it. "I understand," she said quietly.

Hurrying back with the wood, the mastiff sideswiped Rand and made him stagger. The mass of these beasts was amazing; not a one of them weighed less than he did. "This isn't really safe," he told her. "They're very aggressive."

"Balderdash. They were starving for attention." With a swipe of its huge pink tongue, the hound licked her smack on the face. She tossed the stick again. "You should put some thick, knotted rope in here. They'd enjoy playing with it, chewing on it. And that tree is a hazard." She waved toward one corner. "Those apples are exactly the right size to get lodged in their throats. I'm surprised none of them have choked."

He shifted on his feet. "I'm sure my father knows what he's about. He's been breeding the monsters for years."

"Monsters? I thought you said you were a dog person."

He felt himself turning red. "These don't count. I prefer the small, fluffy sort."

Reclaiming the stick from between the dog's big teeth, she appeared to be suppressing a laugh. "Have you ever had a small, fluffy dog?"

"No. But I used to look at these and wish for one."

"They can be meaner than these. We shall have to try to locate a sweet one for you." She dropped the wood to the ground and finally met his gaze. "So tell me the rest."

"Can we get out of here first?"

"I suppose." She patted a couple of hounds on their heads before bunching her skirts in a hand. As she climbed the fence, the dogs began howling. When Rand went to follow, one beast whacked him with its tail, a stinging blow he half suspected was deliberate.

He supposed he deserved it.

When they were safely beyond the fence, he took Lily's face in both hands and kissed her, relieved when he felt her melt against his body. "I'm sorry for running off," he told her. "It's a bad habit."

Apparently having forgiven him, she smiled. "I hope it's your worst."

"Oh, it is, I assure you. Other than this one oddity, I'm a perfect companion."

"Those are perfect companions." She gestured toward the dogs. But she was still smiling. "Tell me everything."

Feeling better than he had in hours, he slipped an arm around her waist and walked her into the gardens. "I don't care what my father wants, Lily. I won't give you up for anything. Anything."

She snuggled closer against him. "Tell me the rest. Your father has pledged to marry Margery to his heir, and now you are his heir. What else?"

"Margery's a commoner, but an heiress. She inherited a vast estate. Land that my father has been managing for twenty years."

"And?"

"He claims that Hawkridge will bankrupt without the income from that land. He contends he was close to losing everything when Margery came along. He said he mortgaged Hawkridge to the hilt to support Charles during the war."

"Would he have?"

"What?"

"Risked his estate for the king?"

He blinked. "Of course. Did your father not do the same?"

"It was my grandfather at the time. And no." Her father's daughter, she plucked dead leaves off the hedges as they walked. "Grandpapa sent money, but no more than he felt he could spare. And he never went off to fight, nor did he send his son. While we waited out the war and Protectorate at Tremayne, they were both right there along with us. Grandpapa always said he valued family above the monarchy."

A different way of thinking, but Rand liked it. "I suspect the marquess would have called him a coward. But if he hadn't gone off to war, he would never have been indebted to Margery's father. And I wouldn't be in this mess today."

"We wouldn't be in this mess," she corrected gently. "We'll find a way out together."

In that moment, his love for her increased tenfold. He couldn't remember when anyone had supported him so unconditionally. In order to persevere, he'd always needed to find the strength within himself. But now he could depend on—lean on—Lily. Those narrow shoulders were deceptively strong.

In the shade of a spreading tree he stopped, turning her toward him to meet her mouth. "I love you, Lily Ashcroft," he murmured against her lips.

"And I, you." Her hands slipped under his coat, and she leaned back to look up at him. "What else? There's more, I can tell."

"You're a dangerous woman." He chuckled and kissed her on the nose before sobering. "The maid the marquess assigned to you, Etta…"

She frowned and took his arm to resume walking. "She's a kind sort."

"She used to be my nurse, and yes, she's very kind." He hadn't expected to find anything he cared for here at Hawkridge. Or anyone. "She—and others—made my childhood here bearable."

A bee buzzed over their heads, then flew off. "You worry for them," she said with the sort of compassion that made her Lily. "Not for your father, not for Hawkridge the estate, but for Hawkridge's people."

"The old family retainers."

"And the tenants and villagers, too, I imagine. There must be dozens of people who depend on Hawkridge for their livelihoods."

"Hundreds." Pulling her close, he buried his face in her fragrant hair. "Oh God, Lily. As much as I don't want to jump to the marquess's command, as much as I cannot imagine giving up my hard-won professorship, as much as I cannot stand to think of losing you—absolutely won't consider losing you—"

His voice broke.

"You also cannot imagine letting all these people down," Lily finished for him, drawing back.

Capturing his gaze, she caught his hands in both of hers.

Devastation.

There was no other word to describe the way she felt. A hole had opened in her middle, a bottomless pit, sucking every shred of her newfound happiness into its void.

Tears threatened as she squeezed his fingers, trying to draw strength from his very bones.

He pulled one thumb from her grip to rub it over the scars on the back of her hand. She searched his eyes, dark gray with pain. "There must be another way," she said. He looked so steady. He was her rock. Rocks did not up and disappear. "Besides meek acceptance of your father's dictates, there must be another way."

Clearly wanting to believe her, he nodded—but he didn't look convinced. "I meant what I said, Lily. I won't give you up for anything. But I ran, and then I walked, and yet I couldn't think—"

"There's my marriage portion." She drew him to sit beside her on a wooden bench.

"I told him about that," Rand admitted, looking guilty.

"As you should have. It will be yours as soon as we wed."

With a gentle hand, he pushed her hair off her face. "I don't feel as though it necessarily should be. I didn't earn it. Everything else I have, I've earned."

"It's the way the world works, Rand. I vow, you're one of the few men I've met who wouldn't run to the altar for that sort of money." Yet more proof he was special. "What did he say?"

"He said, and I quote, it 'wouldn't make a dent in Hawkridge's needs.'"

She nodded, unsurprised. Three thousand pounds was a respectable sum for a dowry, but a man of the marquess's stature wouldn't face bankruptcy for a lack of that amount. "Do you expect an additional ten thousand would make a difference?"

He blinked. "Ten thousand?"

"My inheritance. I've told you about it, remember? Grandpapa left me ten thousand pounds—"

"Ten thousand pounds?" The look on his face made her realize she'd never mentioned the amount, only discussed what she planned to do with it. "I never thought about…I remember now that Violet was left that much money, but she's the eldest…it never occurred to me…"

Sudden understanding stole over his expression.

"Is that what Rose was talking about that day in the summerhouse?" he said, looking incredulous. "Her inheritance? I assumed she was counting on her dowry and planning to wheedle the rest out of your father. I never for a minute believed she'd actually deliver on such a sum."

"Not even Rose makes promises she cannot keep," Lily said, feeling a fresh stab of guilt when she remembered her own broken promise. But it was a little stab, because she knew she and Rand belonged together, and because she also knew that all her anguish of the past few weeks was inconsequential compared to what they were facing now. "Yes, we were each left ten thousand pounds. The money won't be mine until I turn twenty-one, but perhaps…no, I'm certain my father will allow me to have it early. We can give it to your father, to save Hawkridge, and then we'll be able to marry."

Rand looked stunned. "You had plans for that money. You were going to build a home for stray animals. And use the rest of your funds to run it for many years."

She swallowed a lump in her throat. "So I'll find another way," she whispered. "I love animals, but I love you more."

His eyes grew suspiciously glossy. She'd never seen a man cry. She moved onto his lap, kissing those eyes, his nose, his cheeks. "How much is Margery's fortune?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe more. But if the marquess cannot save Hawkridge with thirteen thousand pounds, he's not the man he pretends to be." When he kissed her back, she felt his lips curve into a smile. "It should certainly keep Hawkridge from ruin and set it on the road to recovery, and then I'll be able to persuade him to bless our marriage."

She smiled, too, and kissed him again, thrilling when he deepened the caress. She would never get enough of this, enough of him. Her worries fled and her head was filled with only Rand.

But then a thought intruded and her heart plunged. She broke the kiss. "What about Margery?"

"What about Margery?"

"We need to consider her, too, don't you think? After all, she just lost her betrothed, and she's expecting to marry you."

He tensed for a moment, but then relaxed and kissed her again. "What my father expects and what Margery expects are two different things. She hasn't seen me in eight years. I'm certain she will think me no great loss. With her fortune, she can find herself a much better man. Someone important."

"You're an earl," she reminded him. "And someday you'll be a marquess."

"But at heart, I'm a professor." He skimmed a finger over the dent in her chin. "That you would offer me your inheritance…" His eyes glazed over again. "It's overwhelming. And in the face of that generosity, I just know that everything will turn out fine."

Lily wished she could be so confident.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Like the rest of the house, the dining room was beautiful. Lily had glimpsed an enormous, lavish banqueting hall upstairs, but this chamber was much more intimate.

As Rand walked her in, her heels clicked on the two-toned parquet floor. She stopped to run a hand over the patterned design on the walls, surprised to find it was gold stamped on brown leather. "It looks like gilded wood!" she exclaimed.

"The leather is supposed to absorb the smells of food."

She'd never heard of such a thing. "It's lovely. All of Hawkridge Hall is lovely."

"It's a lovely prison," he muttered back darkly. "It was my prison for fourteen years, and I've no wish to return."

In opposition to the prison that was Hawkridge Hall—a prison designed and paid for by his father—the Oxford house was one-hundred-percent Rand's. A symbol, Lily suspected, of his hard-won independence.

"I want to live in your new house, too," she assured him. Kit had told her that he and Rand had spent months designing it before the cornerstone was laid, because Rand had wanted every square foot to be perfect. And it was. "It's so modern, so simple and classic compared to this mansion. And so empty. I'm so looking forward to filling it over time, making it ours." She was about to add more when Rand's eyes widened in alarm. She swung around to see his father. "Oh! Good evening, my lord."

"My lady," he grunted. "Shall we be seated?"

Lily wondered how much the man had heard as they all took their places at the oval cedarwood table, the marquess seating himself at the opposite end from his son.

There were eighteen matching caned chairs around the table in this "family" dining room, and in Lily's opinion, a family sat together to better enjoy each other's company. At least her family did. Mentally shaking her head, she took a chair beside Rand rather than one in the middle—then pretended not to notice when two footmen had to scramble to move her table setting.

Being not so nice was feeling better and better.

Supper was an awkward affair. The marquess was dressed in black mourning and seemed offended that Rand was not. Other than a few minutes of desultory conversation about the man's beloved mastiffs, Lily couldn't get him to talk about anything. Both she and Rand were reluctant to bring up Margery or marriage, so the time passed mostly in silence punctuated by the clinking of Hawkridge's custom-designed silverware.

Though the house was magnificent, there was something about it Lily didn't like. Something dark and forbidding. Maybe it was the deep colors on the walls and all the somber, oak-framed paintings. Maybe it was the studied formality. Or maybe it was just that she'd never been anywhere before where she'd felt so very unwelcome.

When the meal finally drew to a close, Rand pushed back his chair. "Lily plays the harpsichord beautifully," he said as a sort of invitation.

"I have work to do," the marquess replied and left the room.

While Lily wished Rand and his father would act more like a family, in truth she felt mainly relief. "When are you going to tell him about my inheritance?" she asked.

A footman entered to clear the table, and Rand cleared his throat. "Would you care to walk in the gardens?"

Holding her tongue, she went with him outside.

He led her through the more formal gardens and into an area of grass walks lined with hornbeam hedges and field maples that enclosed many small, private gardens. The late-night summer sun was sinking, but not yet so low that she couldn't see and appreciate the beauty of the individual compartments, each of which contained not only a variety of rather wild-growing plants, but also a surprise. Some hid copies of famous statuary, one offered a sundial, and another a cozy bench for two. The one Rand led her into held a tiny round gazebo.

A narrow seat curved around the inside. The structure was so small that when they settled across from each other, their knees touched.

Rand reached to take Lily's hands. "We won't be overheard here. He has spies."

"Spies? I don't think—"

"You always look for the good, sweet Lily," he interrupted. "And you don't know him," he added, leaning close to press his lips to hers.

The warm caress set butterflies to fluttering in her stomach. She wondered if he'd come to her tonight in his father's house. Part of her was horrified at the notion, but another part, a much larger part, hoped very much that he'd risk it.

Now that she knew, really knew, what it could lead to, it seemed a single kiss was all it took to set her blood on fire.

She struggled to pull herself together. "When are you going to tell him he can have my money?"

Lady flew into the gazebo's opening and landed at their feet, but Rand didn't seem to notice let alone recognize the bird. His hands tightened on Lily's. "I'll tell him tomorrow. After I talk to Margery."

It was the first hint she saw that he suspected this might not all work out as planned. Suddenly her stomach wasn't filled with butterflies. More like lead.

What if Margery wanted to marry him? Rand had said Margery had been raised right here at Hawkridge. With him. Was it such a stretch to believe she might have come to love him?

He was, after all, utterly lovable. Generous and caring, strong and successful, self-sufficient where it showed, but with that hurt little boy hidden inside. What woman could truly know him, as Margery must, and not wish to wrap him in her arms and heal that hurt?

And with both Lord Hawkridge and Margery against her, would she, Lily, stand a chance?

She tried to search Rand's eyes, but the light was failing outside, and here in the gazebo it was even darker. "What if she wants to marry you, Rand?"

"She won't."

"But what if she does?"

He scooted around the circular bench until his thigh rested against hers, feeling warm even through their clothes. "I'm marrying you. No matter what the marquess wants. No matter what Margery wants. I love you. You, Lily. And do you realize…you may even now be carrying my child?"

A tiny gasp escaped her lips. She hadn't realized. Of course, she'd known it was a possibility, but she hadn't thought about it. She'd had no time. It had been only twice, over two short days, and so much else had happened…

And at the time, she'd been sure they were marrying anyway, so it hadn't really mattered.

But now it did.

She laid a hand on her middle. "Oh goodness, Rand, what if I am?"

"We'll love it, of course. Her." He grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the night. "She'll have dark hair and gorgeous blue eyes, just like you. In truth I'd rather have some time alone with you first, but if a child comes, well, it would be meant, would it not? And we'll love her—"

"You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?"

"I have, in the short time since we first loved. I'll admit the idea took some getting used to, but—"

"But what happens if you have to marry Margery?" Panic was rising in Lily's chest, into her throat, a lump that seemed to be choking her.

She stared blindly at the ground between their feet. Her family motto might be Question Convention, but that didn't mean she wanted to be so unconventional as to raise a child alone.

"Can you not see?" Rand touched her chin, that special spot that usually made her shiver, but not now. When she didn't look up, he sighed. "Lily. This is the best thing that could happen. If you're with child, the marquess will have to allow us to marry."

She wished she could believe that, but the Marquess of Hawkridge didn't strike her as the sort of man who felt he had to do anything. She tried to swallow the lump, failing miserably.

Rand slid a hand into her hair and tilted her head until she met his eyes. "Stop worrying. Your money will save Hawkridge and ensure everyone's future. We'll marry and live happily ever after."

She hoped so, and when he kissed her, she believed him for a moment. But when he stopped, she couldn't help wondering if he was wrong.

Her life so far had been happy and uneventful, like one of the baskets her sister used for flower arrangements, perfectly woven. Was this where it would unravel? Was losing Rand the price she would pay for disregarding her sister's feelings? For breaking a promise? For being selfish instead of nice?

"Now," he said, his tone changing to one that implied the matter was settled, "since the marquess is uninterested in entertainment, will you play the harpsichord for me alone?"

"In my bedchamber? I don't think your father's household would feel that's proper. You said he has spies."

He laughed as he drew her up and out of the gazebo, linking his arm with hers. "There's a second harpsichord in the north drawing room. But I will come to you tonight. In your bedchamber. And damn the spies."

Crossing the gardens, she laughed, too.

Things couldn't be as dire as they seemed. She and Rand were just too perfect together.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Upstairs in Hawkridge Hall, the second harpsichord was even more beautiful than the first, all inlaid with different colored woods.

"Johannes Ruckers," Lily breathed, reading the name painted above the keyboard.

"You know him?"

"Not personally." She grinned at the mere idea. "But Flemish harpsichords are said to make the most beautiful music, especially those built by the Ruckers family."

"Try it," he said, seating himself in an amazing chair that was gilded, silvered, and painted in marine colors to suggest dolphins sporting in the ocean.

She sat on the petit point stool and ran her fingers experimentally over the keys, enjoying the rich sound of the rare instrument. A small smile curved her lips as she launched into the tune she'd been practicing.

Rand smiled in return, tapping a toe in time to the music. Until he bolted out of the chair. "Where did you learn that?"

She continued playing. "I taught it to myself. Worked it out, I mean. As a surprise for you. It's the tune you often hum, isn't it?"

"Do I?" His lips twitched. "Perhaps I do, from time to time."

He hummed along for a few bars, then leaned an elbow on the harpsichord and set his chin in his hand. His head was nearly level with hers, his eyes commanding her to look up.

"What?" she asked.

He grinned. "Do you know the words?"

"Does it have words?"

"Most assuredly."

"Well then, sing them, won't you?"

"Start over at the beginning," he said with an enigmatic smile.

When she did, he began singing.

"Come my honey, let's to bed,

It is no sin, since we are wed;

For when I am near thee by desire,

I burn like any coal of fire."

Rand's voice was so rich that Lily found herself transfixed. She didn't register the actual words. Just the tone, the depth…the sound seemed to go right through her, into her, warming her.

She couldn't care less where she lived, she thought dreamily. Hawkridge, Oxford, a hovel…if only Rand would sing to her every night, she'd be happy all her days.

He raised a brow. "This next verse is yours."

Her fingers still picking out the jaunty tune, she smiled. "Even if I knew the words, I cannot sing. You sing it."

"Hmm…" He raised his voice an octave and warbled a bit as he continued.

"To quench thy flames I'll soon agree,

Thou art the sun, and I the sea,

All night within my arms shalt be,

And rise each morn as fresh as he."

Lily giggled at his game attempt to sound like a woman. She caught a few of the words and thought she knew why Rand liked this song. The woman wanted to spend the night in the man's arms—and goodness, did she identify with that.

"The final part is supposed to be sung together," he said.

"Is it?" She continued playing, her fingers flying over the keys. "I'm listening," she said, determined to pay attention to the lyrics this time.

One of his boots tapped in rhythm as he waited for the right place in the music.

"Come on then, and couple together,

Come all, the old and the young,

The short and the tall,

The richer than Croesus,

And poorer than Job,

For 'tis wedding and bedding,

That peoples the globe."

Lily's fingers stilled as she gasped. "Couple together? Wedding and bedding? Whoever wrote a song about that?"

"Anonymous. He writes a lot of songs." The mischievous glitter in Rand's eyes belied his mock-serious tone. "Are you scandalized?"

"Yes. No." She laughed at herself—no need to play coy with Rand. "Well, maybe I'm intrigued. Would you know more songs like this one?"

"This one is mild—the couple is married, after all." He raised a roguish brow. "I know hundreds, most of them much worse."

"Hundreds?"

"Well, I cannot remember them all. But I have a book."

"A book?" What a sheltered life she'd led. "Someone wrote these down?"

His eyes sparkled with undisguised mirth. "Oh, yes, with the music and all. The book is called An Antidote Against Melancholy, and I understand it sells very well. Let me see if I can remember another."

He hummed beneath his breath for a while, then he nodded.

"As Oyster Nan stood by her tub,

To shew her vicious inclination;

She gave her noblest parts a scrub,

And sigh'd for want of copulation."

Lily gasped again and felt heat rush into her cheeks. Feeling both a bit naughty and more lighthearted than she'd have thought possible earlier, she began picking out the simple tune while he sang another verse.

"A vintner of no little fame,

Who excellent red and white can sell ye,

Beheld the little dirty dame,

As she stood scratching of her belly."

He stopped there.

"That cannot be all," she protested, still playing and insanely curious as to how the story might end—not to mention what titillating words might be used to tell it.

Rand walked behind her, knelt down, and slipped his arms around her waist. Sweeping her hair aside, he nuzzled her neck. "Do you want to hear the rest?"

She could but nod.

He sang softly by her ear.

"From door they went behind the bar,

As it's by common fame reported;

And there upon a Turkey chair,

Unseen the loving couple sported;

But being called by company,

As he was taking pains to please her;

I'm coming, coming, Sir, says he,

My dear, and so am I, says she, Sir."

She stopped playing and turned on the stool to face him. "Now," she said, "I'm scandalized."

"Are you? You're pink." He grinned. "I like you scandalized."

"I want to see the book."

He laughed, clearly tickled by her reaction. "It's packed away with everything else I had to store from my old house. You'll have to wait until we move to Oxford."

The playfulness suddenly drained out of her. "Will we?"

"Yes." He rose, pulling her up with him. "Yes, we will. Tomorrow I'll talk to Margery, and then to the marquess. And then we'll reclaim our lives. I want no part of this." He waved an arm, encompassing the mansion, the estate, the title—everything.

"I just want you," she said. "No matter who or where you are. Professor, earl, marquess, Hawkridge, Oxford…I don't care. I care only that we're together."

He searched her eyes for a long, tense moment, and then he yanked her against him and crushed his mouth to hers.

This was what mattered, she thought wildly—this heat, this overwhelming need. This longing to share bodies and lives. Where was just a tiny, insignificant detail.

His tongue swept her mouth, a declaration of sheer possession. She pressed against him, her arms going around him, beneath his coat, scrambling to get under his shirt. With a groan, he broke the kiss and lifted her into his arms.

The Queen's Bedchamber was just around the corner. In no time at all, he was laying her on the cloth-of-gold coverlet and reaching for the tabs that secured her stomacher. Her heart hammered beneath where his fingers were feverishly working. Her entire body tingled with anticipation.

And then she realized.

"Rand. We cannot."

His fingers didn't even falter. "We cannot what, love?"

As he tossed aside the stomacher and reached for her laces, she sat up and pushed at his hands. "We cannot risk starting a child. If we haven't already, I mean. Your father…what if he doesn't agree to our plan? What if Margery doesn't? What if you have to marry her, Rand?"

"Bloody hell." His hands went limp, and he dropped to sit beside her, jarring the mattress with his sudden weight. After a moment, he turned to look at her. "Nobody can force me. Not even the marquess. You're going to be my wife."

"But what if—"

"I'll never let you go."

"Never say never," she quoted softly.

The light went out of his eyes.

They were silent a long while, their breathing sounding harsh in the still room.

"No," he said at last. "This time I say never."

She drew a deep, steadying breath, then nodded. She had to believe him. Their love was too strong not to find a solution.

Still…

"I'd feel better if we waited," she whispered. "But if you could just hold me tonight…"

He wrapped her close.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

"Lily?" Rand whispered into the darkness.

No answer.

How could she sleep? He'd been restless all night, holding her tight, savoring her soft warmth and at the same time gritting his teeth against the need that raged through his body.

Sleeping with Lily—only sleeping—was proving the most exquisite torment. Worse, he wasn't sleeping at all. His mind kept turning over all the possibilities, all the ways their plans could go awry.

When he'd left Hawkridge at fourteen, Margery had been all of seven. Visits during his university years had been sporadic and infrequent—he'd preferred to spend school breaks with Ford's family when possible. His last time home, he'd been twenty and Margery thirteen.

He'd known Margery the child. He'd been acquainted with Margery the girl. But Margery the woman was a stranger.

What if he were wrong? What if Margery the woman did want to marry him? She'd lived under the influence of the marquess all these years…

Something shifted at the foot of the bed. At first he thought it was Lily's toes, but then a warm little weight settled across his feet and began vibrating.

A cat. He'd lay odds it was Beatrix, somehow found her way here to Hawkridge. And he'd wager his new house that if it weren't so dark, he'd see Jasper and Lady on the windowsill.

He had a cat on his feet. And its lily-scented owner in his bed. He wasn't sure which made him more uncomfortable.

Then Lily moved against him, and he was sure. More than sure. "Bloody hell," he murmured.

"Hmm?" came her sleep-slurred voice. "Is something wrong? Are you feeling badly?"

"No, just frustrated." He half chuckled, half groaned. "Are you sleeping?"

"I was," she said with a patient sigh, adding guilt to his list of discomforts. "Are you worried?"

"Of course…not."

She rolled over to face him, touching fingers to his face, sweeping hair off his cheek. "Everything will turn out fine."

Her eyes looked black in the darkness but earnest nonetheless. "How do you know?"

"You told me. And I believe you." She gave him a sleepy kiss before her head fell back to the pillows. "Sleep, Rand. I'll still be here in the morning."

Cradling her close, he stared into the interminable night. Margery would be here in the morning, too.

Lily saw no indication that spies had reported last night's sleeping arrangements to Rand's father. He'd breakfasted before them—Rand had risen late—and closeted himself in his study. Neither did he appear when Lily and Rand heard a vehicle roll up the drive and hurried outside to meet it.

As they stepped onto the cobbles, a footman swung the carriage door wide, and an oval face appeared in the opening.

Dressed in black mourning, Margery looked dazed. She was a pale woman, ethereal almost, and Lily imagined that her recent ordeal had made her even more so. It wasn't every day a woman lost her betrothed to violence.

Lily could hardly conceive of how she'd feel should such a thing happen to Rand. To be planning a life and have it snatched from her so suddenly…well, she was certain she'd look pale, too. Margery currently stood in the way of Lily and Rand's happiness, and Lily had been half expecting to resent her on sight. But now she could feel only sympathy.

Even in her grief, the woman was beautiful. Her hair, so light it was nearly white, framed her face in perfect curls. Her flawless skin looked translucent, and her eyes were a startling deep green. Set off by Margery's pale loveliness, they looked huge. And very, very disturbed.

Lily's heart went out to her…until the woman spotted Rand and her delicate face lit up. Then Lily's heart plunged to her knees instead.

Rand helped Margery down the carriage steps, where she promptly burst into tears, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his shoulder.

Lily stood by while the man she loved awkwardly patted the other woman's back. "Margery. Ah, Margery."

"Randy," Margery choked out, gripping him harder.

He'd told Lily that Margery hadn't loved Alban, but it was obvious she did love Rand. Watching them together was more than Lily could bear. She tapped him on the shoulder. "I'll be playing with your father's dogs."

"Lily—"

"No. You need to talk. If I'm not with the dogs, look for me down by the river."

Resolutely she walked away, hoping she wasn't walking out of Rand's life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"Randy."

Despite the worried look on Lily's face, and Margery's obvious distress, Rand smiled at her use of the childhood name. Life might have been miserable back when he was known as Randy, but it had also been simpler. And this woman had never been part of the misery.

"Margery." He squeezed her shoulder, feeling responsible for her happiness, the same way he'd felt when she came to Hawkridge as an infant when he was seven. "Whatever's wrong, we'll make it right."

It seemed the old bonds were still strong, like with so many others on the estate. How could he have ignored them all these years? And if the worst came to transpire, could he walk away again, abandon them in their need?

He knew he couldn't.

"Shall we go inside?" he asked her.

With an obvious effort, she controlled her tears. "Is your father at home?"

"He's in his study."

"Then no. I'm not ready to see him. Can we just walk?"

"Of course." One arm around her shoulders, he drew her toward the gardens. As they rounded the corner of the house, his gaze drifted toward the dog enclosure, but he didn't see Lily.

Heading toward the grassy paths where he'd walked with Lily last night, he sighed. He wouldn't lose her. That was unthinkable. But for now, he had to concentrate on Margery. She needed him, too.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he began carefully.

"Alban?" To his shock, she practically snorted. "It was a relief to see him put into the ground." She dashed the wetness from her eyes.

"Then…you're not crying because of him?"

"God, no." She took a deep breath, looking better already. Some color was returning to her cheeks. "Alban was a cruel man. He was cruel even as a boy; surely you remember that." She shuddered, perhaps remembering things that Rand would rather not know. "I never wanted to marry him."

"Then why did you agree?"

"It was my father's last wish. Not that that stopped me from begging to get out of it. But Uncle William would hear none of it."

The marquess wasn't really her uncle, but she'd called him that since babyhood. To Rand, it had always sounded too friendly a name for the man.

In a sheltered area between two rows of trees, she stopped. "Randy…"

When she hesitated, he turned to her and smiled. "No one calls me that anymore, you know."

Her own smile was wan, but there. "Shall I call you Professor? Or, oh, how could I have forgotten? My lord earl." She executed an absurd, formal curtsy.

"Rand will do," he told her, glad to see the old Margery peeking through all the misery.

"Rand, then," she repeated, growing serious again. "I shall try to remember, but you'll have to remind me if I forget. Rand…I…are you aware that Uncle William expects me to marry you now?"

"He's told me as much," he answered, suddenly apprehensive.

She resumed walking, absently trailing one hand along a hedge as she went by. "Who was that woman with you?"

"Lady Lily Ashcroft, the Earl of Trentingham's daughter."

"She's very beautiful."

"I think so." He watched her elegant fingers skim the leaves. Margery was beautiful, too, but in a fragile sort of way. She was taller than Lily and not as fine boned, but Margery would never allow dogs to slobber all over her. She wouldn't climb fences or laugh at ribald songs, either. Margery could be flirtatious and saucy, but beneath it all, she was a very proper young woman.

Well, she'd been raised in the Marquess of Hawkridge's household, Rand reminded himself. It was a wonder she had any spunk left in her at all.

She stopped again. "Why is Lady Lily here?"

"She…ah…well, when I received the summons from the marquess, it said only that—"

"Are you in love with her?"

He met her gaze. There was no sense in lying—the truth would surely be obvious anyway. "Yes," he said. "I am."

"Thank God."

He blinked, nonplussed. "Pardon?"

"I don't want to marry you, Randy. I mean, Rand." A small smile curved her lips, then faded. "I didn't want to marry your brother, and I don't want to marry you. I love you like a sister. Not a wife."

"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that."

"Oh, I imagine you're just as relieved as I am to hear it from you." Turning to walk back toward the house, she slanted him a sidelong glance. "Did you truly believe I love you that way?"

"I didn't think so," he said. "But I wasn't sure, and many wed for alliance, not love, and the marquess wanted—and Lily worried—"

He stopped, humiliated to find himself babbling.

When a student babbled, he accused the ninnyhammer of being unprepared. Which Rand was, at the moment. Woefully unprepared to deal with this—love, pressure from his family, responsibilities he'd never wanted nor thought would be his…all of it.

They reentered the formal gardens, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. "Well," he said in an attempt to lighten the mood for both of their sakes, "you cannot blame me for wondering if you might, after all, be besotted. I did, if you'll remember, grace you with your first kiss."

That earned a good-natured smirk. "I don't remember 'grace' being an applicable description. And if I recall correctly, it was your first kiss as well. You seemed to be concerned about going off into the world an inexperienced man." Her green eyes perhaps a bit more lively than before, she glanced over at him. "Have you gained any experience, Randal Nesbitt?"

"Oh, in the past fourteen years I've kissed a woman or two. And you?"

"Besides your odious brother at his insistence?" She looked as though the memory made her gag. But then her features softened. "I'm in love with Bennett Armstrong."

"Bennett Armstrong?" He frowned, trying to remember. "Is he not a scrawny boy of ten?"

In spite of her despondency, a little chuckle bubbled up. "He was when you left. He's four-and-twenty now. And not scrawny, I can assure you."

Her dreamy gaze told Rand she had the same feelings for Bennett that he had for Lily. Or a shred of them, anyway. He had a hard time believing most people lived with these strong emotions.

He attempted to picture a grown-up Bennett Armstrong. "His father is a baron, yes?"

"Bennett is the baron now. His father died when the smallpox raged through the county. Three years ago, that was."

That explained Etta's new scars, and the ones he'd seen on other old family retainers. "You never wrote me about the smallpox."

Margery shrugged. "I didn't think you'd care."

He hadn't cared, not then. Guilt ate at his insides.

"Bennett is a wealthy baron," she continued. "His father left him gold and estates. I'm certain my own rich but untitled father would have been pleased to see me happily wed to such a man, no matter that Bennett isn't an earl like Alban. Like you," she corrected herself. "Yet I argued with Uncle William until I was blue in the face, and he refused to let us marry." As they drew closer to the house, Margery's feet dragged. "And now there's the complication…"

She seemed reticent to continue. He stopped her with a hand on her arm. "The money? He told me about that. The way the marquess sees it, this is a matter of honor and finances. Love doesn't figure into the equation."

"Money doesn't figure into it, either." She frowned. "I told you, Bennett is a wealthy man. With land, and—"

"It's not your wealth the marquess is concerned with, but his own."

They'd reached the edge of the garden, and Margery plopped down on a bench. "What do you mean?"

"Didn't he discuss this with you?"

"No. I'm female. And that aside, the man tends to be dictatorial."

With a sigh, he sat beside her. "You're a master of understatement," he said and explained about Hawkridge's dependence on her property and the repercussions of losing that income.

"No wonder he didn't want to admit it!" Margery burst out when he was finished. "He kept mumbling about honor and the promise to my father. And now, of course, since it happened, he has the perfect excuse to refuse Bennett—"

"Lily," Rand interrupted her, "has a solution for Hawkridge's finances."

"Does she?" Margery blinked. "But it doesn't solve—"

"She has an inheritance coming. Ten thousand pounds. Plus another three thousand from her marriage portion. That ought to be enough to set the marquess on the road to solvency, and then everyone can wed whomever they want."

Margery toyed with her black skirts. "No, Randy," she started.

"What the devil?" He'd heard a bark from the direction of the river.

There in the distance he saw Lily toss a stick, and a big, wet mastiff jump into the water to retrieve it. Beatrix sat nearby, placidly watching. Apparently the monsters didn't eat cats, after all.

"What are you looking at?" Margery asked.

"Lily." The hound scrambled up the bank and shook violently, spraying her with water that left big dark splotches on her light blue gown. He laughed aloud. "She's playing fetch in the river with one of the marquess's dogs!"

The sight of her, being so very Lily, lightened his heart. She caught him watching and waved. Waving back, he turned to Margery. "I must go tell her you want Bennett, not me. She'll be so happy."

"Rand—"

"Later, Margery." She looked so distressed. "Stop worrying. We'll make it right." Sudden impulse made him lean and give her a quick, chaste kiss on the lips. "For old times' sake," he said lightly, rising from the bench. "Was it better than last time?"

He was gratified to see the ghost of a smile return. "Perhaps. But not as good as Bennett's."

"No? I'm not sure whether I'm happy to hear that or gravely insulted." He grinned. "I need to talk to Lily; then we'll speak with the marquess."

He started off.

"Wait, Rand, there's more—"

But he was already walking away, and Lily had spotted him. Whatever else Margery wanted to talk about could wait.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The smile froze on Lily's face.

He'd kissed Margery. On her mouth.

He'd walked with his arm around her, too. Lily knew that, because although she'd been playing with the dog, she'd kept half an eye on Rand and Margery the entire time.

Or at least while they were visible. For a while they'd disappeared into the hedge- and treelined gardens. Had he kissed Margery there, too? In the little round gazebo where she and Rand had kissed last night?

He was going to marry Margery.

As Lily watched him come closer, she decided she wouldn't make a fuss. Because she was nice. Because his father wanted it this way, and if all the parties agreed, there was no point in fighting fate. Because Margery had known Rand for twenty-one years, while Lily had known him just a few weeks.

Then suddenly she was in his arms, and she wondered how she could have thought any of that. His mouth was on hers, hot and needy, and the whole of her responded. She slipped her hands inside his open surcoat and pressed herself close. Her heart raced; the blood rushed through her veins. And it was the same for him, she was certain.

Nothing had changed between them.

By the time he pulled away, her senses were spinning, her knees wobbly and weak. And although he was smiling, he looked as shaky as she felt. His heart was in his compelling gray eyes, there for her to see.

Perhaps fate would tear them apart, but it was clear as the cloudless sky that it wouldn't be because Rand's feelings for her had changed. And although she wanted an explanation for why he'd kissed Margery, she wouldn't ask, because she didn't want him to know she'd doubted him.

Still smiling, he brushed at his damp coat and plucked his wet shirt away from his body.

The sight of that shirt molded to his body made her swallow hard. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm afraid Rex has soaked me through." The dog was panting at her feet. She bent to grab the stick and tossed it arcing over the water, watching the mastiff gleefully splash in to fetch it.

Looking every bit as gleeful, Rand swung her back to face him. "It's all right. I'll happily risk more wet to claim another kiss." Involuntarily she swayed toward him, but this kiss was short and light. "Margery doesn't want to marry me," he said with an even wider grin.

"Are you sure?"

"She's in love with another man. A local baron named Bennett Armstrong. My brother's death was a relief to her, since it freed her from their betrothal."

"Then why was she weeping?"

"The marquess has refused Bennett's suit. Because he wants her land and income, of course. But now, with your inheritance…"

"It should work out for all concerned."

"Thanks to your generosity, yes." The dog emerged and shook, soaking them both, and Rand laughed and lifted Lily by the waist, swinging her in a wide circle.

When he finally set her on her feet, he kissed her again soundly and then gripped both her hands. "Tonight," he said, his voice heavy with meaning, "after all this is settled, I'll come to you."

And they no longer needed to worry about conceiving a child. As her entire body responded to that thought, her fingers tightened on his.

Then she noticed Margery walking toward them.

"You must be Lily," Margery said. "It warms my heart to see how happy you've made Randy."

Lily blushed to the roots of her hair. Margery must have been sitting on that bench, watching, the entire time. And if she hadn't approached now, Lily might well have begun stripping Rand out of his damp clothes.

Well, not really, but she'd wanted to. What a creature of lust she was becoming!

Margery looked wistful.

"I hear you've found a love of your own," Lily told her.

"Yes, I have." Margery's expression softened, but just for a moment. "Randy—I mean, Rand—we must talk. There's something—"

"What the hell are you doing with my dog?"

They all turned to see the marquess storming down the path to the river. Beatrix scampered up a nearby tree to join Lady and Jasper where they sat on a branch, chattering nervously. Lily's heart pounded.

"Don't worry," Margery whispered. "He might bellow like a bear and insist on his own way, but he's not a man to do physical violence."

"I beg to differ," Rand said tightly, making Lily wonder anew what his childhood had been like.

As his father drew near, he looped an arm over her shoulders, a clear message of possession. The tall, formidable marquess stood before them and glared down into Lily's face. "Well?"

Although Lily had always been nice, she'd never been shy. "I was only playing with Rex, my lord. He seems to enjoy it."

"Rex?"

She shrugged. "He needed a name. I assure you, I've done him no harm."

He whistled to the dog, which obediently ran over. "His name is Attila," he said, grabbing the chain around the animal's neck. "And like the rest of my mastiffs, he's a valuable fighter. He'll sell for a top price once he's fully trained—that is, if he doesn't die of a chill first." His fist was white-knuckled on the links. "My dogs do not play."

Lily drew herself up to her full height of five-foot-two. "Perhaps they should. As they don't seem to get a lot of human attention, some toys would be a welcome addition to their enclosure. Knotted rope, as I told Rand." Rand's hand tightened on her shoulder in warning, but she ignored it. She refused to be intimidated by the man she hoped would be her father-in-law. "And you'd do well to uproot the apple tree in there—the fruit is of a size to be a choking hazard."

Surprisingly, the man looked thoughtful if still fierce. "These dogs are meant to accompany soldiers at war. They get plenty of human attention when I train them—to kill. But perhaps some toys might not be amiss. Knotted rope could well promote fighting amongst themselves, which would help keep them in shape."

It wasn't exactly what Lily had in mind, but it was something. And he was no longer ignoring her.

He turned his attention to Margery. "When did you arrive?"

She exchanged a look with Rand. "Mere moments ago, Uncle William."

"Good. We'll talk over dinner. It's long past time we settled your betrothal and marriage. In the meantime, come along. You need to make yourself presentable. The meal will be served in one hour."

He swung on a heel, taking Margery's arm to pull her along with him, the dog trotting on his other side. Lily stared at the man's stiff, retreating back. Margery needed to make herself presentable? Lily had rarely seen a woman so pristine. She glanced down at her own water-and-mud-stained skirts with dismay.

Rand came around to face her and lifted her chin with a hand. "You did well," he said admiringly.

She fluffed at her filthy blue gown. "If he believed Margery needed grooming, he must think I'm a veritable fustilug."

He pressed a tender kiss to her lips. "He wasn't looking at you; he was listening. Miraculously. And he only said that to Margery as an excuse to drag her off. He doesn't want us talking and figuring a way around his plans."

"But we will, right?"

"Absolutely. He's unaware of your inheritance. And although he's stood firm on her betrothal, it seems Margery doesn't fear him. Perhaps he's softened in his old age."

He didn't look like he actually believed that, but Lily drew hope from his words. "An hour," she said. "I'll need that time to bathe and change."

He shrugged out of his surcoat and handed it to her. "Take this inside for me, will you? I'm going for a run."

"A run? Now?"

"I'll just have time." His fingers worked the knot in his cravat, then stilled as he met her gaze. "It's just a run, Lily. I like to do that. To—"

"To think. I know."

Then why did she feel shut out?

Not understanding, he smiled as he handed her the lace-trimmed linen. "Thank you. I'll see you at dinner."

All through her bath Lily told herself that Rand's running didn't equate to running away—at least not from her. By the time Etta laced her into a fresh peach gown, she almost believed it.

"Jerome, you may leave us now. And inform the others they are not to enter the dining room unless I ring."

The aging footman bowed and backed away, looking grateful to escape as he shut the door behind him. Rand watched his father pick up his fork and stab a piece of buttered and sugared turnip. The staff was still wary of the man's moods, he thought with an internal sigh. If employment were easier to come by, he imagined most of the old-timers would have left long ago.

"Now," the marquess said, looking pointedly at Rand and then Margery. "You're both here. It's time to seal this betrothal and get on with our lives."

"My lord," Lily started.

"No." The man waved his fork. "You're not part of this family, my lady, and there is nothing you can add to this discussion."

She shared a look with Rand, then set to silently picking at her food.

Seething, Rand lifted his goblet. "You're wrong," he said tightly. "Lily does have something to contribute—an inheritance that she's prepared to put at your disposal in exchange for your blessing on our marriage. Ten thousand pounds, plus her dowry, which brings the total to thirteen. I believe that adds quite a bit to this discussion."

Regardless of the fact that it was an enormous sum of money, the marquess barely blinked. "And where do you suppose that leaves Margery? Your foster sister, promised to my heir on her father's deathbed?"

"Free to marry Bennett Armstrong." Rand sipped smugly.

The man's face turned red as his fork clattered to his plate. "Bennett Armstrong?" he bellowed. "I've forbidden that name to be mentioned in this house!"

Seeing Lily shudder beside him, Rand reached to squeeze her hand.

It seemed Margery, however, was used to this sort of tirade. "Uncle William—"

"Don't 'Uncle William' me, young lady. I've raised you like my own daughter, and I would think you'd have accepted by now that no amount of pleading on your part will make me consider marrying you to a murderer."

Rand's jaw dropped open. "Murderer?"

Margery turned apologetic eyes on him. "I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen."

"Bennett Armstrong is a murderer?"

"No!" Margery said at the same time the marquess snapped, "Yes!"

When Lily gasped, Rand tightened his hold on her hand. But his gaze was fixed on the marquess.

"He murdered my son and heir," the man said. "And I intend to see him hang."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

"Bennett is not a murderer!" Margery burst out. "He did it in self-defense!" She turned to Rand, her eyes frantic. "Alban came after him in the first place."

But all Rand could absorb at the moment was that the man Margery wanted to marry had killed his brother. The hows and whys were beyond him. And where does that leave Margery? the marquess had asked. Where, indeed? Even Rand could understand his father's unwillingness to wed his ward to the man at whose hands his own son had died.

Lily's money wasn't going to solve all their problems, after all.

"My Alban," the marquess said, glaring at Margery, "was not a man capable of killing. Your lover murdered my son in cold blood. Of course he would claim otherwise, and I've no doubt that a besotted, addlebrained female like you would believe him."

"Alban would kill," she shot back. "I saw him kill, time and time again. A rabbit, a lamb. My very own cat when she pounced on him as he was forcing me to kiss him."

Lily hid her face in her hands, and Rand reached to rub her back.

"It's Bennett who's incapable of killing without just provocation," Margery added.

"And he doubtless considered a man determined to wed his lover as 'just provocation.'" The marquess pointed his knife at her, emphasizing each syllable. "Unfortunately, with only his word against a dead man's, I don't have enough evidence for an arrest. Yet. But I intend to get it."

"He's offered a reward for information," Margery told Rand in a voice made high by rising panic. "A hundred pounds."

Lily looked up at that. "A hundred pounds?"

"A hundred pounds," Margery repeated, her eyes filling with tears. "Bennett's as good as dead."

Rand couldn't find it in himself to disagree with her. To do so would be a lie. A footman wouldn't earn a hundred pounds in ten years, let alone a groom or coachman or maid. For that kind of money, someone would come forward with damning evidence, honestly acquired or not.

The marquess wielded a lot of power in this small piece of England, and if he meant to see Armstrong hang, Rand had no doubt he would accomplish it.

Plainly seeing the truth in Rand's eyes, Margery let out a pathetic moan and rose from her chair, rushing to kneel at the marquess's knees. Her black gown pooled around her. "I beg you, Uncle William, don't do this. I'll have no will to go on should Bennett die. Let him live long enough for me to prove his innocence."

"Impossible," the man snapped, "given that he's guilty."

She gazed up at him, the tears overflowing, making tracks down her pale cheeks. "Then you'll be killing me along with him."

Just then, she looked entirely too capable of doing herself in, and Rand watched, amazed, as the marquess's features softened with compassion.

But it wasn't long before they hardened again. "He's not dead yet, girl, but I mean to see him pay for murdering my son. In the meantime, should the two of you think to plan anything, I'll be sending a contingent of men to keep the whoreson under house arrest."

A bell sat by his elbow, and now he raised it and jingled it fiercely, as though venting his frustration on the sterling silver might help him obtain vengeance.

"Jerome!" he called, and the man rushed in.

In moments, it was done. A dozen men were on their way to surround Bennett Armstrong's home.

An hour later, Rand, Lily, and Margery were on their way there, too.

Lord Bennett Armstrong's house was smaller than Hawkridge Hall and Trentingham Manor, and from the mishmash of styles and the way the house sprawled this way and that, Lily surmised it was older than Hawkridge and Trentingham as well. Sections looked medieval, other parts Tudor, still other portions modern. But regardless of all that, it was obviously the home of a wealthy man.

Each of the three doors had one of Hawkridge's men assigned to guard it, and two more men were posted on every side of the house—in case Lord Armstrong tried to lower himself from a window.

At first, the guard at the front door had no intention of allowing their party to enter. But Rand remembered the man, and soon he was pumping his hand and asking after his wife and children. Rand swore on his mother's grave that he wasn't there to break Lord Armstrong out, and—since the man had apparently adored Rand's mother—in no time at all, they were ushered into the dark, paneled house.

That, Lily knew, was because of Rand's innate charm. She also knew it was because he still had strong ties with the people at Hawkridge. Strong ties that would make it impossible for him to return to Oxford if doing so meant the folks left behind would suffer.

A butler directed them to a study, where they found Lord Armstrong writing a letter.

"Bennett!" Margery streaked across the chamber and threw herself at him. "Oh, Bennett, Uncle William means to see you hang!"

"I know, love." He cupped her face in both his hands. "I was just writing to my uncle with instructions of what to do should that come to pass."

"Oh, Bennett."

With a heartfelt groan, he crushed his mouth to hers, kissing her as though he would never let her go. Margery cooperated fully, running her fingers through his longish dark hair and wrapping her arms around his middle. As Lily watched, Margery worked her hands down Bennett's body, pressing herself against him.

Rand's jaw dropped. "Apparently she's not as proper as I thought," he whispered to Lily.

"Hmm?" She knew she shouldn't watch, and in truth, she felt like a peeper. But seeing them made her want to do the same with Rand. And sadly, with the new developments, she felt nearly as desperate as the other lovers looked.

Well, at least Rand's life wasn't in danger. Only their lives together. She turned and pretended to study a shelf of books, trying to convince herself that things weren't that bad.

At last the couple parted and Lord Armstrong noticed Rand and Lily. His pale green eyes widened. "Randy? Is that you?"

"I'm called Rand these days." He strode forward to shake the man's hand. "And this is my betrothed, Lady Lily Ashcroft."

She curtsied, trying to dredge up a smile. "Lord Armstrong."

Although his gaze didn't make her melt like Rand's did, he was quite good-looking. He managed a grim smile in return. "Let's not stand on ceremony," he said. "I've known your intended all my life. Call me Bennett, please."

"Oh, Bennett." Margery's bottom lip quivered. "I thought that while I was gone, Uncle William would come to his senses. But if anything, he's become even more determined."

"I've seen evidence of that," Bennett muttered, striding to a window to glare down at the guards.

"He's offered a hundred pounds for information that leads to proving your guilt."

"Bloody hell." Bennett shut his eyes, then opened them and sent Lily an apologetic glance. "Pardon the language, my lady."

"I've heard worse," she assured him. "Is there no way to prove your innocence?" She didn't know him, most especially whether or not he might be innocent, but she was praying he was. Clearing him as an acceptable husband for Margery seemed the only hope for her and Rand.

But Bennett just gave a helpless shrug and dropped back onto his bulky wooden desk chair. "There were no witnesses."

Rand began pacing. "Tell me what happened."

Bennett pulled Margery onto his lap and played with a lock of her pale hair while he talked. "I was hunting and, as sometimes happens, had become separated from my companions. Alban rode up almost immediately, as though he had been following and waiting for such an opportunity. He dismounted, pointed a pistol at me, and accused me of plotting to steal his bride."

Rand turned and leveled him with a stare. "Were you?"

Bennett looked to Margery for help. She met Rand's gaze. "Your father wouldn't allow us to marry, so we were planning to elope. I have no idea, however, how Alban could have found out."

"Alban had his ways," Rand said darkly. "So then what happened?"

Bennett's swallow was audible from across the room. "I dived off my horse to knock the gun from his grasp, and it went off. Then he drew his sword, and I panicked. Alban was known for his swordsmanship, and he wasn't looking for a duel of honor—he'd made it clear he wanted me dead. I swiped a stout branch off the ground and bashed him over the head. He went down like a sack of flour."

Rand still paced. "And he was dead."

"Dead as a doornail, I'm afraid. I didn't mean to kill him—I could have shot him if I'd wanted that. I was hunting and had a musket, after all. But I wasn't sorry. He didn't deserve my Margery—he treated her abominably."

"Don't you see?" Margery slid off Bennett's lap and went over to Rand, halting him with a hand on his arm. "It was self-defense. If he hadn't done Alban in, Bennett would've been dead instead."

"But how to prove it?" Lily asked.

"I don't know." Margery looked toward her pleadingly. "But you must help me find a way."

"We will," Lily promised softly.

Rand had too many problems for Lily to burden him with her own, but without her sisters here for support, she'd been feeling adrift and alone. She and Margery had a common goal. Together, with Rand's help, they would fight to keep their men.

The two women shared a sad, understanding smile, and Lily felt a little bit better.

The marquess failed to appear for supper that evening, claiming a backlog of work due to Alban's demise. He took a tray in his study instead.

But later that night, when Rand, Lily, and Margery were passing the hours in the north drawing room, Lily playing gentle tunes while Rand and Margery sat nearby and puzzled over what could be done, the marquess appeared in the doorway. Lily's fingers stilled on the keys, leaving an expectant silence.

"No matter what you believe," the marquess said, addressing himself to Margery, "I have raised you like my own daughter and care for you as though you were. Your pleas haven't fallen on entirely deaf ears."

Rand saw Margery's heart leap into her eyes and felt his own heart leap as well. "Yes?" he asked when she appeared unable to speak.

The marquess swung his cold gray gaze on him. "I have a plan to spare her lover's life."

"Thank God," Margery breathed.

"Thank me," the man snapped. "The truth is I know better than to make this offer. You should be thankful I have a soft heart."

Rand bit back a retort. The marquess had claimed he cared for her as a daughter. For Margery's sake, Rand hoped the man believed a daughter should be better treated than a son.

She rose, her black skirts trembling as she slowly approached the doorway. "What is your plan, Uncle William?"

The marquess straightened. "On your twenty-first birthday, one week hence, you will wed my son."

"Oh, no—"

"Oh, yes. Should the two of you fail to marry, your lover will hang. Should the wedding take place, I shall see that he is granted a commutation of sentence and transported to the colonies instead." He paused, drawing breath. "May God forgive me my weakness," he said to no one in particular, then turned and strode from the chamber.

As one, the three of them released their breaths.

"This is unconscionable," Rand gritted out.

Margery's face was even paler than usual. A pure, bloodless white. "We must marry," she whispered, casting an apologetic glance to Lily. She focused back on Rand. "We must marry to save Bennett's life."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Margery took a few faltering steps toward Rand, then dropped to her knees at his feet. "We must marry." She clutched his ankles. "We must."

A dazed expression on his face, Rand reached for her shoulders and raised her to stand. "There must be another way."

Unable to believe this turn of events, Lily watched as Margery searched Rand's eyes, her own green eyes frantic. She gripped his hands in both of hers. "But will you? To save his life? Tell me you will. From my earliest memories, I looked up to you, Rand. You were my big brother who could do no wrong. You won't let me down, will you? Tell me you'll marry me to save Bennett's life."

Though a muscle in his jaw twitched, he nodded. "I won't doom another man to die. But there must be another way."

Tears streaming down her face, Margery hugged him, hard. Then, without another word, she ran from the room.

Lily released a deep, shuddering breath. "Rand—"

"I've never seen her this selfish." His gaze swung from the empty doorway to Lily. "She didn't for a moment consider how I'd feel about this marriage. Or you."

"I'd feel the same way if your life were threatened. I'd ask anything of anyone."

After a moment of thought, he nodded. "I'd do the same for you. But there must be another way for Margery and Bennett. I won't lose you."

She walked closer. "A man's life is at stake."

"There must be another way."

It was becoming a litany, one Lily wished she could believe. "Does your father truly wield such power?"

"I'm afraid so." Rand took her elbow and began walking her toward her chamber. "You must realize that outside of London there is little if any provision for due process of the law. If the Marquess of Hawkridge wishes Bennett dead, he can make it happen. Is it not the same for the little area of the world where your father is the lord?"

Reluctantly she nodded. "I suppose it is. But I've never seen him wish anyone dead. Life at Trentingham is generally peaceful." A peace she hadn't expected to miss, a peace she'd even equated with boredom at times.

Oh, to live again that blessed, boring peace.

"Life at Hawkridge has never been peaceful," Rand said ruefully, stopping in front of the Queen's Bedchamber. "But I hope to take you away from here to where we can live in peace. Soon."

He opened the door. Inside, a fire was already lit and several candles burned merrily, but the room still seemed an empty void.

"Oh, Rand." She turned into his arms.

He held her tight for a long, long time before he extricated himself. "Sleep well," he said softly, then turned and walked away.

Unable to watch him leave, she stepped into the chamber and shut the door behind her. Then leaned back against it, fighting the nausea that threatened when she thought of her happiness slipping away.

Just that morning, she'd stood with Rand by the river, laughing, hugging him, so very glad to learn that Margery was in love with another man. Tonight, he'd said, after all this is settled, I'll come to you.

In that moment, it had seemed that life would be perfect after all. But now, instead of coming to her, he had walked away.

To go to Margery instead? She thought not. She was far past any insecurities where Rand's love was concerned.

But he was an honorable man, and she knew, without a doubt, that if it meant saving Bennett's life, he'd marry Margery instead of her.

In his small chamber, Rand sat on the bed to tug off his boots. There must be another way, he repeated to himself over and over as he pulled off his stockings and crushed them into balls that he threw across the room with an anger he hadn't felt since he'd last lived in this damned house. He shrugged out of his surcoat and yanked at the cravat at his throat, throwing those across the room, too. He wished he had something to break, but his chamber had been stripped of all but the furniture some time in the fourteen years between when he'd left for Oxford and now.

There had to be another way.

He was loosening the laces on his shirt when a soft knock came at the door. Thinking it must be Lily, his heart gave a little hitch. He wanted her. Oh, how he wanted her.

And he couldn't have her, not now. But neither could he turn her away. Fighting with himself, he hurried to open the door.

Margery stood there instead.

She was still wearing the dull black gown, the clothes the marquess had sent her to London to obtain to show the proper respect for his dead son. Her eyes red-rimmed, she twisted her fingers together. "There's something else I need to tell you."

Though her tone sounded dire, Rand just sighed. "Come in, Margery."

He shut the door and led her to sit on the room's only chair, struggling to appear sympathetic. It wasn't that he didn't care, but he'd had about all the anguish he could take—and despite her obvious distress, he couldn't imagine anything that could make this situation even worse.

Until he heard her next words.

"Rand…oh, Rand, I'm with child."

He dropped abruptly to sit on the bed. "God, Margery." Hardly sympathetic, but he was too shocked to know what to say. No matter that Lily might be in the same way, this was Margery, his baby sister, Margery…

Looking even more miserable, she laid a hand on her still-flat middle. "No one else knows except Bennett. It's why we'd planned to elope. I tried to obey, Rand, truly I did, but I just couldn't marry Alban knowing I carried Bennett's child. Alban was…he would have killed it," she said flatly.

Rand could imagine that all too well. "Well, he cannot kill it now," he said in a way he hoped was soothing.

"But I still…" Again, her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Rand, will you raise it as yours? I know it's a lot to ask, but we can hope it's a girl so it won't be your heir, and—"

"We're going to find another way." Rand's head was suddenly throbbing. "It won't matter if it's a boy or a girl, because the child will be raised by its father."

"But what if, Rand?" Apparently she was quite past believing that. "Uncle William is planning our wedding for seven days hence. What if we're forced to marry? Will you raise this child as yours? I could have hidden it from you, tried to make you believe it was yours, but—"

"You're not like that, I know."

And he also knew there was no chance he'd ever fall for such a ploy, because if, God forbid, he was forced to wed her, he wouldn't be sharing her bed.

He would never again lie with anyone but Lily.

Margery stood and wrapped her arms around her middle. Slow tears trailed down her pale cheeks, leaking from eyes that looked hopeless. "What if, Rand? Will you be a true father to this child?"

"Of course I will," he said simply, because there was nothing else he could say.

But he would find another way…because there was nothing else he could do.

Nothing.

Clad in her night rail with her hair in one long plait, Lily huddled under the covers of the giant state bed.

Just hours earlier at Bennett's house, she'd thought she and Margery had made an unspoken pact, come to a wordless understanding that they would fight this problem together. But perhaps that wasn't true; perhaps it had been her imagination. Because if a silent promise had indeed passed between them, Margery had broken it already.

Not that Lily blamed her. As she'd told Rand, were his life at risk, she'd do anything for a chance to save him. But that truth didn't ease the distress of realizing that, other than Rand, she had no allies here at Hawkridge at all.

Although Beatrix cuddled with her, she'd never felt so alone in her life.

Was she fated to be alone forever?

There must be another way, Rand had said over and over, as though he could make it so by repetition alone. But Lily was unconvinced. It seemed that no matter what solution they came up with, his father would shoot it down.

For a long time she lay awake, stroking Beatrix's downy fur and watching the shadows made on the walls by the all-too-cheerful dancing flames of the fire. Rand had no love for this house, and as much as she always tried to look on the bright side of things, she couldn't help but think that in this case he was right. Although it was beautiful, there seemed something evil about Hawkridge, something that made her skin crawl. She didn't like being alone in this room.

She hugged herself for a long while. Then she climbed out of bed and slid a wrapper over her night rail.

A few minutes later, she knocked softly on Rand's door. He came to answer, wearing just breeches and a shirt that was open at the neck and cuffs. He looked as sleepless as she.

"Rand? May I just sleep here?"

He gathered her close. "I'm not sure," he said with a sad little chuckle. "Last night was torture for us both." Tilting her chin up, he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. "I'm afraid, sweetheart, that for me, you're too much of a temptation."

A heaviness settled in Lily's chest. She stared down at his bare feet. No matter what he said over and over, he wasn't convinced that everything would work out. Or else he would want her in his bed, and damn the risk of conceiving.

"Oh, Lily…" He slipped his hands under her wrapper, settling them on her hips to pull her close. His fingers seemed to burn through her night rail.

She raised a palm and placed it against his chest, inside the open placket of his shirt, where his bare skin was brown and warm. "Rand…" Shutting her eyes against the pain in his, she went to her toes for a kiss. Though his lips on hers felt achingly familiar, the caress didn't bring the relief she was seeking.

The kiss was hot and desperate and set her heart to pounding, but it failed to make her forget that, barring a miracle, he was going to marry another woman.

He reached blindly to unravel her plait, his eyes still closed and his mouth still locked on hers. A pathetic little moan escaped her throat as she wondered if this was the last time she'd feel the loving tugs of his fingers freeing her hair, the last time he'd claim her lips with passionate abandon.

Finally, with a heartfelt sigh, he broke the kiss and swung her up into his arms.

"We cannot," she said.

"There are other ways, Lily." He deposited her on his small childhood bed and looked down on her, tenderly finger combing her hair into a halo around her head. "Ways we can be together that don't carry the risk of getting you with child."

"But we cannot." When he stretched out beside her, she turned to meet his eyes. "You shouldn't even be kissing me. Don't you see? We cannot be together this way, knowing you might marry Margery. It would be wrong."

He looked away, staring up at the underside of the serviceable blue canopy. No Queen's Bedchamber, this—no silk for Rand Nesbitt at Hawkridge Hall. His room was barely more than a closet.

"Yes," he agreed at last. "It would be wrong."

She lay back and ran a trembling hand through her hair. What if she was already with child? She had no doubt now that it would make little difference to Rand's father—he was determined his son wed Margery. She would have to hope her womb was yet empty.

But she couldn't find it in herself to wish for that. If fate decreed that Rand's child was the only piece of him she could ever have, she would take it along with the consequences and be happy for the privilege.

"I don't like it here," she whispered into the silence. "This house. I cannot sleep in that room alone."

"Stay with me, then," Rand said. "I'll be the perfect gentleman, although it will probably kill me." He snuggled against her, releasing a strangled groan. "And tomorrow, I'll take you home. I don't like this house any more than you do, and I've things to take care of in Oxford."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Rand set their luggage by the carriage and, leaving two outriders to deal with it, headed into the house to fetch Lily.

"You'll be back, I presume? A week from yesterday?"

Rand pivoted to see the marquess standing outdoors, holding two dogs by their chain collars. "Yes, I'll be back," he forced through gritted teeth, hoping against hope that he'd be arriving with a solution to this dilemma.

"Sit," the man told the dogs. "Stay." He climbed the steps to Rand. "Margery told me you're willing to wed her in order to save Bennett's life. She's very grateful."

Rand had nothing to say to that.

"Son," the marquess started—and when Rand visibly flinched, the man sighed. "I suppose I deserve that. I just wanted to say I'm impressed that you're willing to do the right thing and marry the girl. It's admirable, considering you had other plans."

Rand consciously unclenched his jaw. "Lily is more than plans; Lily is my life. And your approval means nothing to me. I don't need the admiration of a man who ignored me all my childhood."

With that, he turned to head upstairs, but the marquess caught his arm. "I'm…I'm sorry for that." Rand stared, unable to believe the word sorry had passed the old goat's lips. He opened his mouth to voice another retort, but the man rushed on. "I was thinking, last night, about you and Alban and Margery."

"And how you liked the two of them better than me?"

"Yes," he bit out. "I did. I'm not proud of it, but there's the truth. I always blamed you for your mother's death. Whenever I looked at you, I was reminded, and—"

"Her death? However did your twisted mind come up with that? I wasn't even home when she died!"

"Exactly. You'd run off somewhere, as was your habit in those days. She died searching for her precious younger son."

Rand felt like all the air had been sucked right out of him. Run off, as was your habit. "She died searching?"

"She raced off on Queenie, her mare. The animal failed to clear a fence. Broke two legs and had to be put down. Your mother broke her neck."

"I…" Afraid his legs would give out, Rand retreated in search of somewhere to sit. The backs of his calves finally bumped into a hall chair, and he collapsed onto it.

He stared at the black-and-white floor between his limp, spread knees. "I never knew how she died. I just came home and she was…gone."

The marquess followed him, looking down on him. "No point in telling a boy of six," he said in clipped tones. "If I was wrong to blame you for her death, at least I wasn't daft enough to accuse you out loud."

Rand looked up. "No. Instead you ignored me, mistreated me, drove me from your home—"

"And you managed to survive regardless. And"—the man shifted on his feet—"to make a life for yourself."

Rand Nesbitt's many accomplishments meant less than nothing to the Marquess of Hawkridge. "Not a life you'll ever approve. In the world where I belong, I'm called Professor, not my lord."

The man's jaw tightened. "You're an earl now and will someday be a marquess. That's another matter we need to discuss. Which we will, just as soon as you wed Margery and set up residence here."

"I have no intention of living here. I'm not in such a hurry to put myself back in range of your disapproval and abuse."

"I've said I was sorry," the marquess muttered. He glanced through the open door. "I've dogs to attend to."

"By all means," Rand said, waving him off.

The man always had valued his dogs over his son.

The ride to Trentingham was awkward.

Rand was subdued, and Lily had difficulty trying to sustain both sides of the conversation. The worst of it was that for the first time since the baptism, she found herself wracking her brain to find anything to discuss. Their ease with each other was gone, their relationship changing already.

It was only two hours between the estates, yet the time passed like the carriage's wheels were mired in mud. Though Beatrix rode inside, her warm softness on Lily's lap failed to provide any comfort. When they finally rolled up before the manor, she couldn't wait to get into the house.

Was it but three days since she'd been home? A day in Oxford and two at Hawkridge. In that short span of time, her entire life had spun upside down.

Just inside the door, Chrystabel met her and wrapped her in a hug. "That was a short visit."

Lily clung to her mother for a moment, inhaling her familiar floral scent. "It felt like a lifetime." When she pulled away, she looked around as though seeing her home for the first time. So light and bright, the staircase off the entry fashioned of classical white balustrades instead of heavy, dark carved wood. The atmosphere warm and loving, not cold and full of resentment. "It's good to be home."

Concern flooded her mother's brown eyes. "Do you not like Hawkridge Hall? Will you not want to live there?"

"Oh, Mum, it seems I won't be living there even if I did want to!" Here, finally, was someone who cared. Lily had felt invisible at Hawkridge Hall—no, worse than invisible. A burden to Rand and persona non grata to everyone else. "Things have changed—"

Spotting Rand standing in the doorway, she broke off.

"Rand." Though Chrystabel smiled at him, the expression in her eyes said she knew something was wrong. "How very nice to see you again. You'll stay for supper, won't you? Or does your father expect you back at Hawkridge this afternoon?"

"No," he said dully. "I'm going home to Oxford for a few days."

"The sun sets late this time of year, so you can stay for dinner, then, at least."

He shrugged as though he didn't care. "I'm going for a run," he said to Lily, already struggling out of his surcoat. "I'll be back in a while."

"No," she said. "Oh, no."

As he turned and walked away, Chrystabel laid a gentle hand on Lily's arm. "I can see that things didn't go well with his father. Leave him be, dear."

"No." Lily started toward the door. "I've let him be quite enough. I'll be back and explain later."

"Lily!" Mum called.

But she was already out the door and down the steps.

"Wait!" Lily called.

But Rand didn't, even though she was sure he'd heard her. To the contrary, he shoved his coat and cravat into the carriage and then began to run, putting more distance between them.

She hurried past blue and yellow flower beds in her high Louis-heeled shoes. Hoping she wouldn't twist an ankle in the soft grass, she wished she hadn't dressed so fashionably this morning.

The shoes and the lavender gown with the heavy overskirt had been a final attempt to impress her future father-in-law. If she wasn't so upset, she'd laugh at herself for her characteristic optimism. The fact was, there was nothing she could do to make the man like her. He wanted his son to marry Margery, and that was that.

He'd probably sent up a cheer when he saw her climb into the carriage and ride away.

Lily had never really disliked anyone in her life, but she disliked Rand's father immensely. Not for the way he treated her—he didn't know her, after all—but for the way he treated Rand.

Rand. There he was, crossing the bridge to the other side of the river.

"Rand!"

Thanks to living with her father, Lily knew how to make her voice carry. But although Rand stopped running, he didn't stop altogether, instead pacing determinedly along the far bank.

Hopping on one foot and then the other, she pulled off her shoes and left them jumbled on the daisy-strewn lawn. Then she picked up her skirts and ran—across the grass, over the bridge, along the path with the river on one side and grazing fields on the other.

Her face heated and her lungs burned. She developed a searing stitch in her side. But she wouldn't stop running.

She would never give up on Rand Nesbitt.

In the woods beyond, she spotted him in the distance and pushed herself to close the gap. "Rand," she called breathlessly.

He slowed, stopped, and turned, looking defeated. "You'll cut your feet," he said in a dead voice.

Panting, she looked down to the forest floor, littered with twigs and leaves. Her silk stockings were torn, which was no surprise, but she hadn't noticed when it happened.

"I—don't—care," she said between gasping attempts to catch her breath. She bent at the waist, hugging the pain in her side. "All I care for, Rand, is you."

If she'd hoped he'd melt at those words, she was disappointed. "Sometimes," he said, "I need to be by myself. Can you not leave a body alone?"

"I've tried that. It hasn't worked."

"I need to think. I cannot think."

She straightened and met his gaze. She had something she needed to tell him, and she knew he needed to share something, too. A piece of the puzzle was missing—the piece she suspected had made him run. "We can think together. Maybe two heads are better than one."

His jaw tensed as though he were forcibly holding back words. He crossed his arms, shutting her out. His gaze drifted up to the canopy of leaves overhead.

The solitude he wanted would solve nothing. "I'm staying here, Rand. I won't leave you. Do you hear me?" She shouted it to the trees. "I won't leave you, no matter what your father says!"

Slowly he lowered his eyes. "Do you believe in fate?"

"I believe you're my fate."

"Oh, Lily." He shook his head, opening his arms. "Come here."

His arms felt so good around her, so solid and sure. He kissed her, kissed her until she was more breathless than she'd been from running, until she felt boneless and light-headed. He put one-hundred-percent of himself into the wordless promise of that kiss.

And she knew, without a doubt, that whatever it was that made him run away, time after time, had nothing to do with a lack of love for her. Perhaps he simply didn't know how to share. He'd spent so very much of his life on his own.

Well, she'd show him how. Two heads were better than one, two hearts even stronger.

When he finally drew back, she searched his intense gray eyes. "What happened? It's something else, isn't it? Besides Margery and your father's ultimatum?" He tried to look away, but she moved to the side, keeping her gaze locked on his. "What happened?" she repeated. "What new complication has arisen to pile on top of the others?"

He sighed, looking reluctant to confide in her.

But at least he didn't run.

With both hands, she propelled him toward a stump and pushed down on his shoulders until he sat. "Tell me," she said.

He gathered her onto his lap. Leaves rustled overhead, and a sparrow fluttered from one branch to another. Lady, found her way back home. Jasper blinked his little squirrel eyes at them, then darted up a tree. Lily rubbed her scarred hand and stared at her stockinged toes, waiting.

"The marquess," Rand said at last, "has claimed he had an excuse for the way he's treated me all of these years."

"You were a child. There was no excuse."

"He blamed me for the death of my mother."

"What?" She shifted to face him. "How did she die? You never told me."

"I never knew. It seems, as a child, I had a habit of running off." He paused as though waiting for her to agree or to chide him. When she didn't, he went on. "I was six when it happened. She couldn't find me and went out looking."

"And died?"

"A riding mishap. She broke her neck."

"Oh, Rand." Sensing his pain, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault."

"I'd disappeared."

"You were six. You weren't responsible for her accident. It could have happened another day, another time—"

"But it didn't." The guilt rolled off of him in waves. "It happened when I ran off. I killed her."

She lifted her head. "No. You're not to blame."

"My father thinks I am. I left her, and she died. And look at me. I'm still running off and hurting the people I love."

She offered him a wan smile. "I believe I just put a stop to that. And Rand, you didn't kill her. Your father saying so doesn't make it true. You were six years old. Events happen. This one was tragic, but you cannot believe it's your fault."

"My father believes I'm to blame."

"Not really," she argued. "Or he'd have voiced that blame aloud long ago. And he never did, did he? Or you would have known how she died before now."

He appeared to consider that for a moment, and Lily felt a little of the tightness ease from his body. "You won't convince me the man is good," he finally said.

"No, and I wouldn't try. His treatment of you was unpardonable, but perhaps natural, for all that. He was hurting—"

"Hurting?" Rand interrupted in a tone of patent disbelief.

She nodded. "He must have loved her very much to react in such a strong manner, even if it was wrong."

"Love? I cannot picture that man in love. I doubt he even believes in such a fine emotion."

She decided to drop that for now. "Regardless, he was wrong to treat you that way. Not only because you were—are—his child, but also because—"

"I was only six," he finished softly, as though really hearing that for the first time.

"Yes, you were only six."

An invisible burden seemed to roll off his shoulders, and he sat there a long while, silent, rubbing her back.

"I need time to think," he said at last.

"About your mother?"

He shook his head, a slow, mournful motion. "About Margery. I cannot marry her, loving you. I cannot. And yet…can I condemn another man to die?"

Of course he couldn't; he wouldn't be the man she loved if he could. Lily swallowed hard. "Would it make it any easier if I told you I'm not with child?"

His hand stilled on her back. "What do you mean?"

"I…I awakened this morning, and…" She felt her cheeks flood with color. She'd never discussed anything like this with a man, but she'd known since this morning that she had to. She'd run all the way out here to tell him. "My courses are upon me," she said quietly. "I'm not with child."

"Oh," he said; then his arms wrapped around her and held her close. "I'm sorry."

"Are you? Truly?" Her first feelings this morning had been of sorrow, although she knew she should have been relieved. And truthfully, a large part of her was relieved. "Your father, you know—it would have made no difference. We had no hope of using it to our favor."

"I know. But…well, I was picturing her already. She looked like you. I'd be the first to admit that mere days ago I'd have quailed at the thought of fatherhood, but now that I've had time to get used to the idea, damn if I wasn't looking forward to it."

"I was picturing a boy. A gray-eyed boy with long, dark gold hair."

His lips curved in a half smile. "Twins. They run in your family, don't they?"

Despite everything, she had to laugh. "If you'd seen my sister heavy with twins, you wouldn't wish that on me. Besides, it's Ford's family that runs to twins. Surely you know he's a twin himself."

"Ah, yes. Kendra." For a moment, Rand looked far away, lost in the past. Then the faint smile faded from his face and he hugged her even tighter. "One child, twins, triplets—I don't care, so long as they're ours. More than anything, Lily, I want you to have my children."

"Oh, Rand, I want your baby, too." She laid a hand over her empty womb, thinking about what might have been, what might never be. "There must be another way," she said, using his words. "You're right—we both need to think."

He put his bigger hand over hers. "Not now. I'm sorry, but I must go to Oxford. I need more clothes, and other—"

"I didn't mean you're never allowed to go off alone. You'll think in Oxford, and I'll think here."

By unspoken agreement, they rose and began walking in the direction of Trentingham. Rand took her hand. "After Oxford, I must go back to Hawkridge. It's my only hope of finding any evidence to free Bennett. He said he was hunting with a party; one of the other men might have seen something. Or someone else. If need be, I will interview every soul in a ten-mile radius."

Leaves crunched beneath Lily's stockinged feet, and when a twig snapped with a loud crack, Rand swept her up into his arms. She linked her hands behind his neck. "I shall come and help you."

She saw the telltale hesitation, felt the slight tightening of his arms before he decided to come out with it. "Let me talk to my father first. You'll be but two hours away, and I'll come for you, I promise, once I ascertain you'll be accepted."

His gray eyes pleaded for her to understand, and she did, but it was frustrating to feel so helpless.

"Trust me on this, sweetheart," he said softly.

"If I think of anything that could help, anything at all, I'll come to you," she warned him as they emerged from the woods.

In the soft grass that lined the banks of the river, he set her on her feet and pressed his lips to her forehead. "I wouldn't want it any other way," he murmured, the words a damp promise against her skin. "We're in this together. Never doubt that, my love."

CHAPTER FORTY

Dinner was a subdued affair.

Bacon tart was usually one of Lily's favorites, its flaky crust and sweet almonds contrasting with the salty meat, but today she only picked at it while she listened to Rose grill Rand about the latest developments. For once, Rose didn't seem jealous about Lily's betrothal—in fact, Lily would wager her sister was glad she wasn't the one in this predicament.

Mum looked very sorry that she'd insisted Lily go along to Hawkridge, although as Lily pointed out, her absence wouldn't have changed anything.

"It would have spared you some discomfort, dear," Mum said.

But that didn't matter to Lily. The reward for that discomfort had been more time with Rand—precious time that could turn out to be their last.

Afterward, Lily saw him out to his carriage. "If you think of anything," she told him, "anything at all—I want to know. And if I think of anything, I'll send word to you at Oxford."

"I may not be there long enough for word to reach me. Fewer than six days remain until the wedding. I need to get back to Hawkridge well before that if I'm to find evidence enough to prevent it."

"Then stop here on the way. Please. It won't cost you but half an hour, and I may have an idea—"

She broke off when his lips descended on hers.

The kiss was wild, desperate. It made her mouth burn with fire and her senses reel dangerously. She knew, without a doubt, that she would never find this with another man—and the truth cracked her heart.

When he finally broke the kiss, he crushed his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. "God, Lily, this cannot be the end for us. It just cannot."

"It won't be." She kissed him again, softly, before drawing back. "You'll stop by on your way to Hawkridge?"

He opened his eyes and nodded.

"Then I'll see you in a few days," she said, suspecting those days would be the longest of her life.

Rose, however, wasn't going to let her mope around.

"I think tonight we should have our sleeping party," she said when Lily reentered the house.

Lily rubbed her face. "Whatever are you talking about?" She wasn't interested in any sort of party, especially tonight. Tonight she just wanted to crawl into her bed, curl up, and think hard about how Bennett's innocence could possibly be proved.

If he even was innocent…but she had to believe he was. It was the only chance she and Rand had.

"The sleeping party, remember?" Rose put a hand on Lily's arm, her eyes dark with concern. "You said Violet should come over to sleep. And I think we should invite Judith, too. She's your best friend—she'll want to hear what's happening. I'm going to write notes to both of them and ask Parkinson to see they're delivered."

Before Lily could protest, Rose was off.

For a while Lily stood in a daze, then she went upstairs and changed into a more comfortable gown. She didn't need to impress anyone here at Trentingham.

By the time she caught up with her sister, messages had been sent to both Violet and Judith, and Rose was in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Crump, their cook. "Fruit, nuts, bread, and cheese. And some nun's biscuits," she said, "since those are Lily's favorites. We need it all ready to take to her room at nine o'clock." Spotting Lily, she turned and smiled. "We don't want to starve during our sleeping party."

Lily hadn't realized her sister could be so efficient. Or kind—especially considering the broken promise. "Why are you doing all this, Rose?"

A flush touched Rose's cheeks. "You told Rand that two heads are better than one. Well, four would be even better, don't you think? Perhaps tonight we can hit upon a solution."

Lily wasn't sure she felt up to what Rose had planned, but she sincerely appreciated the sentiment. "Thank you," she said, "for caring."

"Don't be a goose," Rose said with a wave of a hand. "You're my sister. Now, we'll need some nice flower arrangements for the supper table and your chamber. I'd best get busy."

As Rose hurried away, Lily looked after her in wonder. It seemed her sister was back to normal, but she couldn't figure out why.

A soft drizzle began to fall outside, turning the world gray and dismal to match Lily's mood. Violet and Judith both arrived in time for supper, and the whole story was told again. By the time they all made it up to Lily's room for their sleeping party, laden with a decanter of wine and the refreshments that Mrs. Crump had prepared, Lily was exhausted to the point of numbness.

She collapsed crosswise on top of her white coverlet. "I'm afraid you're going to have your party without me."

Violet set down a bowl of fruit and reached a hand to help her sit. "I'm sure you're tired," she said sympathetically, settling beside her on the bed. "But we have a mission to accomplish."

Even in her state, Lily couldn't help but notice the faint circles under her oldest sister's eyes. "You look rather tired yourself."

"Two babies will do that to you," Violet said with a tender smile. But it faded as she watched Lily lay a hand on her abdomen. "You'll have children, too, Lily."

"We just have to put our heads together and come up with a brilliant idea," Rose said as she sat herself on Lily's other side.

The three of them against all the injustice in the world.

"Why?" Lily couldn't help asking Rose. "Why all of a sudden are you willing to help me wed Rand Nesbitt?"

"The Earl of Newcliffe," Rose corrected her, but not unkindly. "And as to why…well…" Her cheeks reddened. "This afternoon, when I saw how miserable you were, and Rand, too—well, it made me realize I'd never loved him like that. I only wanted him because he's so handsome."

"And titled," Violet reminded her, leaning across Lily to send their sister an arch look.

"Well, that, too. I do want someone of consequence, you know. But Lily and Rand—they belong together."

"Thank you," Lily whispered. How bittersweet it was to have her sister finally approve at the same time her betrothal was falling apart.

Seated at Lily's dressing table with a platter of bread and cheese, Judith stopped eating long enough to release a languid sigh. "You and Rand are so romantic."

Lily eyed her friend thoughtfully. "You look happy."

"I am." Judith's pale blue eyes shone. "I've spent some time alone with Edmund—I mean, Lord Grenville—"

"You'd never been alone with him?" Rose interrupted.

Buttering bread, Judith blushed. "Well, it's not exactly proper, I know, but Papa managed to talk Mama into allowing it. I was so very unhappy, not really knowing Edmund and thinking I might never come to love him."

Lily began filling four goblets with wine. "So what happened?"

Judith looked up, her cheeks flushed with wonder. "He's ever so marvelous. The sweetest man. I cannot imagine why I expected to fall in love at first sight. It takes getting to know someone, don't you think? What a man looks like doesn't matter as much as what he's like inside."

Rand, Lily thought, was wonderful both inside and out. She would never find another man so perfect.

She handed Judith a cup. "So what is Lord Grenville like inside?"

"Thoughtful. Kind. He answered all my questions and listened when I answered his. He loved his first wife dearly, but he was ever so sad that she couldn't give him any children. More than anything, he wants children. And I…I want to give them to him."

"Have you considered," Rose asked, "that the failure to have children might be due to some lack on his part?" It was just like Rose to say out loud what other women would only wonder silently. "After all," she added, "he's thirty-five." She said thirty-five as though the man were likely to topple over and die of old age at any moment.

"That's not so ancient!" Judith burst out defensively. Lily's sister blinked, clearly taken aback, but Judith went on. "Do you know, Rose, that someday you will be five-and-thirty, too? And for your sake, I hope by then—"

She broke off, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken. But they all knew what she'd been about to say.

I hope by then you'll have found a husband.

"Well," Rose said stiffly. "I hope for your sake that Lord Grenville's childlessness wasn't due to his own shortcomings. I expect you may gain some enlightenment when you discover whether he's skilled in the bedchamber."

"I can assure you," Judith said just as stiffly, "that his childlessness had nothing to do with his skills. He's a very good kisser." A hunk of cheese halfway to her mouth, she paused and glanced around as though waiting for them all to express shock. "Are you not scandalized," she finally asked no one in particular, "that I allowed him to kiss me?"

Violet laughed. "No, we're not scandalized. As a matter of fact, Mum always advised us to kiss a man before assenting to marriage. After all, it's a lifetime commitment, so it's a good idea to assure you're compatible in that area."

"Oh," was all Judith said.

In fact, Lily thought she looked a mite disappointed they didn't think her a fallen woman.

"I'm so glad you're happy," she told her. "I imagine that now you're really looking forward to your wedding."

"Oh, yes," Judith breathed.

Lily wished she had her own wedding to look forward to instead of dreading Rand and Margery's. Five days now. While she was thrilled for Judith, for some reason her friend's newfound happiness made her own situation seem that much more miserable.

Judith handed her a nun's biscuit. "Have you kissed Rand?"

Biting into the sweet almond and lemon treat, Lily nodded and left it at that.

"She's done much more than kiss him," Rose said, waggling her brows.

Feeling her face flood with color, Lily gasped. In Oxford, Rose had promised not to tell. She glared at her sister. "You have no reason to believe such a thing."

Rose's dark eyes widened as she got the message. "Gemini, I was only jesting."

Lily brushed sugary crumbs off her skirts while she thought of a way to quickly change the subject. "Remember that song I was practicing for Rand? The one he's always humming?"

"What of it?"

"It has naughty words. And he knows others, too. He has a whole book of them."

"A book?" Rose licked her lips. "Did you read them all? Or play them?"

"Only a couple that Rand remembered. The book is in Oxford."

Rose looked very disappointed.

"Could you mean An Antidote Against Melancholy?" Violet reached for a strawberry. "Ford has that book."

"In your library?"

"No, upstairs, mixed in with all of his dusty science tomes and various books from when he attended university. I've looked through that songbook—it is very naughty," she added with a grin.

Lily sipped her wine. "How funny that he and Rand would have the same book."

"Perhaps it was required reading at Oxford," Judith quipped, eliciting titters from Lily's sisters.

"Let's send for it," Rose suggested. The glitter in her eyes belied her solemn tone. "It sounds educational."

Violet laughed but scribbled a note to Ford. They sent a footman to deliver it and instructed him to wait and bring the book back. "Now," she said, "while we wait, we must solve the problem at hand."

Lily went over the whole story again, all the depressing details. Then they tossed around ideas. But every solution proposed, no matter how promising at first, turned out to be flawed, impossible, or downright ludicrous.

As it appeared more and more that Lily's situation was hopeless, the suggestions became fewer and farther between, until an hour later they finally fell into a heavy silence.

Violet slipped off her spectacles and polished them on her skirts. "Egad, we're a woebegone bunch. This is supposed to be a party. We'll discuss this again later, but for now, let's see if the songbook has arrived."

Soon they were in the drawing room, giggling, the book propped up on the harpsichord where they could all see the words while Lily read the music.

"Play this one, Lily," Rose said, her dark eyes wide. She began singing.

"Let her face be fair,

And her breasts be bare,

And a voice let her have that can warble;

Let her belly be soft—but to mount me aloft,

Let her bounding buttocks be marble!"

They'd brought the wine with them, and Judith gulped hers, looking shocked. "I cannot believe men sing songs like that!"

Amusement twitched Violet's lips. "Oh, women sing songs like that, too."

"They don't," Judith said.

"They do." Violet reached over Lily's shoulder to flip some pages, then stepped back. "'The Nurse's Song.' Play this one, dear sister." She sang along with Rose.

"My dear cockadoodle,

My jewel, my joy,

My darling, my honey,

My pretty sweet boy!

To make thee grow quickly

I'll do what I can:

I'll feed thee, I'll stroke thee,

I'll make thee a man."

The Ashcroft sisters laughed, but Judith gulped more wine. "I don't understand. To make thee grow quickly?"

"It's the man's yard the song speaks of," Rose said.

"His yard?" If anything, Judith looked even more confused.

Rose waved a hand. "The man's…you know."

For all her forthrightness, Lily thought, Rose was still innocent.

"I vow and swear," Rose continued, "you must read Aristotle's Master-piece before you get married."

Now Judith gasped. Although she knew the Ashcroft sisters had all read it, the book was considered scandalous. A desperate look in her eyes, she turned to Violet. "You're married. Tell me."

Lily was relieved that she wasn't the one asked to explain.

While a pink-cheeked Judith learned the facts from Violet, Rose flipped pages in the book. "Here's another one for women to sing," she said when Violet was finished. "'A Tenement to Let.'"

Lily set the book back up on the harpsichord and began to play.

"I have a tenement to let,

I hope will please you all—

And if you'd know the name of it,

'Tis calléd Cunny Hall

"The place is very dark by night

And so it is by day:

But when you once are entered in,

You cannot lose your way.

"And when you're in, go boldly on,

As far as e'er you can:

And if you reach to the house-top

You'll be where ne'er was a man!"

Even Judith understood that one, as her rapidly reddening cheeks proved. While Rose started turning pages again, Judith sipped more wine. "'Tom Tinker,'" she said, staying Rose's hand. "That one sounds good."

"Innocent, you mean?" Violet's brown eyes sparkled behind her spectacles. "I can promise you, it isn't."

This time, they all sang together.

"Tom Tinker's my true-love, and I am his dear,

and I will go with him, his toolkit to bear.

He calls me his jewel, his delicate duck,

And then he will take up my chemise to—"

"That's ever so—" Judith interrupted loudly, then seemed unable to continue.

Lily stopped playing and looked up into her friend's bright red face. "What's your problem this time, Judith?" Despite everything, she was beginning to have fun. Perhaps it was the wine. Or the companionship. Or perhaps one could be woebegone, as Violet had put it, for only so long before needing to forget for a spell—even if only a very short one. "That's ever so what?"

"That word there that's missing—the one that rhymes with 'duck.' Why, I do believe…" Judith trailed off, her face turning even redder.

"Yes," Violet said dryly. "The word begins with f and we all know what it is now, don't we? But the point, dear Judith, is that it is missing. See here, the last printed word is 'to,' and after that comes the chorus."

Judith gulped more wine, clearly getting a little tipsy. "You said that so matter-of-factly," she observed, admiration lacing her voice. "You're so practical and calm, even discussing…"

"Lovemaking?" Rose finished for her with a grin. "That comes of being an old married lady."

"I am not old!" Violet protested, reaching to shove Rose's shoulder. But Rose just laughed and launched into the chorus. The others joined, even Lily, even though she couldn't carry a tune. Tonight that didn't seem to matter.

"This way, that way, which way you will,

I am sure I say nothing that you can take ill!"

"See?" Violet said while Lily continued playing. "We're all proper ladies, aren't we? We'd never say a word that could be taken ill!"

Amid laughter, they kept singing.

"Tom Tinker I say was a jolly stout lad,

He tickled young Nancy and made her stark mad

To play a new game with him on the grass,

By reason she knew that he had a good—"

"Ass!" Judith crowed, filling in the word they all thought even though it wasn't meant to be sung.

"This way, that way, which way you will,

I am sure I say nothing. . ."

"…that you can take ill!" Chrystabel sang under her breath.

Stretched out beside her on their bed, Joseph couldn't hear the words filtering through the thick stone walls. "What's that, Chrysanthemum?"

"Nothing, darling. I was just talking to myself." She sipped from her goblet of wine. "I'm so happy that Lily is enjoying herself."

He drank with one hand while inching his other fingers beneath her night rail. "What are they singing?"

"Oh, I cannot make out the tunes." He'd die if he knew. Joseph liked to think his daughters were much too ladylike for bawdy fun, and she wouldn't be the one to disabuse him of the notion. "I'm sure the others are just trying to cheer Lily up. And doing an excellent job, from the sound of it."

She stifled a laugh as she heard them rhyme five with the supposed-to-be-unspoken swive, and then launch into "This way, that way" again. "It was good of Rose to plan the sleeping party. Thoughtful, don't you think?"

Setting down his empty goblet, Joseph nodded. "Perhaps Rose has finally grown up."

"Perhaps she has." Chrystabel finished her own wine and sighed. "Our children are all growing up."

"Too fast," he agreed. His hand on her body stilled as his green eyes turned troubled. He hesitated. "About Lily—"

"I'm concerned, yes. Worried sick, truth be told. Should Rand not find a way out of this, Lily will be left devastated."

"And perhaps with child," he added in a rush.

"Oh, Lily isn't with child." Turning to face him, she reached to caress one whisker-roughened cheek. "I suppose I should have told you, but it never occurred to me that you would worry." She always expected him to be oblivious to such things, like other men. But sometimes he surprised her. And he did love his children very much.

That was only one of the many reasons she loved him so very much.

"You're still convinced they haven't shared a bed?" He frowned. "How do you know? A mother's intuition? Because I've told you before, my love, you cannot tell these things just by looking—"

She laughed, a sound of amusement mixed with relief. "I know because Lily's maid told me her courses are upon her."

"Oh." He reddened, as he usually did when confronted by womanly things. But she felt his body relax into the mattress.

"I do think, though," she continued, "that perhaps it isn't such a good idea, after all, to allow young people such privacy. No matter how perfect they are for each other. If things had gone differently, we might have had a disaster on our hands. I…well, in plotting the best way to match Lily and Rand, I think in this one matter I may have been wrong."

"Wrong? You were wrong?" His mouth dropped open.

Before he had a chance to close it and elaborate on her innocent miscalculation, she rushed to cover it with a kiss.

To her vast relief—and delight—nothing more was said that night.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Halfway to Oxford, rain had begun falling, turning the roads to mush and Rand's journey to a snail-paced nightmare. He'd arrived home and trudged through the empty house to the one furnished room, his bedchamber, where he'd promptly fallen into bed and passed a restless night.

Morning found him in a foul mood. Another day gone and no closer to finding a solution. He scrubbed up and pulled on some clothes, then opened his door, intending to inspect the house.

A measuring tape in one hand, Kit stopped and turned. "Rand. When did you get home?"

"Last night. Late." Rand rubbed his aching head. "How is the job progressing?"

"Haven't you noticed? It's all but done."

"Is it?" He followed Kit along the corridor, peeking into beautifully finished rooms. "My apologies. You've worked wonders."

"I've been here since you left. Amazing how a few days onsite will motivate craftsmen to work." He grinned, then suddenly frowned. "Hey, Rand, you're going to break your teeth."

Rand consciously relaxed his jaw, which had been clenched to the point of pain.

"What's got your dander up?" Kit asked.

"The mental image of my father at Hawkridge, planning a wedding for five days hence."

"I thought you wanted to get married."

"To Lily, not Margery Maybanks."

"Margery?" Kit's green-brown eyes widened. "Margery! Why the hell would he want you to marry Margery?"

Rand sighed. "It's a long story."

"Best told over a tankard of ale, I'd guess. Come along. It's a bit early yet, but the King's Arms is always open."

"Chin up, dear," Lily's father bellowed across the table.

"You cannot give up hope," Chrystabel added more gently, pointedly handing Lily a spoon. "There must be something that can be done."

"Rand. Rand will have to come up with something." Unable to eat, Lily pushed her dinner around on her plate and sighed.

Rand was her only hope.

The lighthearted camaraderie of last night was gone. In the wee hours of the morning, the young women had all giggled their way upstairs to share Lily's big bed. It had been a tight fit with four instead of three, but worth it for the comfort she'd felt, surrounded by people who cared.

Today she could find no comfort. They'd awakened too late for breakfast and spent most of dinner revisiting all their useless suggestions, reviewing them with Father and Mum. No one had any new ideas to contribute, and Lily's predicament seemed more hopeless than ever.

"Violet? Are you ready to come home?" They all looked over to see Ford had appeared in the doorway. "Did you have a fine time?"

Violet gave him a wan smile. "We did last night." She pushed back her chair and rose. "While I go get my things, Lily will fill you in on what's happened. Perhaps you'll see a solution we haven't."

But brilliant as Ford was, he had no solution to offer, either. No new plan to change Lord Hawkridge's mind.

They would have to prove Bennett's innocence.

"Maybe one of the other hunters witnessed it," he suggested. "Or someone else. Just because no one's come forward—"

"Rand is planning to interview everyone in the vicinity." Lily bit her lip. "But I'm afraid if anyone knew anything, they'd have come forward long before now."

Ford looked thoughtful. "Not if they were afraid of facing the marquess's wrath. He clearly doesn't want to hear his son was at fault."

"That's true," she said, reluctant to succumb to the thread of hope that suddenly tugged at her heart. "A different way to look at this. He did, after all, offer an enormous reward for information that would prove Lord Armstrong guilty. Perhaps people are reluctant to approach him with anything that would prove the opposite."

Her father nodded sagely. "It's wise to keep on top of it."

Judith reached for more bread. "She said 'the opposite,' Lord Trentingham. Someone could be frightened to bring Lord Hawkridge evidence that proves the opposite."

"Eh?"

Evidently giving up, Judith slathered butter on the bread. "You must trust Rand, then," she told Lily, taking a big bite. The solemn atmosphere had failed to curb her appetite. "You love him, and you have to believe he'll find proof."

Yes, Rand had promised they would find a way. After giving Judith a shaky smile, Lily turned to Ford. "Thank you. You've given me hope."

"It was nothing. Just another way to look at a solution that had already been offered—nothing has changed."

While that was true, Lily was holding as tight as she could to that thin thread of hope. For the first time since she'd awakened this morning, she felt able to breathe.

Violet returned, her satchel in one hand and An Antidote Against Melancholy in the other. "I'm ready."

"Why did you want that book?" Ford asked.

As her gaze flicked to their parents, Violet flushed a delicate pink. "Oh, I just thought it might help Lily." She took his arm. "Come along. I cannot wait to see Nicky and the twins."

"What's the book called?" Chrystabel asked.

Having failed to escape, Violet forced a smile. "An Antidote Against Melancholy. Lily was feeling a bit melancholy last night, you see, and—"

"Oh, then would you mind leaving it here? I expect she may feel a bit melancholy again the next few days."

"We already read the whole thing," Violet said, clutching the book possessively.

"Well, then." Mum was nothing if not persistent. "Leave it here for me. I adore helping people, as you know, and it seems to me I could learn a lot from a book called An Antidote Against Melancholy."

Lily suspected Mum would learn more than she anticipated. In specific, she'd learn her daughters weren't quite the innocents she imagined. And if she could judge by her sister's face, Violet was thinking much the same.

Looking amused, Ford pried the book from his wife's hands and set it on the table. "Here," he told his mother-in-law with a grin that would do the devil proud. "I hope you and Lord Trentingham will enjoy it."

As Chrystabel smiled and reached for it, he hustled Violet from the room, laughingly ignoring her protests.

"Come upstairs, Joseph," Chrystabel purred in her husband's ear. "We can read this educational book together."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

By the time Rand told the whole story, he and Kit had long since finished dinner and were nursing tankards of ale.

Last night's rain had ceased, but the day had dawned depressingly gray. The dark paneling inside the King's Arms made it dreary, and the crackling fire near their table did little to warm the room or lighten Rand's mood.

"Of all the rotten things your father has ever done to you, this wins the prize." Kit shook his head. "Margery. Is she all grown-up, then?"

"Very much so at twenty-one, and she's a beautiful woman, too. But I cannot imagine myself married to her."

"For all intents and purposes, she's your little sister." Looking thoughtful, Kit signaled for another round. "Margery was always very sweet."

"I'd say you're welcome to her, but I'm afraid Bennett Armstrong would have something to say about that. Especially considering she's carrying his child."

Kit blinked. "On top of everything else, she's with child?"

"Yes, and she's asked me to raise the babe as my own."

"You will, of course, should it come to that." Kit knew Rand inside out. "But we must find a way to fix this." He paused, musing as he drained his tankard. "Skinny old Bennett, huh?"

Despite the gravity of his situation, a ghost of a grin materialized on Rand's face. Bennett had been rather scrawny when they were all lads. "He's not skinny anymore. I wouldn't challenge him were I you. Remember, he's killed once already, even if it was in self-defense."

"True, but the man he killed was Alban. He did the world a favor." A serving maid set down two fresh tankards, and Kit flipped her a coin. "Some of my most amusing childhood memories are of Alban's fury whenever you deciphered his diary."

"It was never amusing when my father found out." Rand took a deep swallow; then his mouth dropped open as his tankard hit the table. "That's it!"

"Pardon?"

"The evidence I've been looking for to prove Bennett Armstrong's innocence. Alban's diary."

Kit frowned. "I must've had one ale too many. What evidence?"

Ales notwithstanding, quite suddenly Rand's head felt crystal clear. "You know that Alban always kept a diary—he was obsessed with putting his thoughts on paper. If he'd planned to kill Armstrong, there's an excellent chance he'd have recorded that fact. The marquess cannot refute proof written in Alban's own hand. All I have to do is find it."

"All you have to do is find it? That could turn out to be a tall order, my friend."

"It's my only hope." He drained his ale and stood, a new energy singing through his veins. "I must collect some things, talk to some people. I'll leave for Hawkridge at dawn."

Kit rose, too. "I'm coming with you. Your house can wait."

"I'm worried." Chrystabel sighed as she shut the bedchamber door. "After all I did to push Lily and Rand together, it's frustrating to find them in this predicament with seemingly nothing we can do to help."

Joseph sat in a chair and set An Antidote Against Melancholy on his lap. "You cannot fix everything wrong with the world, my Chrysanthemum. If they're meant to be together, Rand will find a solution."

"Oh, I suppose you're right." She started toward him. "But as a mother, it's hard to stand by and watch our Lily suffer."

"I hurt for our daughter, too, but the boy will come through." Looking down, he opened the book. "You picked a bright one in Rand."

"I intend for all of our girls to wed highly intelligent men."

"Our girls…" His head jerked up. "Our girls were reading this?"

"Certainly not," she fibbed, closing the distance between them to distract him with a kiss. "They barely glanced at it. Didn't you hear Violet say they misunderstood what An Antidote Against Melancholy was about? They took the title to mean it was a treatise on how to cheer a poor girl like Lily. When they found otherwise, they shut the book immediately."

He looked puzzled. "I didn't hear this."

"So sad that you cannot hear better." She sighed prettily and sat herself on his lap, turning to run her fingernails down his shirtfront. "Will you sing me one of these songs? I do imagine it could put me in the mood."

"In the middle of the afternoon?" He laughed, reaching around her to flip the pages. "I shall sing, then, yes indeed."

Watching his eyes widen as he read some lyrics to himself, she smiled. "I've been thinking, darling."

"Hmm?" He turned another page, humming a tune under his breath.

"I'm thinking we must keep Rand and Lily apart. They shouldn't be allowed alone together, not until after they're wed. You were right to be relieved she's not with child, and we must take steps to see that doesn't happen." Her sigh this time was heartfelt. "I was so certain they would end up together, but God only knows how all of this will work out. Joseph, are you listening?"

He looked up, his lips curving as his gaze trailed toward the bed. "Of course, my love, whatever you say."

Raising the book, he cleared his throat and began to sing.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Rand showed up in Trentingham's entry hall days before Lily thought he would, and the moment she saw his face, she knew he had a new plan. Even from the top of the stairs, she could see hope shining in his eyes.

Her heart leapt in response. Without a thought for her sister standing beside her, she lifted her skirts and ran down and into his arms. "You've thought of something, haven't you?"

"I have, yes." He kissed her exuberantly before continuing. "There's no guarantee, of course, that it will work out, or that even if it does, the evidence will convince the marquess, but—"

"Bloody hell," Kit Martyn interrupted from the doorway. "Tell her your idea already."

"Yes," Rose yelled down the stairs. "Go on, tell us." She began walking down to meet them. "I'm likely to die of curiosity. We've all been wracking our brains for a solution—Lily and I, Violet and our friend Judith—and I want to hear what you've come up with that our superior female minds missed."

Rand laughed. "It's Alban's diary."

"Pardon?" Lily and Rose said together.

"As long as I knew him, Alban always kept a journal detailing all his nefarious doings. If he continued the habit, all I have to do is find it, and I'd wager his plans to kill Bennett Armstrong will be written there in his own hand. No matter how much the marquess wants to believe in his innocence, it will be impossible to refute that."

"If Bennett is telling the truth," Rose put in.

Yes, if, Lily thought. But he'd seemed so sincere. And she had to believe him, because proving his innocence was the only chance she and Rand had.

"Finding the diary could work against you instead of helping," Rose pointed out. "If it's found and there's no mention of ill will toward the man, the marquess will consider that to be proof Alban was innocent. Even should witnesses come forward, he'll disbelieve them and insist on hanging Bennett—and Rand will have to marry Margery to save her love's life."

It was an intelligent observation. Annoyingly intelligent. And depressingly true, but Lily couldn't think about that now.

Hope had taken flight and refused to be grounded.

She clutched Rand's arm. "Do you really think you can find Alban's journal?"

"For all we know, it could be sitting in plain view in his bedchamber." Rand crossed his fingers. "If not, I'll turn the house upside down if need be."

"And inside out," Kit added. "I'm going along to help."

"Thank you," Lily said, impulsively giving him a hug. "I'm going, too."

"Lily." Rand stared at the oak-planked floor for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet hers. "I came to tell you my plans as I had promised, not to take you with me. Before I left, the marquess specifically instructed me not to bring you back."

Although she wasn't really surprised, Lily felt crushed. Had the man hated her that much?

"Nonsense," said Rose. "The Ashcroft motto is Question Convention, and Lily will do as she likes. You cannot leave her here languishing while you men have all the fun. Besides, she could very well notice something you miss. Women's minds work in different ways than men's."

"Truer words were never spoken," Kit put in dryly, but Lily noticed that he looked toward Rose with approval. "She's right, Rand. Lily should come along. We'll need all the help we can get."

"But I never—" Rand started.

"Never say never." Kit raised a dark, meaningful brow. "Didn't you declare your father was done dictating your life? Fourteen years ago."

Rand's shoulders went back. "My concern is Lily, not myself. She's going to receive a rather chilly welcome."

"Then I'd best bring my cloak," she said, smiling when Rose laughed.

"Wait!" Chrystabel appeared out of nowhere as usual. "Where do you suppose you're off to?"

"Hawkridge Hall. Rand has a plan, and—"

"Not overnight. I want you back here to sleep, Lily."

Lily frowned. Mum had never cared about such things before.

"I know Lord Hawkridge will be less than welcoming," Chrystabel explained rather unconvincingly. "I'd as soon not have to worry about you all the night long."

"I'll bring her home," Rand promised, and Rose began telling Mum about Rand's idea, and the awkward moment passed.

Regardless of her mother's odd change of heart, Lily couldn't wait to leave. Even knowing the marquess would be furious to see her. It felt good to do what was right instead of what was nice.

And it felt even better to be doing something to remedy her situation instead of sitting here feeling frustrated while the hour moved ever closer to Rand and Margery's wedding.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The three of them decided that, rather than take a carriage, they'd ride horseback to save time. Lily quickly changed her gown for her blue riding habit, and an hour and a half later, they arrived at Hawkridge Hall.

As they rode up the path from the river, Lily stared at the massive mansion. "It doesn't look evil," she said thoughtfully.

Rand leaned from the saddle to smooth her hair. "It won't be," he promised, "just as soon as we've exposed Alban for what he was."

"Goodness, I hope we can find that diary."

"We will. We have to."

The stables were around the back. As they headed in that direction, past the dog enclosure, Lily gasped.

"Oh, my God!" She slid from the saddle and hit the grass running. "Rex!"

Gaping, Rand watched her scale the fence. By the time he dismounted and caught up with her, she was kneeling in the dirt, her hands on either side of one very agitated mastiff's head.

"Hold him like this," she ordered without looking up. Rand leaned down to comply, not a simple task since the animal was violently pawing at its face. It gasped and gulped, its stomach pumping as though it was trying to vomit.

Lily reached for the dog's mouth and pried it open, ignoring all the foamy saliva that dripped from the canine's black lips. Rand struggled to hold the animal still while she pulled out its long tongue.

"Up!" she yelled, her fingers moving the tongue this way and that. "I need to see!" Kit leapt to help, angling the mastiff's head toward the sun while Lily peered down its throat. "I knew it!" she ground out through gritted teeth, calm and determined although she was clearly furious.

Heedless of the animal's sharp teeth, she reached back into its mouth. But she couldn't grasp whatever was choking the poor creature.

Only a whimper betrayed Lily's distress. After that, she was all action. She stood and, leaving the dog's front paws on the ground, went around to lift him from behind. Though the canine was easily twice her weight, she managed to raise both his legs. But she was too short to get them up high.

Rand and Kit both jumped to help, taking one hind leg each while Lily knelt again by the dog's head. "Come on, Rex," she pleaded. "Cough it up. Shake him!" she told the men.

They did, holding him up like a wheelbarrow, but though the dog jerked and made choking sounds, the object still remained lodged.

"Dear God," Lily moaned, panting as though she could breathe precious air for the animal. "Set him back down."

With the flat of her hand, she administered three sharp blows between the huge creature's shoulder blades, but nothing happened. Finally she leaned over its back, wrapped her arms around its middle, and squeezed so hard her face turned red, pressing up on its belly with both fists.

All at once, a slobbery red apple came shooting out of its mouth.

"Oh, Rex!" The dog collapsed to the ground, and she hugged him around the neck, laying her cheek against his sweaty coat. Tears poured down her face. "I thought we were going to lose you!"

The other dogs came closer to investigate, barking loudly and poking at Rex with their noses. Though he was clearly exhausted, Rex turned his head and licked Lily's face, a big wet swath of love.

She laughed, and Rand smiled, his own eyes embarrassingly damp. His legs felt shaky, as if he'd run miles. He was speechless.

Kit spoke for them both. "That was incredible, Lily."

She hugged Rex even harder. "It was only what had to be done."

"No," came another voice, one filled with admiration. "It was an amazing display of quick thinking." Rand turned to see his father unlocking the gate. The man walked right over to Lily and reached down a hand. "Thank you for saving Attila. I need to get rid of that apple tree."

Lily was too nice to say she'd told him so, but her lips curved in a smile that melted Rand's heart. She unwound her arms from the hound's neck and allowed the marquess to help her rise.

As soon as she moved away, the other dogs pressed even closer. Lily brushed at her less-than-pristine riding habit. "Perhaps, my lord, you should take him into the house for a while. He needs some time to recover, and out here he will get no rest."

"My dogs are not allowed in—" the marquess started, then apparently had second thoughts. "An excellent suggestion, Lady Lily. Will you come with us and help me get him settled?"

Rand watched, aghast, as his father and Lily headed for the house, the dog walking gingerly between them.

After a moment, he and Kit exchanged glances and began following. "He didn't even ask what she was doing here," Rand whispered.

"He didn't notice me at all," Kit said dryly. "He had eyes only for your lady."

"He's grateful at the moment. It won't last."

Kit shook his head. "She's won him over."

"Perhaps," Rand conceded, although it seemed more likely his father was temporarily bewitched. Lily, after all, was very good at casting spells, especially where Nesbitt men were concerned.

But regardless, he'd best not forget that nothing had really changed. "This doesn't mean he'll assent to my wedding Lily instead of Margery."

"No," Kit agreed. "We still need to find that diary."

In the back parlor, Lily settled Rex-Attila by the fireplace and requested a blanket. Without questioning her, the marquess rang for a footman and asked for one to be brought. Lily knelt by the dog, murmuring soothing nonsense while the marquess looked on, a bemused expression on his face.

When he finally looked up, his features hardened. "Christopher," he said, apparently noticing Kit for the first time. "It's been years."

Kit nodded an acknowledgment. "Since Rand left for Oxford."

"What brings you here now?" the marquess asked rather suspiciously.

Before Kit or Rand could answer, Lily spoke up from where she knelt on the floor. "We've come to find Alban's diary," she said clearly, although they had all agreed they would claim they'd come to discuss Rand's marriage and then perform their search on the sly. "Rand is of the opinion that it could clear Lord Armstrong's name."

To Rand's surprise, the man didn't respond with one of his characteristic explosions. "My son hadn't kept a diary in years."

Rand's heart dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, but Lily seemed undaunted. "Are you certain, my lord?"

"I knew my son," he said shortly.

Rubbing his dog's back, she gave a graceful shrug. "Well, it couldn't hurt for us to look, could it? You wouldn't mind, would you?"

Her tone could melt butter in a snowstorm, not to mention a man's heart. In his current mood, Rand's father was no exception. "Go ahead," he said. "But it's a waste of time. Even should you find my son's writings, I'm certain there will be nothing in them that would exonerate Margery's lover." His gaze on Lily was almost apologetic. "My lady, I appreciate your care for my dog, but you cannot marry my heir."

"I understand, my lord," she said softly. But as she rose to join Rand and Kit near the door, her eyes looked as determined as ever.

Rand appreciated that determination more than words could say. As they turned to leave, he took her arm. "We'll get Margery to help, too."

"She's not here," came his father's voice behind him.

More than a little concerned, Rand swung back. "Where is she?"

The marquess waved a hand, apparently unaware that his son had assumed the worst. "In Windsor, with Etta. They went to choose fabric for her wedding gown."

As the vision faded of Margery locked in a dank dungeon somewhere—not that Hawkridge Hall had one—Rand's shoulders slumped with relief. "They'll return soon, then?"

"First thing tomorrow morning."

"They're staying overnight to choose fabric?"

"And fittings or some such. They were to visit a seamstress. I gave them leave to stay the night at an inn, since they seemed to think it would be dark by the time they finished. I know nothing of these womanly things."

The man knew nothing of Margery at all, Rand thought incredulously. His foster daughter wouldn't care what she wore to be wed against her will. Rand would lay odds Margery was spending the night with Bennett Armstrong—and he wasn't surprised her old nurse had conspired to arrange it. The two had always been thick as thieves, females in a household run by men. In fact, Margery was likely the reason Etta had decided to stay after her nursemaid days were finished.

The men standing guard over Bennett had all been at Hawkridge for years, and Rand imagined they were as loyal to Margery as Etta. While they wouldn't go so far as to allow an escape—they'd doubtless face death for a betrayal of that magnitude—he suspected they'd turn a blind eye to an overnight visit.

By all appearances blissfully unaware, his father stroked the dog's head. "Now be about your business. The sooner you give up on finding this diary, the better. You need to prepare for your wedding. To Margery," he added with a glare.

Refusing to rise to that bait, Rand turned and walked away. There was no point in arguing now.

When he'd found what he was looking for, it would be a different story.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The most logical place to start, of course, was Alban's suite.

Unlike the single small chamber that had been Rand's refuge during his childhood, the marquess's heir had had three rooms to call his own. They began in his bedchamber proper, a darkly paneled room that sat between the other two and provided entrance to them all.

"Cluttered as ever," Kit remarked when they walked in.

"Nothing's been touched." Rand paused on the threshold. "It's as though he still lives here."

"He hasn't been gone that long," Lily said gently. She skimmed a hand thoughtfully over the unmade bed. "Perhaps his death is still too fresh for the housekeeper to deal with."

"I doubt that." Rand crossed to his brother's dressing table and opened a drawer. "I cannot believe Alban changed enough to ingratiate himself with the staff, even in fourteen years. He was ruthless in both his expectations and treatment of them. I suspect they're as relieved to have him gone as I." Finding nothing but a neatly folded stack of cravats in the drawer, he slid it closed and opened another. "If this room is undisturbed, it's my father's doing."

Ignoring a frisson of unease, Lily inspected a pile of books on Alban's night table. "What did his diaries look like?"

"Nothing in particular, at least back in the day. Whatever blank books he could find."

All the books on the table had titles on their spines, so Lily assumed they weren't journals. Just to make sure, she began opening them.

"I remember this," Rand breathed, pulling something sparkly from a drawer full of stockings. "My mother wore it all the time."

Lily moved closer to see. It was a beautiful oval pendant made of white gold, with many small diamonds set into a delicate filigree design accented with black enamel. "Goodness, it's really quite lovely. Do you think your father gave it to her?"

"Maybe," Rand said as he slipped it into a pocket. "I wonder if he knows Alban had it."

Rather than checking the obvious places, Kit lay down on the floor and stuck his head beneath the red brocade bed skirt. "There's a box under here," he said, pulling it out.

It was long, large, and shallow, made of wood with a heavy, locked hasp. "The diary must be in there," Lily said, amazed that they'd found it so easily. "Where do you suppose we can find the key?"

"Where would you keep a key?" Rand asked, almost to himself. Or perhaps he was addressing his brother's ghost.

"Behind the headboard?" Lily suggested.

Rising to his feet, Kit rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe under the mattress."

"No," Rand said. "Alban was more clever than that. It will be in this room, but not anywhere that typical."

He began methodically lifting objects while Lily checked the headboard and Kit looked for a key tucked into the ropes that supported the mattress. Both of those places revealed nothing.

"Aha!" Rand set down a Blue Willow jar that he’d found on the mantel. He held a wad of cotton that had concealed the key inside.

His fingers shook as he worked the lock.

Please, Lily prayed silently, let this be it.

But when Rand raised the lid, the box wasn't filled with books. Instead it held an astonishing array of various knives.

Lily stared in horror. "Some of them have dried blood on them."

"Alban never was very tidy." Rand's gesture encompassed the general condition of the room. "Frightening, isn't it?"

Lily nodded and swallowed hard, her gaze still fixed on the jumble of sharpened steel. Curved blades and straight, serrated and smooth, double-edged and honed to a deadly point. "Perhaps we have no need to find the diary now. This should convince your father that his eldest son had no good in mind."

A short, harsh laugh rent the air. Kit's. "I expect not. Alban's love of hunting was well known."

Rand nodded. "He rarely carried a firearm, either. Alban liked to kill with his hands. I’m surprised he even tried to shoot Bennett, although I suppose that goes to show his desperation to see the man dead." He released a pent-up breath. "No, I'm afraid this proves nothing except that my brother was fascinated with knives. I doubt the marquess will find that to be startling news."

"It seems he was fascinated with killing, too." Lily shivered, imagining all the creatures that had died at his hands. While she'd never objected to hunting for food, somehow she knew he'd had other reasons. She looked up and met Rand's eyes. "I believe Bennett. The man who owned this collection wouldn't hesitate to murder."

"We still must find his journal to prove it."

But a careful, exhaustive search of the bedchamber revealed nothing. They spent an hour combing Alban's dressing room—reaching into his pockets made Lily's skin crawl—and another turning his sitting room upside down.

Nothing.

Kit plopped into a red-and-gold-striped chair. "We're missing something."

"There's no desk in here," Lily said. "Where did he write?"

Rand began pacing. "In his bedchamber. At his dressing table. Didn't you see the quill and ink?"

"But the drawers there were filled with accessories, not paper."

"Alban didn't write letters," Rand said peevishly. "He wrote only in his journal."

"No," Kit disagreed. "I think Lily is on to something. Perhaps at sixteen, when you left home, Alban wrote only in his journal. But he died at thirty. Surely he was handling some of the estate work by then. Did he not have a study?"

Rand gave a weak shrug—a shrug that alarmed Lily, because it suggested he might have given up. Could Lord Hawkridge have been right that Alban had stopped keeping a diary? The thought was so disturbing she was afraid to voice it aloud.

"This is the sum total of Alban's rooms," Rand said dully. "Perhaps he shared the marquess's study."

But Rand's father was in his study when they went there to search. He looked up from his paperwork, impatiently tapping his quill on the desk as he swept all three of them with a cold gray gaze. "I can assure you," he said curtly, "you will find nothing of Alban's in here."

Lily deliberately smiled, a smile she suspected would have done Rose proud. "My lord, I'm certain that your son, as your heir, would have assisted you in the task of running your estate—"

"Of course he did. He was never a man to shirk his duties." Lord Hawkridge’s eyes swung toward Rand, as though to say he was one to shirk.

Lily felt her hackles rise. Rand had had no choice but to make his own life—not if he'd wished to survive. And though his life would be changing now, he certainly deserved time to grow accustomed to the idea

Besides, she could see no need to rush. Lord Hawkridge appeared almost indecently healthy for a man of his age, not that he was elderly to begin with. Fifty-two, Rand had said. And for all they knew, he could live to be a hundred and two.

She forced her lips to remain curved in that smile. "Did Alban do that sort of work with you here in this study?"

"Of course not. I told you, there's nothing of Alban's in here. He converted part of the library into a study for himself." With that, he looked down and scribbled something on one of the papers in front of him.

"Converted part of the library," Rand muttered as they trooped upstairs. "I suppose his own three rooms weren't large enough."

Their footsteps sounded muffled on the woven rush matting that covered the floor of the long gallery. Gilt-framed family portraits lined the lengthy chamber, hung on dark, gilt-trimmed panel walls. Noticing one in particular, Lily stopped.

The painting showed a younger Lord Hawkridge standing behind his seated lady, who held a white kitten on her lap. Her blue eyes looked kind, and Lily liked her on sight. The marquess's eyes looked…happy, she decided in surprise.

He must have been very much in love.

Lady Hawkridge wore a lovely pink dress and the beautiful diamond pendant Rand now had in his pocket. "I see your mother did love that necklace," Lily said with a soft smile.

Rand nodded. "Maybe this picture is why I still remember it."

Beside that portrait, another young man gazed from a canvas, a man Lily guessed to be Alban. He resembled Rand, except his hair was darker, his expression cooler. His eyes, however, of indeterminate color, looked so cold as to make his smile seem warm in comparison.

There was, of course, no portrait of Rand.

"Professors do not rate paintings," Rand said dryly beside her, apparently reading her mind.

She looked back to the picture of his parents. She could almost see the woman's graceful fingers stroking the silky, purring cat. "She looks very loving," she said of his mother.

"She was. The only love I ever received."

"Not the only," Lily said quietly, and Rand squeezed her around the shoulders.

Kit had gone ahead through the library and into a small room beyond, where a massive desk took up most of the space. Upon entering, Rand immediately moved behind the desk and began opening drawers.

Kit was already pulling books off the shelves. "These are deep," he said. "There's another row of books behind the first." He gestured to the opposite wall. "Lily, you can start over there, and we'll meet in the mid—"

She was heading over to do as he suggested when she heard his indrawn breath. She swung back. "Have you found them?"

"I think so."

Behind the books he’d removed sat a long row of multicolored spines, none of them marked with titles. As he drew one out and opened it, a grin spread on his face.

"Yes, this is a diary. An older one, from 1664. Now we just need the most recent."

Her heart racing with renewed hope, Lily pulled out another and flipped open the cover. "I cannot read it."

"It's in code," Rand told her, standing over her shoulder.

"Oh, now I remember." The dates, at least, weren't encrypted. She turned pages, noting this one ran from mid-1668 to early 1669. "You got in trouble for breaking the codes, didn't you?"

"Did he ever," Kit confirmed with a wry grin.

"When I translate the latest diary," Rand said, "it will get us out of trouble. Let's find it."

But though thirty-odd journals crowded the shelf, none of them were the most recent. They looked behind the books on all the other shelves, floor to ceiling, but there were no more journals to be found.

An hour later, when they'd closed the last cover of the last book in the small room, Lily dropped onto a chair. "What now?"

Rand's jaw set. "We search the rest of the house."

"It's gigantic! And one small diary could be anywhere…if it even exists."

"It exists," Rand forced through gritted teeth. "My brother didn't record his life for twenty-nine years and then suddenly stop."

Lily felt as though her emotions were on a swing. Down and then up. Up and then down. Dejection settled in for now. "It could take days. We could still be searching when the priest shows up to marry you."

"Lily." Rand came over and took her face in both hands, raising it for a soft kiss. "We will find it, and we will be the two who are married." He looked to Kit. "We may as well start here in the main library."

That lofty, two-story chamber was easily eight times the size of Alban’s study. Lily took one look at the endless shelves and felt like weeping.

This would never do. She had to regain her spirits, had to do her share of this enormous task. Rand wasn't giving up, and she couldn't, either.

But after the excitement of the discovery and the disappointment that had followed, she couldn't face starting over just yet. "I'm going to check on Rex," she told the men. "I'll be right back."

Downstairs, she hugged the huge mastiff around his neck, tight, as though she could draw strength from his big, warm body. After all, he'd survived a harrowing ordeal and, from the looks of it, come out none the worse for wear. When he licked a slobbery path across her face, she laughed. "All right, then. I'm going to find that diary."

Feeling immeasurably better, she rose, then froze, staring at the dog. "I wonder…" she whispered, then took off at a run, heading back to the library.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Etta in tow, Margery ran into Bennett's study and smiled when he bolted up from his desk. "What are you doing here?" he gasped.

They met halfway, his mouth dear on hers, the kiss wild despite her old nurse's presence. Her fingers twined into his long dark hair, and his arms went around her to clutch her close. When he finally broke the kiss, she was breathless. "I told you I'd come to you again, didn't I?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"I've been combing the countryside for witnesses. Rand had promised to do that, but then he took off for Oxford and has yet to return." She ran her hands up and down Bennett's back, frantic to touch him, to feel the strong muscles beneath his thin shirt, to convince herself he was here, he was real, he wouldn't die, that somehow they'd end up together. "I cannot just sit in my uncle's house and pray anymore. I have to do something. I have to find someone who saw Alban come after you."

His hands clenched on her waist. "I feel so helpless, stuck here in this house. All I can do is write letters." His gaze flicked to the papers littering his desk. "Letters and more letters," he said, looking back to her, his green eyes laced with despair. "But I know no one with influence greater than the marquess's. No one who can save me."

"Did you get my letter? The one where I explained Uncle William's promise to spare your life if I marry Rand?"

The look in his eyes—misery—told her he had. "Do you suppose you could come to love him?" he asked, his voice so harsh she pictured each word being forced through his throat.

"Not like this. He's my brother—"

"Then you cannot do it. I won't allow you to sacrifice your life for mine. You'll be unhappy all your days."

"Not as unhappy as if you were dead." She wasn't going to let him argue this point. "I'm going back out—I just stopped here to tell you what I'm doing. God willing, I'll find someone able to vouch for your innocence in this matter. Either way, I'll be back tonight."

"Tonight?" She saw his heart leap into his eyes.

Her own heart pounded at the thought of a night in each other's arms. One precious night. She'd never thought to feel like this, hadn't considered herself a woman driven by lust. Until Bennett.

"Yes, tonight." She nodded toward Etta. "Uncle William thinks we're staying overnight in Windsor. Ordering a wedding gown—as though I would care what I wore to wed Rand. Sackcloth would do." She snorted. "For all his power, sometimes my uncle can be blind to a woman's wiles."

"He's a man," Etta put in with a nod of her curly gray head. "His wife could outwit him just as easily. A crafty woman she was, although she loved him too much to play him the fool very often."

Margery had seen a loving side of Uncle William in the past, but right now she found it hard to summon loyalty. "Am I wrong, Bennett, for going behind his back?"

She'd warred with herself for days. Perhaps Rand's mother had been the crafty sort, but Margery had always prided herself on her honesty.

Until now.

Now she was hiding a pregnancy and sneaking off to meet her lover, and she couldn't find it in herself to feel guilt for either dishonest action. But she was also contemplating ruining two other lives to save Bennett's, dooming both Rand and Lily to loveless futures…and that sparked enough guilt to make a nun dread the Day of Judgment.

One of her hands left Bennett's body and went to her own belly as she prayed her child wouldn't suffer for the sins of its mother.

Bennett's gaze dropped to her middle, then flicked toward Etta.

"She knows," Margery said. "She guessed."

Etta's big green eyes took on that wise-old-nurse look. "There are signs. Another woman would know."

Bennett nodded. "No, you're not wrong," he murmured in answer to Margery's earlier question. "The marquess is being unreasonable. He claims to love you, yet he plots to deprive your child of its father."

One of his hands slipped from her waist to cover her fingers. She wished he could feel their child move, but even she hadn't felt that yet. It was too early. Were it not for the signs Etta had mentioned, she'd have a hard time believing she even carried a babe.

And yet she knew in her bones that Bennett's child grew under her heart. And she could only be joyful for it.

"Uncle William doesn't know I'm with child," she said softly. "Because it wouldn't make a difference. And should the unthinkable happen, I would want him to believe the child is Rand's."

The last word was said with a sob—a sob Bennett smothered with his mouth. Heedless of Etta watching, they both poured themselves into the kiss.

It wouldn't be their last, Margery consoled herself when they finally parted. They still had tonight.

But what of the days and nights after that?

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

"I have an idea!" Lily shouted as she burst back into the library. "Maybe Rex can find the diary."

Up on a ladder, Rand turned to look down at her. "Rex? You mean Rex the dog, otherwise known as Attila?"

"Yes, Rex the dog. And no, I haven't gone mad. Animals have a keen sense of smell, you know."

Kit's lips twitched. "I didn't realize journals were smelly."

Lily was so hopeful, she only laughed. "Alban's diary would carry a specific scent. Come, let me show you what I mean."

Rand and Kit exchanged a dubious glance but followed her out of the library.

On their way through the long gallery, Lily glared at Alban's image. He wasn't going to come between her and Rand and their happiness. Rex wouldn't let her down.

Downstairs in the back parlor, Lord Hawkridge was examining the mastiff. When they walked in, he looked up from where he was kneeling—a very unlikely position for such a dignified man.

Lily liked him the better for it. There was always hope for a man who loved animals.

He smiled, an expression that sat rather oddly on his face. "Attila appears to have fully recovered, Lady Lily. I'm very grateful. My thanks to you."

"I would do my best for any living creature, but you're quite welcome. He's a special dog. In fact, I'm wondering if I might borrow him for a while."

He rose to his feet. "Gratitude extends only so far, my lady. Attila lives here."

Rand spoke up. "She doesn't mean to take him away. Only to use him to help find the diary."

"He's a fighter, not a hunter." A more skeptical look had never graced a man's face. "And there's no diary to be found."

Rand crossed his arms, appearing ready to do battle, but Kit cleared his throat. "It's a harmless enough request from one who has done you such a favor. Attila will stay in the house. The exercise will do him good after his ordeal."

"Exercise is all he'll get—he won't be finding any diary. But I suppose it's harmless enough. So long as he stays indoors. I plan to keep him inside overnight."

Lily beamed. "A kind and wise decision, my lord." She snapped her fingers. "Rex, follow me."

"His name is Attila," the marquess called after them.

She led Rand, Kit, and the dog across the marble-floored great hall and through to Alban's suite. Once there, she patted the bed. "Up!" she commanded, and the huge animal landed where she wanted—with a leap that made the bed ropes groan.

Rand grinned. "My father would kill you if he saw this."

"Nonsense. Your father adores me. I saved his favorite dog." She grinned in return, stroking the animal's stiff fur. "Kit, would you run to the kitchen and fetch some meat? Cut into cubes, if possible."

He made her a mock bow. "By all means. Even the exalted marquess believes you walk on water, so your wish is my command."

As he marched to do her bidding, she giggled. In spite of everything, she giggled. "This is going to work, Rand. I know it."

Holding one bedpost, he leaned to press a kiss to her lips. "Don't get your hopes up, will you? Even if we find a recent journal, I'll have to translate it, and we'll have to hope it turns out to be incriminating. And then we'll have to convince the marquess it says what I claim it does—unlikely to be a simple task—and that such evidence merits freeing Bennett and allowing Margery to wed him. We're a long way from victory, sweetheart."

"But we're about to take the first step. I feel it."

When Kit returned with a bowl of meat, she took Alban's fancy silver inkwell and held it to Rex's nose. "Diary," she said clearly.

"That's not a diary—" Rand started.

"Hush. I'm going to have him smell diaries, too, and I don't want to confuse him. One word for a scent is enough." She fed the dog a piece of meat, then waved the inkwell beneath his nose again. "Diary. Diary." She fed him more meat, then snapped her fingers. "Down. Come along. You, too," she said to the men.

Rand barked, eliciting a hoot of laughter from Kit as they followed her.

She hurried back upstairs to the library and through to the small room beyond, Rex trotting by her side. Once there, she took down a stack of Alban’s journals. "Sniff, Rex. Diary." She opened one and held it under his nose, then another and another. Each time he sniffed a page, she fed him another reward. "Diary. Diary."

Kit and Rand just looked at each other and shrugged.

After the dog had sniffed a dozen different journals and received a dozen treats, Lily leaned to look into his eyes. "Diary. Find another diary. Now, Rex. Go."

Without hesitation, the mastiff bolted from the room.

They all ran after him.

Back downstairs, through the great hall, into Alban's bedchamber. By the time they caught up, the three of them were panting harder than the dog.

"Diary," Lily reminded him.

He went straight to the silver inkwell.

She released a strangled laugh. "Good, Rex." She fed him a piece of meat, holding the inkwell out to Rand. "Will you take this out of here? He'll never find anything else with this in the room. It smells too strong."

"Does it?" Kit wondered.

Rand waved the inkwell beneath his friend's nose.

"Whew." Kit blinked. "It does stink."

Rand smelled it himself. "Tannin, and something else I cannot identify. Alban always mixed his own ink. Plain lampblack and linseed oil wouldn't do for him."

He set the inkwell outside the room, shutting the door for good measure when the mastiff looked after it longingly.

The three of them watched him sniff all around the chamber.

"This isn't going to work," Kit said. "There isn't an inch of this room we haven't looked in or over or under."

"Give him a chance," Lily said. She set the bowl of meat on the mantel. "Diary, Rex. Find a diary."

Rand gestured toward the night table. "He hasn't noticed all those books."

"He's not searching for books. He's searching for a scent. Those books weren't handwritten by Alban, so they don't smell of his ink."

Rex trotted into the sitting room, sniffed around there, and came back.

"Perhaps," Rand said, "we should lead him to some other chambers. Ones we haven't searched yet."

"Give him a chance," Lily said.

Rex sniffed all around the bedchamber again, jumping on and off the bed twice in the process. The coverlet slid to the floor, and Kit bent to pick it up. "He's—"

"Give him a chance," Lily said.

Rex checked out the dressing room. Thoroughly. Lily walked to the doorway and watched. "Diary. Diary. Rex, find another diary."

Back in the bedchamber, the dog sniffed around once more. Then he stopped before the marble fireplace and sat on his haunches, gazing into it.

He barked once.

The three humans looked at each other.

"He's done," Kit said. "He didn't find it."

Refusing to believe that, Lily knelt by Rex's head. He licked her cheek, then looked back at the fireplace and barked.

"He thinks it's there," she said. "In the fireplace."

Rand lifted a poker and stirred the cold ashes. "Nothing. There's nothing here."

"Maybe Alban burned it," Lily whispered, afraid that if she said the words out loud, she might somehow make them true.

"Maybe." Rand set the poker back in its wrought iron stand with a final-sounding clunk. "I suppose he might have, if he were worried enough that someone might find it."

Disappointment fisted Lily's heart. She stepped toward Rand, toward the comforting heat of his body, the comforting circle of his arms.

Would this be the last day she ever felt that comfort?

Rex barked again. And again. And again, gazing at Lily as though he was trying to tell her something but didn't have the words.

"He thinks it's in there," she said with a sigh. "It must have burned."

"No." Kit walked across the room, then back, staring at the fireplace. He poked his head into the sitting room, then looked again at the fireplace. "There's space behind there."

"What do you mean?" Lily asked.

"Empty space. Maybe a hiding place. I cannot believe I failed to notice it immediately. Can't you see the proportions are off, in both this room and the next?"

"We're not architects," Rand said dryly, but with a fresh note of hope in his voice. "How do we get to this space?"

Kit started feeling around the paneling above the mantelpiece. "There has to be a latch, or a lever, or something…" He moved to the side, running his hands down the wood to the floor.

And there it was. A little snick reverberated in the room, and a panel swung open.

Lily stepped in first.

A secret room. No, a space. It was tall as a man but no more than three feet deep. Just wide enough to step into and access the area behind the fireplace, a nook so dark she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face.

She heard the soft hiss of a flame being struck. Rand stepped in holding a candle, illuminating the hidden space and its shelves.

Shutting her eyes in horror, Lily turned away.

But she’d seen what was on the shelves. Traps of all sizes, some with steel teeth large enough to capture a man. A bloody saw. Well-used rope. Cuffs. Whips.

And a lone, leather-bound journal.

Rand reached for it and hurried her out, closing the door with a bang.

Taking the candle from Rand, Kit reopened the panel, peeked in, and slammed it shut again.

Lily's limbs shook. "What—what were all those things for, Rand?"

"I'm not certain I want to know. But I imagine this diary will reveal all."

"Will you show your father that space?"

He was silent a long moment. "No. Not unless I have to. Not unless the diary fails to reveal Alban’s plan to kill Bennett, or the marquess refuses to believe my translation."

She nodded. It was a sound decision. The marquess had clearly loved Alban, and there was no sense disillusioning him more than was necessary. After all, Alban was already dead.

Never had Lily, nice Lily, thought she'd be glad for a man's demise. "Never say never," she whispered.

Rand slanted her a glance, then slowly opened the journal and flipped to the final entry. "'Nineteenth of August, 1677,'" he read aloud before looking up. "The day Alban died."

"We've got him," Kit said with a smile.

Lily dropped to her knees and buried her face in Rex's neck, wetting his fur with her tears. After a long moment, she got to her feet, reached for the bowl of meat, and set it on the floor.

"Thank you," she murmured.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

All the way back to Trentingham, Lily and Rand and Kit reminded one another that the diary might not reveal anything incriminating.

But they couldn't help but believe that it would.

It was late when they arrived, and Lily was exhausted. She'd hardly slept a wink those long nights waiting for word from Rand.

The rest of the family were already abed. After a yawning Parkinson let them in, Rand drew Lily close and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Go to sleep," he told her. "You cannot help with this, anyway. In the morning you'll feel better, and with luck I'll have good news."

She nodded and took herself off to her room.

Parkinson led the way up to the library, then lit a few candles and went back to bed himself. Rand and Kit settled at a round wooden table to decipher the diary.

No sooner had Rand opened the cover than Rose walked in, carrying another candle and wearing nothing but a white night rail with a red wrapper tied over it. Although the garments were concealing, their effect was undeniably intimate. She set down the candle and rubbed her eyes. "You found the journal?"

"We did," Kit said. "Would you like to help us decode it?"

Rand opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, she took a chair. "Of course. Lily asked me to help, because I'm good at that sort of thing."

She was good at that sort of thing. Inside of an hour, they had Alban's final entry translated, Rand and Rose doing most of the work while Kit sat back and watched.

Rand noticed that Kit mostly watched Rose, not the diary.

"What does it say?" Kit asked.

"'I'm going to do it,'" Rose quoted. "'The time has come.'"

"It's not enough." Rand rubbed the back of his neck. "We need to find something that clearly implies murder. The rest of this entry's no more than a recitation of his day."

"Then we do the one before it," Kit said.

Rand sent him a wry glance. "We?"

"Hey, we all do what we can. I found the thing, didn't I?"

"With Rex’s help," Rand conceded.

Rose went to a cabinet and poured them each a measure of Madeira, herself included. Then they went back to work.

Another hour passed, an hour of slow but steady progress.

"We're going to find the evidence," Rose said, adding to the ever-growing column of words they'd managed to decipher. "It's here. I know it." She looked up. "He was a wicked man, wasn't he, your brother?"

Rand nodded, afraid to be optimistic, but feeling Rose was right. They were going to find their proof. Then he'd just need to convince his father.

They puzzled out a few more words of an entry dealing with the sale of some cattle. "You're going to take care of my sister," Rose said while scribbling some notes. "And I expect you to be kind to her all your days."

He looked up. "I'll cherish her like no man has ever cherished a woman."

"You'd better," she said darkly, then jotted another word.

A smile on his face, Kit watched her and sipped his Madeira.

"'The date draws near,'" Rand read when the entry was complete. "'If she is to be mine, steps must be taken.'"

"Not enough," Kit said. "He could be talking about a horse."

"But he isn't." Rose reached to refill his goblet. "He's talking about murder. Another entry. Let's get back to work."

She seemed tireless, and Rand was rarely tempted to sleep when faced with a puzzle. Especially one this important.

"Lady Rose," Kit started.

"Hmm?" She crossed out a word and wrote another.

"Rand led me to believe you were, ah, a mite antagonistic concerning his relationship with your sister."

"Well, that," she said, "was before I got to know the man properly. I didn't feel he was good enough for her at first. But now…"

Her soft smile said it all. Although she'd had other reasons to oppose the match than those she was willing to admit, Rand knew her new attitude was genuine. Miraculously, she seemed truly happy for him and Lily. And approving.

It would be an enormous relief for Lily, he knew, and for him as well. And now, when it seemed everything might work out after all, that seemed more important than ever.

Several hours and four entries later, at last they hit gold.

Rand sat back, staring at the page.

"Read it," Kit said.

"'Margery begged and begged,'" Rose read softly, "'but Hawkridge refused as always.'" She paused, glancing up at Rand. "He called your father Hawkridge?"

Rand shrugged. "Ours is not a warm family."

"You'll be warm now," she warned, "with my sister. Or—"

"Peace, Rose. I love Lily more than my life. Read the rest, will you?"

Kit laughed. At a time like this, he laughed. If Rand hadn't been so tense, he'd have reached over and slapped him. But in his present mood, he feared he might do his old friend permanent damage.

"'Hawkridge refused as always,'" Rose continued slowly. "'I followed Margery to Armstrong's place, her sobbing all the way. And there, they plotted to elope.'" She reached for her Madeira and took a swallow. "Here," she said, handing Rand their notes. "You read the rest."

He took a deep breath before reading, for the first time, the individual words they'd translated, all pieced together. "'When I overheard their plans, I felt I couldn't draw air. My heart swelled to such a size it filled my chest, squeezing my lungs, robbing me of sustenance. I cannot allow this to happen. Margery will be mine. They leave in a week, and before that, I must kill him.'"

"There it is," Kit said admiringly.

"Yes, there it is," Rose echoed with a satisfied sigh.

"Thank God." Rand sent a quick thanks to heaven. "And both of you. If—when—Lily and I wed, I'll be silently thanking you as we recite our vows."

Dawn was breaking when they left the library. Rose had made peace with the fact that he'd chosen Lily over her, and amazingly, she and Rand were friends. But Kit, Rand was sure, wanted to be more than friends with Rose.

A shame she hadn't seemed to really notice him.

"Go to Lily," she told Rand. "Go tell her what we've found."

"Go to her in her chamber? You…you'll come along, won't you?"

"No." She flashed the sort of smile that only Rose could flash. "But if you're not out in five minutes, I'm coming in. Even you, Rand Nesbitt, cannot ravish a woman in five minutes flat."

Rand didn't need a second invitation.

Lily looked like an angel, her hair a dark halo on her pillow. But her mouth was turned down in a frown. Her dreams, he knew, weren't sweet.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to those pouting lips. They curved up, and her arms rose to wrap around his neck.

She smelled of sleep and lilies. "Rand?"

"Yes, sweetheart. I'm here." Was it silly of him to be so glad she hadn't called another man's name? He knew she was his, knew it as well as he knew which English words came from Latin.

Her eyes slid languidly open. "Could you read the diary?"

He smiled and sat beside her on the bed, his fingers playing idly in her hair. "Alban Nesbitt," he said, "has never contrived a code I couldn't decipher."

She sat up, suddenly wide awake. "What did it say, Rand?" Her hands twisted together in her lap, her fingers rubbing the faint scars. "What did it say?"

"It said he planned to murder Bennett. I love you, Lily Ashcroft, and we're going to be married."

He would make it so. He hadn't come this far to fail now.

Before Lily rose for breakfast, he was riding hard for Hawkridge, the diary and notes in one hand.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Rand arrived at Hawkridge to find the marquess and Margery at breakfast, sullen and silent.

His arrival took care of that.

"It's here," he said, striding in and waving the diary and some papers. "In Alban's own hand. His plans to kill Bennett Armstrong, here in black and white."

Margery's face lit like a full moon on a cloudless night. The marquess took one look at her and frowned. "Sit down, Randal. I haven't finished my breakfast."

Rand took some spice bread and a bowl of meat pottage from the leather-topped sideboard and carried them to the table. He sat and spread his evidence on the cedarwood surface.

The marquess deliberately looked away, focusing on his food.

Margery pushed her pottage around in her bowl, evidently too excited to eat. "What did you find, Rand?"

"The diary ended on the day of Alban's death." Ignoring the marquess's wince, Rand took a big bite of the fruited spice bread. He'd been awake twenty-six hours without taking any time to eat. "Here"—he rustled through the papers with one hand—"here's the crucial passage." He held out a page to Margery.

Her hand shook as she took it. Although it was a translation, not Alban's writing, the words on the paper were his.

As she scanned down the page, a soft gasp escaped her lips. Rand's father looked annoyed before she even started reading. "'I cannot allow this to happen. Margery will be mine. They leave in a week, and before that, I must kill him.'"

The marquess snatched the sheet from her hand. His eyes narrowed before his gaze shifted to Rand. "This isn't Alban's hand. It's yours."

"Actually, that's Rose Ashcroft's writing." Rand wasn't at all surprised the man didn't recognize his own son's hand. The marquess had never bothered to look at any of his lessons. "Her writing is much tidier than mine."

With a flick of his still-supple wrist, his father tossed the paper onto the table. "I'll never believe that's what the diary says. Do you think me a fool? You'd claim anything in order to wed that Ashcroft chit." He looked back down to his food, cutting a bite of ham with a fitful, angry motion. "Those aren't Alban's words. I know—I knew—my son."

Rand struggled for calm. "No, Father, you didn't."

The man's gaze jerked up from his breakfast. Rand hadn't called him Father in twenty years or more. Staring at Rand, he stabbed blindly with his fork.

"You didn't know him," Rand repeated. "You knew the son you wished he was."

"Hogwash." Having managed to spear some ham, he stuck it in his mouth, taking his time to chew and swallow before continuing. "My son was incapable of premeditated murder."

"Are you aware that your son kept knives under his bed? A collection to rival a museum's. Most of them stained with blood."

If Rand could judge from his expression, the man hadn't known. "There have been no murders in this district other than Alban's."

"Not of people," Rand agreed. "But I'd wager animals have been found senselessly slaughtered."

From the look on his father's face, he'd hit home. "What of it? It's no crime."

"It could be a small leap from beasts to humankind."

The marquess pursed his lips and shook his head, but his armor had cracked. Rand could see it in his eyes. He pressed his sudden advantage. "Come to Alban's chambers. I'll show you the blades. After you see the evidence, your imagination will fill in the rest." With that, he rose and strode out of the room, trusting his father would follow.

When he heard an additional set of footsteps as they crossed the great hall, he glanced over his shoulder. "Wait in the dining room, Margery. This isn't fit for a lady's eyes."

Lily had seen the knives—and worse, to Rand's regret. He had no intention of allowing another woman to witness his brother's depravity.

But Margery lifted her chin. "I'm no lady, as your father often reminds me. Only a mere miss. And seeing as I was supposed to wed the man, I feel entitled to view what I escaped."

By the time she finished her brave speech, they were all standing in Alban's bedchamber. Rand sighed and gave up.

"Where?" the marquess asked, clearly discomfited in the disarray that made it seem as though his eldest son were still alive. "I see no knives."

"They're under the bed." Rand stooped to pull out the box. They'd left it unlocked. He lifted the lid.

"Dear God," Margery whispered, looking away.

Her hand went protectively to her abdomen, and Rand winced, hoping his father wouldn't notice the telltale gesture. He went to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "He's dead," he said softly. "He cannot hurt you now."

"Or anyone else." He felt her shudder, then straighten. "Or anything else."

He looked to the marquess. "Well?"

The man's jaw looked tense enough to crack walnuts. "This proves nothing. Alban was an avid hunter, as you well know."

Margery's mouth dropped open. "Uncle William, those aren't hunting knives."

The marquess bent and drew one out. "This one is."

Was the man that blinded by stubborn pride? Rand felt anger boiling up from his gut, choking him. In frustration, he yanked the knife from his father's hand and tossed it back into the box. "Were you aware there's a secret space off this chamber?" he asked in a tight voice.

The one thing he'd vowed to avoid bringing into this. And in front of Margery, no less. But had he any choice? Better shocked and disgusted than married to the wrong man.

"Of course I know that," his father scoffed. "I built the place."

Though the room was flooded with daylight, Rand lit a candle. "Then I suppose you also know what's in it?"

"No, I don't. What Alban kept in his chambers was his concern alone." Though the marquess sounded adamant, trepidation laced his voice. His gaze flickered to the fireplace. "Will you never learn that a man is entitled to privacy, Randal? How many times did I tell you not to snoop in your brother's diaries?"

Halfway to the fireplace, Rand whirled. "How many times did you beat me for it?"

"Too many to count," the man snapped.

"Yes, too many times I tried to prove your son was evil and still you continued to deny it." Shoving the candle into his father's hand, Rand knelt to work the latch near the floor. "Here, at last, is your proof," he gritted out. "Try to tell me I'm mistranslating this to my advantage."

He stood and swung open the panel.

The marquess stepped into the small space. And his face went white.

As though in a daze, Margery moved closer.

"No!" Rand reached to stop her and turned her into his chest. His arms went around her protectively. "Take a good look," he told his father over his shoulder. "Perhaps there have been no murders in the vicinity, but that only means he stopped short of killing. You won't convince me all those implements were meant for hunting. Or even animals."

Silence settled over the chamber, so profound Rand could hear both his own heart and Margery's. And the marquess's harsh breathing. Despite his convictions, the man was clearly shaken.

Suddenly he stepped back and slammed the panel, the sound shattering the stillness. For a moment, he just stood in place, swaying on his feet as an odd sort of calmness settled over him. "This doesn't prove Alban meant to kill Bennett Armstrong."

"No," Rand agreed. "It only goes to show he was capable. His diary is the proof."

"I cannot read it. And I refuse to—"

"To take my word as to its translation? I'm not surprised, since you never have. But this time, I'm prepared to sit with you, for days if necessary, and demonstrate, step-by-step, how the code was broken and exactly what that journal says." To Rand's mortification, his voice broke. "You owe me the chance to do that, Father. All my life you've dismissed me, and you've already admitted that was a mistake on your part. You owe me."

It didn't take days.

Four hours later, his father slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Standing in her mother's perfumery, Lily gazed out the window and squinted into the distance. "Where on earth is he?"

On another day, Rose might have laughed, but she didn't. "Poor Lily. Give him time." She chose several cheerful yellow daffodils and added them to an arrangement. "He had to ride there and convince his father and then come all the way back…why, he likely won't be here for hours."

Mum plucked rose petals, tossing them into the clear glass bulb of the fancy distillery Ford had made for her while courting Violet. "Your sister's right, dear. Come and help me. It will take your mind off the waiting."

With a sigh, Lily walked to the table and idly picked up a rose. "I know Rand will convince his father," she said, as much to assure herself as them.

"Of course he will," Rose said. "If you'd seen that translation, you'd be even more certain. Rand's brother intended murder. Their father won't be able to deny it."

"But that doesn't mean he'll allow us to wed."

That statement was met with silence, because, unfortunately, there was no arguing with it. No guarantees that proof of Alban's intent would lead to the marquess changing his mind.

"Tell me about Hawkridge," Rose said at last. "Is it beautiful?"

"Very." Lily absently plucked rose petals. "Much newer than Trentingham—Rand's father built it just before the war—and every room is exquisite." Except for Rand's, which was rather plain, but she didn't feel up to explaining that. "Why, the dining room even has leather on the walls, with designs stamped in pure gold. But the place is eerie, I think. Or perhaps it's just cold. It feels as though no one there has been happy for a long, long time."

"Perhaps they haven't," Mum suggested. "But that will change, of course. You and Rand will be happy indeed, and your happiness will rub off on everyone else. And I imagine that after you move there you'll be able to make improvements, make Hawkridge Hall feel warmer and more like home. If you cannot redecorate the whole house, you should at least have a say in the rooms assigned to you and Rand."

Picturing Rand's tiny chamber, Lily sighed. Maybe—assuming they were allowed to marry—they could occupy Alban's suite of rooms instead. But if that were the case, a complete overhaul would be necessary before she'd agree to sleep there even once.

Rose added several carnations to the colorful spray she was creating. "Will you live at Hawkridge all the time, then? Will Rand have to give up his post at Oxford?"

"I don't know. He and his father have yet to discuss any details like that." She tossed the last of the rose petals into the glass bulb. "All of their energies have been focused on the marquess's insistence that Rand wed Margery."

Mum fitted the lid on the distillery. "Has Rand resigned himself to leaving his position?"

"I don't think he's had enough time to think about it. But I doubt he'll be happy leaving Oxford." Lily hoped he'd be happy just being with her. Whether at Oxford or Hawkridge or somewhere else entirely. But she knew better. "He worked very hard to attain that professorship. And he enjoys that life. He's never fancied himself an earl, let alone a marquess."

Finished, Rose stepped back to eye her masterpiece. "I shouldn't think that would be hard to get used to."

Rose might have mellowed a bit, but she was still Rose.

"How about you?" Mum asked. "Will you be happy at Hawkridge?"

"I'll be happy wherever Rand is," she said, knowing it was true. "I'll have him, and my animals…"

Her voice trailed off.

Mum looked up sharply. "What is it, dear? Are you afraid Lord Hawkridge won't approve of your menagerie?"

"No," she said slowly. "He loves animals—more than people, truth be told. He raises mastiffs."

Mum smiled. "Well, then, it sounds like Hawkridge will be the perfect place to build your animal home."

Rose tweaked a few flowers, balancing the arrangement. "I imagine Hawkridge has plenty of space."

"No. I mean, yes, there are acres and acres of land." Lily took a deep breath and decided to come out with it. "You might as well know that if the marquess blesses this marriage, it will be with the stipulation that my inheritance goes to him."

Rose gasped. "How dare he demand such a thing!"

"There was no demand. I offered of my own free will. Hawkridge was mortgaged during the war, you see, to provide funds for King Charles. The marquess was on the verge of losing it when Margery was dropped in his lap, along with her considerable fortune. Hawkridge would face bankruptcy without her land and money."

"Or your money," Rose said darkly.

"Exactly. Don't look so sour, Rose. It was my idea to offer my inheritance in exchange for the right to wed Rand, and I'll gladly do so, if only the marquess will allow it."

Rose plucked a daisy from the vase and pointed it at Lily. "All your life, you've dreamed of nothing but building a home for your strays." She shook the flower, emphasizing her words. "Maybe sometimes I've laughed at that, but I know how important it is to you. How can you give that up so cavalierly?"

"I'm in love," Lily said simply.

But she caught Chrystabel's gaze on her and knew her mother hadn't missed the wistfulness in her voice.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Not the sort of man to indulge in self-pity for long, nor to accept blame, the marquess had made an excuse and gone off to his study. Half an hour later, when Rand and Margery asked to talk to him, he readily—if gruffly—invited them in.

They sat in two chairs facing him, gazing up at him seated behind his desk on the raised dais. A few awkward moments passed before Rand cleared his throat.

"Father," he began, hoping calling him such might mellow the man, "we would like your assurance that, under the circumstances, you will no longer pursue the conviction of Bennett Armstrong for murder."

"Of course I won't. I'm a reasonable man when presented with persuasive evidence."

"Well, then, Margery respectfully requests permission to marry him."

"Does she?" the marquess asked with a raised brow. He shifted his gaze to his ward. "I haven't heard such a respectful request."

"Uncle William…" Margery's voice shook, and she paused to control it. "May I please wed Bennett?"

"No," the man snapped. "I didn't agree before Alban's death, and nothing has changed between then and now. Marriage is primarily a business arrangement, and an alliance of Hawkridge with the Maybanks estates is best for both parties."

"You mean Hawkridge requires Margery's money," Rand said, struggling to remain calm. "As I've told you, Lily has ten thousand pounds that she's willing to invest in Hawkridge's future. Added to her dowry of three thousand, it should be a sufficient sum."

At Lily's name, his father's eyes had softened. It was amazing how much the man had apparently come to like her. He almost looked wistful.

But his expression swiftly hardened again. "I vowed on Simon Maybanks's deathbed that his daughter would wed my heir. Lady Lily's inheritance does nothing to mitigate that."

"Uncle William." Margery rose and walked over to him, stepping up onto the raised dais. She placed her palms on his desk and leaned toward him, her eyes pleading. "I was an infant when my father claimed that boon, and he was only attempting to provide for my future the best that he knew how. Don't you think he would have been thrilled to marry me to a baron with Bennett's vast lands and income? Most especially because I love Bennett so very much, and he loves me in return. You must agree that if my father had had any way of foreseeing such an opportunity, he would have given his blessing freely."

In the silence that followed, Margery backed down the step and returned to her seat. She folded her hands in her black-skirted lap. A clock ticked on the mantel, unnaturally loud in the stillness. The marquess blinked but said nothing.

"Father," Rand pressed, hoping the man's lack of response meant he was considering Margery's words, "you've told me that your actions toward me, in years gone past, were because you blamed me for my mother's death."

The marquess's lips thinned. "I've also told you I'm sorry."

"And I've accepted your apology—and your explanation." Saying the words, Rand suddenly realized he had. "But what I'm wondering now, or perhaps I should say what I'm assuming, is that you loved her very much."

"Of course I did," his father said, looking bewildered. "I loved her with all my heart."

"Well, then, if you loved her enough to blame me, whyever would you wish to deprive your son and foster daughter of that same sort of love?"

The marquess blinked some more. Margery's hands clenched in her lap. The clock kept ticking. Rand prayed silently, harder than he'd ever prayed in his life.

"Marry whom you wish," his father said at last with a sigh.

Margery leapt up and rounded the desk to hug him. "Thank you, Uncle William, thank you! You've always been so kind to me, I knew in the end you'd choose for my happiness."

Rand's father just grunted.

Rand sat immobile, his entire body seemingly gone boneless.

He'd done it.

He was going to marry Lily.

"I must go tell Bennett."

Rand had never seen Margery's eyes look so green, her face look so flushed. He smiled, picturing Lily looking that happy.

"I'll take you to him," he said, "on my way back to Trentingham. Lily will be anxious to hear this news, too."

"I'm going with you," his father said.

Halfway to rising, Rand dropped back onto his chair. "Pardon?"

"What sort of a man do you take me for?" the marquess asked, then apparently decided he'd best not wait for an answer. "Not only has your Lily saved my dog's life, she is also about to save Hawkridge from ruin. The least I can do is welcome her into our family."

Rand wasn't sure he was ready to think of himself and his father as a family—he suspected they might never truly be friends. But he grudgingly admitted that it seemed the man's heart might be in the right place.

Or getting there, anyway.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

While the marquess rode around Armstrong House dismissing all the guards, Rand dismounted and walked Margery to the door. The butler answered and showed them both into a sitting room, then went to fetch Lord Armstrong.

Rand sat on a red velvet chair watching Margery walk aimlessly around the chamber, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. She'd be happy here, he thought. Though the house was centuries older and much smaller than Hawkridge, it was well kept and richly appointed. Besides, he knew Margery would be happy anywhere so long as she was with Bennett.

It was the same for him and Lily. Home would be where Lily lived, even if that was Hawkridge.

"Margery!" Bennett rushed into the room, then stopped short when he saw Rand.

Rand rose from the chair. "She's yours, Armstrong."

Long-lost hope leapt into the man's eyes. "You mean…"

"Yes. My father has agreed to your marriage."

"How—why—"

"Margery will explain," Rand said. "Later."

She'd stopped roaming. Now she seemed simply frozen in place, gazing at Bennett as though she couldn't believe he would be hers. When he took a step toward her, she came to life and rushed into his arms.

Their lips met, and Rand smiled. That would be he and Lily soon, and he was sure their reunion would be even better. In fact, he couldn't imagine why he was standing here watching the two lovers kiss when he could be kissing his own love himself.

"I'm leaving," he announced.

With a heartfelt sigh, Margery drew her mouth from Bennett's. "Good-bye, Randy," she said, gazing into the other man's eyes.

"I'm leaving you two alone."

"I know," she murmured, her words directed to Bennett along with a wide smile.

"Be good," Rand said, knowing they wouldn't.

Lily's fingers ran over the harpsichord keys in an unceasing pattern. "What time is it?" she asked.

"About five minutes after the last time I told you." Rose didn't bother to look at a clock. "I thought you found music calming."

"Well, today it's not."

"Perhaps it would help if you'd play something besides scales." Rose set down her needlework and pulled a droopy bloom from the flower arrangement beside her. "You're making me nervous."

"Sorry." The music stopped abruptly as Lily folded her hands in her lap. She closed her eyes, willing herself to be patient. "That it's taking this long, it's a good sign, right?" She heard her sister rise and walk across the drawing room. "It must mean his father is listening."

"It must," Rose said in a soothing way.

But Lily heard laughter bubbling underneath. Her eyes popped open. "This isn't easy, you know. My entire life is hanging in the balance."

"Of course it's not easy." Rose plucked three browning leaves off some flowers on the wide windowsill. "But surely not your entire life. If it all ends badly, you'll go on—"

"You've never been in love," Lily said.

The leaves crunched in her sister's fisted hand. "No," she admitted, "I haven't. And given what you're going through, I believe that's just as well."

"You're wrong." Lily's voice came a whisper. "I wouldn't trade love for tranquility."

"Some of us," Rose said, "don't seem to have a choice."

"Oh, Rose." Lily's eyes met her sister's dark ones. "Someday…"

You'll find someone.

The words hung between them, unsaid, until Rose looked away and out the window. "Someone's riding up the road, Lily."

"Rand!" Lily jumped up and brushed at her sky blue skirts.

Rose frowned. "No, two someones. I wonder who they could be?"

"Two?" Lily pulled a few curls forward to frame her face. "How do I look?"

"He's not going to care," said the sister that took the most care with her own appearance. "Go to him, Lily."

As she hurried to the entry hall, Lily wondered if one of the riders was indeed Rand. After all, there were two, and he'd set out for Hawkridge Hall alone. As Parkinson opened the door, she braced herself for disappointment.

Rand stood on the other side, a wide smile on his face. Her heart leapt—until she looked beyond him.

"Lord Hawkridge. How, um, how very nice to see you."

"Lady Lily." Rand's father bowed, for once looking at a loss for words.

"Rand," her mother said warmly, glossing over the awkward moment as she appeared from seemingly nowhere. "Come in, please. And you," she said to Lord Hawkridge, "must be this young man's father. The resemblance is unmistakable."

Rand didn't look particularly pleased at that observation. Lily stared at him, caught in his compelling gray gaze, wondering…

"And you must be Lady Trentingham. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," the marquess told her mother. "I've come to welcome your daughter into my family."

It took a moment for Lily to register those words, and when she did, she was embarrassed to feel tears spring to her eyes.

"Rand," she whispered.

His gaze flicked over to his father, then her mother, and finally Rose standing at the bottom of Trentingham's wide staircase. He stepped forward to take Lily's hand.

"Come," he said, "I feel a need to take a run." He glanced at her fashionable heeled shoes. "I mean a walk."

That old, rude habit, but Lily didn't care, so long as he wanted her with him this time. Her mother and the marquess would do fine—Rand's father might be on the curmudgeonly side, but Chrystabel had never met a man she couldn't wrap around her finger.

Without saying a word, Rand hurried her through the house, out the back into the gardens, and along the paths to the summerhouse. He dropped her hand long enough to shut the door behind them, enclosing them in the cool dimness of the small, round brick building. Then he turned and gathered her into his arms.

"Rand, how did you convince—"

"Hush," he said as his mouth crushed down on hers.

She was hushed, very effectively, by a kiss so intense it rattled her to her toes. His lips slanted over hers again and again until she couldn't tell where his mouth stopped and hers started, until her knees were so weak she needed his arms to hold her up.

"When can we marry?" he asked, dropping little kisses on her nose, her cheeks, her chin. His mouth trailed down the side of her throat. "When? Today?"

"No." She laughed, arching her neck to allow him better access. He felt so very good—especially knowing that finally, miraculously, he was going to be hers.

"Tomorrow?" he asked, his lips dancing over her skin.

"Not tomorrow."

"The next day, then. Or the day after that. Saturday. A perfect day for a wedding."

"No." She shivered, and not only from his sensual assault. "You and Margery were supposed to marry on Saturday."

"Her birthday. The day she'll wed Bennett." He worked his way back toward her mouth.

"Oh," she breathed, "they must be so happy."

"Mmm." His agreement was muffled by his lips claiming hers, his tongue meeting hers in a heady swirl of sensation. He tasted divine. "Margery will want us at her wedding," he murmured against her mouth. "So ours will have to be the day after that."

"No." Pulling back, she laughed again. "Two weeks. When Violet and Ford wished to marry in a rush, Mum insisted on two weeks to plan the wedding."

"Two weeks?" he said on a groan. "After all we've gone through, two more weeks seems a lifetime."

She smiled softly, basking in those heartfelt words. "Two weeks is entirely survivable."

"As long as we don't have to wait for the wedding night," he said, his fingers moving to the tabs on her stomacher.

His eyes smoldered, and something inside her responded to that heat. But something else held her back. She reached to still his hands. "Rand."

"Hmm?" He kissed her again, nearly melting her resolve.

But she'd thought about this. "I want to wait. Until we're married. Until you're mine, heart, body, and soul, and no one can threaten otherwise."

The heat in his eyes transformed to disbelief. "Nothing can threaten us, Lily. Nothing. We've been to hell and back again, and there is nothing I will allow to come between us."

Under the force of his gaze, she was weakening. She'd already given herself to this man, and she hadn't been sorry, and more than anything, she burned to share that again.

But it was hard to believe that all would be well. There had been too many hours and days when she'd thought he was lost to her.

"Nothing," he repeated, and the earnestness in his voice went a long way toward breaking her will. "Fate may send us dragons, but I'll slay them for you, fair Lily. Nothing will steal you from my side."

Watching her closely, he pulled something from his pocket.

His mother's pendant, on a delicate white gold chain.

"I've learned that my father gave this to my mother on their wedding day. I was planning to save it for our own wedding day, but I want you to have it now."

"Oh, Rand."

If this wasn't proof that he was certain they'd stay together, she didn't know what was. Her heart seemed to melt as he clasped the chain around her neck. Looking down, she lifted the necklace, admiring all the diamonds and the beautiful enameled filigree design.

Her throat closed with emotion. "I'll cherish it always," she whispered.

It was all she could manage.

Still…when he reached for her stomacher tabs again, she pushed at his hands. "Not here," she said, not an outright rejection nor an unreasonable one, either. The summerhouse had a brick floor and only the narrowest of wooden benches. "This is all so sudden and unbelievable to me, Rand. I want to hear how you convinced your father."

He drew a deep breath, clearly struggling for control, glancing around as though he felt trapped. "All right, then. But let's walk."

They strolled across the wide lawn and over the bridge and along the Thames. As his story poured out, Lily felt his hand in hers slowly relax.

"You were brilliant," she said when he'd told her everything.

"I was desperate." He squeezed her hand and smiled.

"And how has your father taken it?"

"We spent over an hour riding here—maybe the longest time alone together ever. He expressed regret that he'd never seen Alban for the evil man he was. He seems…repentant."

"You like him more than you thought."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say like. We've a long history between us. But the idea of living with him isn't nearly as repugnant as I would have thought last month."

"Will we have to? Live with him, I mean?"

He seemed surprised by the question. "Do you imagine we have a choice? He's certainly assuming we will. Hawkridge will someday be mine, and I've a lot to learn about handling it."

"Oh, Rand, you can handle anything you put your mind to. Your father has years left to live. Why should you give up the life you love now?"

He looked as though he wanted to believe her—but couldn't. "It's a matter of responsibility. Once I would have agreed with you, but now that I've been home…well, there's Margery—"

"Margery will be with Bennett."

"There's Etta and all the others. They're depending on me, and I cannot let them down. Oxford…" His voice turned wistful for a moment before he straightened his shoulders, his hand gripping hers tighter. "This is the way it must be."

"But your professorship, your house."

"There's nothing for it. I'll have to sell the house."

"After you worked months designing it with Kit? The two of you put your hearts and souls into that house."

He gave her a wan smile. "Kit liked some of my ideas so much, he's planning changes to his own home in Windsor."

"You cannot just sell it, Rand."

"Well, it makes no sense to keep it if I'll never be using it, does it? I can put the money into Hawkridge, help it recover from the loss of Margery's land that much sooner. Or…wait…"

A light had entered his intense gray eyes. "What?" Lily asked.

"The money can be yours," he said softly, looking pleased with himself. "For your animal home."

It would mean she'd have the best of both worlds—Rand and her dream—but she said, "No."

"Yes." He nodded emphatically. "It's my house, after all, built with income that had nothing to do with Hawkridge. My father and the estate have no claim on it whatsoever."

"No, Rand." She wouldn't—couldn't—let him give up his house in Oxford—and the life he'd made for himself there—for an old childhood dream. "I won't hear of it."

It was a silly dream, anyway, a childish dream for a child. Her strays had no need of a fancy, custom-built home and a staff of trained caretakers. She'd done just fine by them so far, all by herself with makeshift pens in a corner of a barn, and surely the marquess would have no objection to her doing the same at Hawkridge.

True, she dreamed of helping more animals—hundreds more, possibly even in several homes spread across the country—but who knew if she'd ever find such a large number of needful creatures? Her strays had always found her.

They'd reached the woods, and Rand apparently decided not to argue, instead pulling her into his arms. "Are you really going to make me wait two weeks for you?" he asked. "I'm burning for you, Lily. All these days and hours…"

She was burning for him, too. He felt so warm and solid against her body, she could almost believe they really would stay together forever.

She sighed against his mouth. "Let's go back," she said. "There's much to settle. Our wedding date, for one."

"And then?"

"And then maybe I'll believe it."

"If you don't," he warned playfully, "I'll wear you down anyway."

Since that wasn't an altogether unpleasing idea, she let it slide by without a retort.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

The negotiations took place over a dinner that had gone cold while waiting for their return.

"Two weeks," Lily told her mother.

"Two weeks! I cannot plan a wedding in two weeks."

"You did for Violet and Ford," Lily reminded her, and that was that.

Looking victorious, Lily turned to Rand's father. "Now I would like to discuss our living arrangements."

His gaze landed on the diamond pendant she wore. Though he'd granted Rand permission to give it to her, Rand still held his breath, waiting for a reaction.

At last the marquess nodded his approval, a small smile curving his lips. "I realize Randal's chamber is small," he told her. "Perhaps we can refurbish—"

"That would be nice, but I meant where we will live and when."

The man picked up his fork, his smile becoming a slight frown. "You'll live at Hawkridge, of course. Where did you think you would live?"

"Oxford, at least part of the year. Rand's position there is important to him. The research—"

"Lily," Rand started.

"He can research at home," his father cut in. "He'll be the marquess someday, which means he has responsibilities."

She smiled sweetly. "Certainly he does—"

"Lily," Rand interrupted.

"—but that doesn't mean he must be at Hawkridge all the time. Many men own more than one estate, and a man cannot be two or three places at once. Why, Father visits Tremayne but once a year, and it thrives quite well without his constant presence."

"Lily," Rand tried to put in.

But she wasn't finished. "Oxford has three terms a year of eight weeks each. Twenty-four weeks out of fifty-two. There are long breaks between those terms and the whole summer free…if Rand agrees to spend the remaining twenty-eight weeks at Hawkridge learning his responsibilities, surely you can survive without him during term times."

"Lily—"

"Just until he's needed at Hawkridge year-round," she said by way of conclusion. "But given your excellent state of health, we're both hoping that won't be for a long, long time."

She topped off her arguments with a sweet smile that the marquess apparently found bemusing, given he seemed to be frozen in place with his fork halfway to his mouth.

But Rand was not similarly charmed. "Lily," he repeated and paused for a moment, expecting her to interrupt. When she didn't, he sighed. "I truly want to sell my house so you'll have the money for your animal home. It's the least I can do after you so generously offered to save my family."

Rose clapped. Lady Trentingham smiled.

The marquess came to life. "Animal home?"

"Lily's childhood dream," Lily's mother explained. "She's rather fond of animals—"

"This isn't news to me," the man said with a grin that looked out of place on his face.

"And she had planned, upon coming into her inheritance, to build a home where strays could be sheltered and, if necessary, nursed to health."

"With a staff," Lily added. "But truly, my lord, I don't mind investing in Hawkridge instead. It will be my children's legacy, after all. And I especially don't want Rand to sell his Oxford house. As proud as you are of building Hawkridge, he feels the same of his home. And—"

"Enough." The marquess waved his fork. "You will talk my ear off, child. Randal shall keep his house, and if his responsibilities at Oxford can be fulfilled in twenty-four weeks a year, they may have him for that time. But I get him the rest," he warned.

"Of course."

His jaw set, Rand shook his head. "No. I said—"

"She shall have her animal home," the marquess interrupted, "at Hawkridge. I have staff enough to spare, and if nothing else, it will ensure you two stay there on a regular basis. Now, if everyone's concerns have been addressed to their satisfaction, I need to go home. Margery's wedding day approaches, and although it surely won't be the extravaganza Lady Trentingham has in mind for yours, there are details to which I must attend."

Half an hour later, Rand found himself dragged out of the house, drafted into helping his father, since, as Lily's mother pointed out, it wasn't term time at Oxford.

No sooner was he riding away than Chrystabel started a guest list.

"Well, darling," Joseph said that night, "that was very cleanly done, although I suspect the poor lad might die of longing if there were such a disease. And I don't expect our daughter was very happy, either."

"Nonsense," Chrystabel said as she climbed into bed. "They can survive two weeks."

"I feel for the boy. Before, you were only too happy to push them together, and—"

"There was good reason then. Lily was all too concerned about Rose, and—"

"But they've already been together—"

"That doesn't matter. I won't make the mistake again of allowing our children to risk conception before they're safely wed."

"The date has been set, so this makes no sense, my pretty Chrysanthemum. But not to worry, I love you anyway." He kissed her soundly; then his lips trailed lower, tasting the skin revealed by her night rail's low neckline. "I shudder to think of that boy alone in his bed tonight," he added, his breath warm on her breast where he'd pushed the fabric down farther. "And I thank God I'm not in that same place."

As his mouth closed over her, Chrystabel thanked God, too…and not only because her daughter's happiness was finally secured.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

"Soon," Rand whispered, "it will be our turn."

Lily watched the starry-eyed bride and groom exit Hawkridge's grand red-and-gold private chapel as though they were walking on air. Tears had welled in her eyes more than once during the romantic ceremony. "I cannot wait," she whispered back, reaching up to touch the pendant Rand had given her.

The past few days without him had felt so empty.

Holding his hand, she walked sedately from the chapel, following the other guests to the great hall. Once there, she rushed to hug her soon-to-be sister-in-law. "The wedding was beautiful! You both look so happy."

"We are," Margery and Bennett said together, sharing a joyful smile.

Rand hugged Margery, too, while Lily watched, not at all jealous this time.

"Your gown is gorgeous," she told her.

"Thank you." Margery's fingers skimmed the pearls and embroidery that covered her pale green satin overskirt. "It's my best."

Standing nearby, the marquess narrowed his eyes. "What happened to the gown you ordered in Windsor?"

"Oh." Color flooded her cheeks. "Well. I—I…it wasn't quite ready, after all. You didn't give the seamstress much time, Uncle William."

"Hmmph," he said and walked away.

Rand waited until the man was out of earshot and then grinned at his foster sister. "You never ordered a wedding gown, did you? I suspected you were with Bennett that night."

"It's the vows that count," she said evasively. "Not the clothes."

Her groom laughed and gave her a kiss. As other guests pressed close to offer felicitations, Rand turned to Lily, a silvery glint in his eyes. "Come. I have something to show you."

He led her from the great hall, grabbing a pewter goblet off a sideboard and handing it to her as they went.

She sipped, then smiled when she tasted what was in it. "Your father poured the champagne my parents brought."

"He likes your parents." His shrug encompassed all the bafflement she knew he felt at his father's recent behavior. Beatrix appeared and padded at their heels as Rand entered the corridor that led to his room. But instead of turning left, he walked straight ahead into Alban's bedchamber.

Only it wasn't Alban's bedchamber anymore. It wasn't a bedchamber at all.

She stared. "What happened?"

"You'll be living here the week after next. I told my father we needed more room. He didn't argue, so I sent a message to Kit. The day after that, a crew of men showed up to begin the remodel. They'll resume tomorrow, once all the wedding guests go home."

The dark paneling had been stripped and was half refinished in a warm, honey tone that lightened the whole chamber. The door to the secret space stood open, and she could see it had been emptied. The rest of the room was empty, too.

"Even the bed is gone," she said.

"This will be our sitting room." The drapes had been removed, and soft summer rain blew against the naked windows. Taking her hand, Rand drew her into Alban's old sitting room, now dominated by a huge four-poster bed draped in yellow silk. "I had it brought from another chamber. Just until you choose a new one. Something without a history. I thought we could go to London, and—"

"Thank you," she whispered past a sudden lump in her throat. She knew Rand didn't care whether he slept in the same room that Alban had, or even in the same bed. He'd done this for her. "Where are Alban's things?"

"I had them sent to a foundling home. Every last item. I asked Father, and he didn't say yes, but he didn't say no, either. I think he wants to forget that Alban ever existed. He even had his portrait removed from the long gallery."

In an effort to steady herself, she took a sip of champagne. "Did he send that to the foundling home, too?"

"No." Again, that baffled shrug. "He burned it."

"Maybe he'll have one painted of you to replace it."

"I wouldn't go so far as to assume that." He gave a strangled laugh. "But I'm not dreading living here half the year quite as much as I thought I would."

Beatrix followed them back through the sitting room and into Alban's old dressing room, and it was empty, too. The clothes presses were gone, the walls stripped and waiting to be finished. "Kit is arranging for someone to build cabinets." Rand took the goblet from Lily's hand. "Newfangled ones with drawers."

She turned to him. "It all sounds wonderful. I love you."

"And I love you." A smile lit his eyes as he sipped, regarding her over the rim. Without swallowing, he bent and put his mouth to hers, giving her a sweet, cold, sparkly kiss as he shared the bubbly beverage.

She swallowed and laughed. "Eleven more days and we'll be together for good."

"Too long." He took another sip and gave her another effervescent kiss, the champagne still fizzing in her mouth when he pulled back to skim his knuckles along her cheek. "You're not going to make me wait that long, are you?"

She remembered, vaguely, that she'd decided they really should wait. But the kiss had made her light-headed, and her skin tingled wherever he touched, so she couldn't remember why.

When Beatrix began hiccuping, Lily leaned to pick her up, cradling the cat in her arms. Protection from Rand and her own weakening resolve. She mustered a teasing smile. "Did you bring me in here to show me the renovations or to get me into that big yellow bed?"

"Both," he answered with a grin. He took another sip and leaned over Beatrix, meeting Lily's lips once again. The bubbles tickled her throat as Rand tickled her senses.

The idea of making love right now was absurd, but she sighed longingly as she licked the remnants of champagne off her lips. Delicious. Rand's kisses were delicious.

"Not here, during the wedding."

"Here. Now." He didn't look at all concerned with propriety. "The wedding is over."

"But not the wedding supper. There are guests in the house," she reminded him, the protest faint to her own ears.

"We're in here. The guests are out there." His voice was husky and low, filled with the pent-up frustration of desire unfulfilled. "Eleven more days, Lily…and all the days before now…"

His words made heat shimmer through her. What he was proposing was surely wicked, here at a wedding.

Wickedly tempting.

And a weakness in Lily's knees told her she was all too close to surrendering.

It had been so long. So many days of yearning need…so many nights living with that low-burning heat…lying chastely with him here at Hawkridge and then alone in her bed at Trentingham…

When she swayed toward him involuntarily, he laughed and swung her up into his arms.

"Rand!" she squealed, barely holding on to the cat. "We cannot!"

"Oh, I think we can," he said, striding into the sitting room.

Beatrix leapt to the floor as Rand kicked the door shut and set Lily on her feet. "See?" He threw the bolt. "There are no guests in here."

He was impossible. And irresistible. His mouth covered hers, and despite her misgivings, her arms wound around his neck. Now-familiar feelings began coursing through her, building a heat centered low in her middle. She pressed herself close, wishing desperately that she and Rand weren't wearing so many clothes.

A small sound of satisfaction rose from his throat. "I knew I could wear you down."

"A kiss," she said with mock indignation. "I've only assented to a kiss."

Beatrix hiccuped louder, rubbing against Lily's skirts.

"A kiss, hmm?" Rand started easing her into the bedchamber, working the tabs on her stomacher as he went, and she couldn't find it in herself to protest. Her legs felt shaky, and when the backs of them hit the high, silk-draped mattress, she reclined onto it with a sigh, using her arms locked behind Rand to bring him down with her.

Beatrix suddenly began meowing emphatically.

"Ignore her," they whispered together.

Meow…

Lily melted into Rand's embrace. His kisses tasted of champagne and desire, and excitement built inside her, coupled with wonder that he would be hers. Not only today, but forever. Seeing Margery wed Bennett had really driven that home.

Her own wedding was next.

Meow, meow…

The mere thought made her giddy, made her senses spin with delight. She pressed her lips tighter to Rand's, tilting her head until their mouths fit perfectly.

Meow, meow, meeeooow…

A knock came at the door. "Lily? Rand? Are you in there?"

"Goodness! It's Mum!" Lily bolted upright on the bed, her heart pounding not with arousal now, but with something more akin to panic. She rushed to refasten her stomacher.

Still fully clothed, Rand calmly rose to his feet.

"She was trying to warn us!" Lily whispered.

"Your mother?"

"Beatrix!"

More knocking. "Lily? Are you in there?"

Amusement lit Rand's eyes. "I'll get the door."

"Not yet!" Her fingers fumbled on the stomacher's tabs.

"Are you in there, dear?"

Rand walked into the sitting room to answer the door, and Lily scrambled to join him, doing her best to look composed. He pulled back the bolt, at the same time reaching to tweak her stomacher straight. As the door swung open, revealing her parents, she plastered on a smile.

Chrystabel's gaze flicked to Lily's bodice before settling on her face. "There you are!" she said brightly.

Too brightly.

"I was just showing Lily the rooms we'll be using when we live here," Rand said unconvincingly.

"We'd love to see them, too," her mother said and walked straight into the bedchamber.

As her parents passed, Lily looked down, mortified to find one of her stomacher tabs unattached. She whirled away, fastening it surreptitiously before joining them in the other room. Her heart seized when she noticed the rumpled counterpane on the bed.

"This entire home is magnificent." Chrystabel crossed to a wall and ran a hand down the newly stripped paneling. "The grain is lovely."

"I thought to paint it white for Lily," Rand said while Lily inched over to the bed to smooth the yellow silk. "But Kit suggested a pale stain might look nicer on this wood."

Chrystabel nodded her approval. "What kind is it?"

Her husband pulled out his pocket watch and flipped open the lid. "Half past three."

"Cedar," Rand said, clearly suppressing a laugh. Lily wondered which he found amusing, her father's misunderstanding or her own red-faced embarrassment.

Probably both.

Joseph snapped the pocket watch shut, nodding vaguely at Rand. "I expect you'll be staying here the next week or so to supervise finishing this?"

Rand raised his voice. "The house in Oxford needs my attention, too, Lord Trentingham. Perhaps I can bring Lily along—"

"I think not," Chrystabel interrupted. "Lily will be at home, busy with the wedding plans."

Lily stopped smoothing. "Mum, I think—"

"You'll be busy," she repeated. "If you weren't insisting on marrying so quickly, it might be a different matter. But I'll need your help. Now, I imagine Margery and Bennett are missing us, so our little tour of the house is over."

As they all returned to the great hall together, Lily exchanged a frustrated glance with Rand.

"Elizabeth!" Chrystabel cried, waving to a neighbor and dragging Joseph in her direction. "I've found the perfect man for your daughter."

No sooner had her parents walked off than Rand swung Lily to face him. "Margery wasn't missing us." He aimed a pointed look to where his baby sister was half entwined with Bennett, blissfully unaware of any of the guests.

Lily nodded. "Mum is trying to keep us apart."

"And your father is cooperating."

"I cannot figure why. They've left us alone before—"

"Does it matter why? They intend to make certain we don't see each other again until the day of our wedding."

A maid came by with fresh goblets of champagne. Rand took one and a bottle, too, meeting Lily's eyes in a way that made her certain he had an idea that involved the sparkling wine.

An idea her parents wouldn't approve.

Lily's lips—and other places—tingled at the thought. She took the goblet from him and downed a bracing swallow.

"They won't succeed in this," Rand warned, sounding as though he'd just assigned himself a mission. He cast a glance to Lily's parents and, seeing their backs momentarily turned, grabbed her hand. "Come along."

He hurried her into the adjoining dining room, where footmen were setting the long gatelegged table with Delftware dishes for the wedding supper. Lily glanced back into the great hall. "They'll just find us again."

"I wouldn't bet on that," he advised her, taking the goblet from her hand and setting it on the leather-topped sideboard. Still carrying the bottle, he led her into the next room.

His father's chamber. She stopped short and gaped at the tall, heavy oak bed.

"Not in here!"

Laughing, Rand leaned a hand on the wall.

Lily was astonished to see a panel swing open. They slipped beyond it, and Rand closed it quietly.

"A secret passage?" she said in wonder.

"Not secret." Calmer now but no less determined, he guided her through a windowless corridor lit by plain lanterns mounted on walls painted a simple pale gray. "The house has these passages all through it," he explained, guiding her around a corner. Here, a longer hallway bustled with servants carrying dishes and linen. "Father didn't want the staff walking through one chamber to get to another, so corridors run behind. That way, they can duck in and out of rooms unobtrusively."

The floors were not painstakingly polished here, but covered with long rush mats instead. With no fire to warm it, the passage was chilly. "Do all the rooms have secret doors?"

"Most of them, but the doors aren't secret, either. They're designed not to be obvious, but you just have to look for them."

Lily shivered. "If there's a door into our suite, I want it sealed."

She thought Rand smiled beside her, but the corridor was too dim to tell for sure. Rows of leather fire buckets hung overhead, making her think they must be near the kitchen. "Where are we going?"

"Out. Through the servants' entrance."

"Out? You mean outside? Into the rain?"

His hand squeezed hers. "No one will be coming out in the rain to look for us, will they?"

The way he said that made a shiver of another sort run through her.

Summer rain blew in when he pushed open the door. They made a run for it, Rand holding Lily with one hand and the champagne bottle with the other. After crossing the courtyard toward the outbuildings, they finally ducked into the dairy.

Though Rand shut the door against the rain, it still pattered on the roof and slashed against the dairy's diamond-paned windows. Lily remembered peeking in here once and seeing a dairymaid with a pockmarked face and a pretty, shy smile.

She glanced around the small room. "Where is everyone?"

"Inside, helping with the wedding. No one will interrupt us." He grinned. "Even Beatrix failed to make it out here."

The walls were plain and whitewashed. Lily turned in a slow circle, her shoes leaving wet prints on the red tile floor. Pails, pans, and strainers sat on a wide marble counter supported on legs that ended in cows' hooves. She hugged herself, smiling at the whimsy.

"Cold?" Rand asked.

"A little. There's no fire."

"I'll warm you up," he said, the tone of his voice leaving no doubt how he planned to accomplish that end. He set the champagne bottle on the marble surface with a definitive clunk.

A nervous laugh bubbled out of her. "I hope you're not planning to warm me up too effectively. There's no bed, either."

"I plan to warm you effectively indeed." Both hands on her waist, he lifted her to sit on the counter. "And we've no need of a bed."

The marble felt cold beneath her skirts, but Rand's fingers felt warm on her shoulders as he maneuvered himself closer, working his way between her knees. When he looked pointedly down, her gaze followed, her heart hitching as she saw how it could work.

"I guess we don't need a bed," she whispered as his mouth descended on hers.

His lips were gentle and cherishing, and when he coaxed her mouth open, his tongue was gentle, too, exploring as though he had all the time in the world, as though he wanted nothing more than to taste her thoroughly, to commit her texture to memory.

She felt drugged. The pitter-pat of rain blended with her breathy sighs, blocking out the rest of the world. Here and now, it seemed there was only she and Rand and their love.

Easing away, he took her hands and raised them to his lips. Slowly he kissed the palms and the backs and the fine white scars.

"Don't flinch," he murmured when she did. Looking down, he traced the webbed patterns with a fingertip. "They're beautiful, because they're part of you."

Her throat closed with emotion, but she managed a shaky smile. "They remind me that I'm imperfect, which I suppose is not such a bad thing."

"It's a good thing you have one flaw." He kissed her nose and then her mouth, tiny damp kisses. "I'd feel damned inferior living with perfection."

Something twisted in her heart. "There were times when I feared you'd never be living with me at all."

"Never say never," he murmured, reaching for the champagne bottle. He tipped his head back and took a sip, then bent to nuzzle her throat. The wine fizzed in the hollow beneath her chin. She arched her neck, the combination of cold, bubbly liquid and warm, soft mouth sending shivers rippling through her.

As he nibbled his way up to her ear and drew the tender lobe between his teeth, she threaded her fingers into his hair. A soft groan rose from his chest, and suddenly he was kissing her again, more demanding now, nipping on her bottom lip before his mouth crushed hot against hers.

Instantly a matching heat flared up inside her. It had been there, building all day, and now it flamed to life. Her heart thundering, she gave as much as she took, a reckless meshing of lips and tongues and teeth that made her blood race with excitement. When he finally broke away, she was breathless.

She worked her hands beneath his surcoat as he flicked open the tabs that attached her stomacher. He dropped frantic kisses on her cheeks, her chin, her neck, and the expanse of trembling skin afforded him by the wide, low neckline of her saffron gown. With her stomacher removed, he loosened her laces and spread her bodice. Hooking the lacy edge of her chemise with a finger, he dragged it down, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze.

Once more he reached for the champagne, tilting his head back to take a mouthful. Then he leaned forward and fastened his mouth on a sensitive peak.

The wine was cold and tingly, his mouth hot and emphatic. The combination robbed her of thought. Her senses reeled wildly as drops of champagne trickled free and he followed them with his tongue, leaving warm trails of sensation. She trembled with need, an urgent ache growing within her.

"Now," she breathed, and he shot her a wicked smile, reaching down to ruck up her skirts. His fingers danced up her legs, grazing the delicate skin on her inner thighs. The ache grew unbearable, and she gripped his shoulders. "Rand, we've waited long enough, days and days—"

"Hush," he whispered, reaching higher, brushing against where she ached. Then stroking, over and over, slipping a finger inside and back out to stroke more. His mouth slanted against hers again and again as his hands worked magic. Her eyes drifted shut, and she locked her arms behind his neck, tremors shimmering through her. The sweet torture continued until she was certain one more velvet stroke would be her undoing.

"Rand!" she cried out.

Suddenly their four hands were tearing at the laces that secured his breeches. And at long last he pulled her close and buried himself inside her.

Her arms and legs went around him, welcoming, squeezing tight. It had felt like forever, all those days they couldn't be together. Tears welled in her eyes at the sheer joy of him finally filling her, making her complete.

Their mouths met, hot and wet as he rocked up against her, as they rocked together, an exquisite rhythm that built and built until she came undone with a little cry that was swallowed by his own deep moan of pleasure.

"Oh, my God," she whispered after she caught her breath. "That was one perfect moment."

One perfect moment of euphoria.

"We'll have more," he murmured, pulling back to wipe traces of tears from her cheeks. With one gentle finger, he touched the dent in her chin. "A lifetime together."

Nothing would ever come between them again.

For a long time Lily stayed wrapped around Rand, and he held her close, cradling her head against his chest, his gaze drifting out the window. Rain pattered softly against the leaded panes. Beyond the glass, tall old trees danced in the blustery breeze, bright green against the dark gray sky, and farther beyond that, the red brick of Hawkridge Hall loomed majestically.

This, Rand thought—all of it—would someday be his. And he belonged here, as much as he belonged in a lecture hall or huddled over a cryptic passage of ancient text.

As a lad, he'd sought acceptance from a father who couldn't stand the sight of him and a brother who'd hated him since birth. Alban was dead now, his evil laid to rest. And as for the marquess…maybe now he would finally offer that approval that had been so elusive.

But to Rand it didn't really matter anymore. Because now he had Lily.

A contented sigh drifted from her, and he raised her face for his kiss. He would never get enough of her, he thought as he grazed her eyes and her cheeks and her lips, settling there to savor her sweet mouth. A kiss as gentle as the summer rain, a kiss for them both to melt into, a kiss to meld bodies and souls. And then another kiss. And another.

And another, until they heard a scratch and a peck and a tap against one of the dairy's windows.

Dear Reader,

Before I receive a bunch of letters claiming that mastiffs are gentle, protective, indoor, family-type dogs, I want to say that all of that is true—for today's mastiffs. But in days gone by, the mastiff was known as a fighting dog. Caesar mentioned mastiffs in his account of invading Britain in 55 B.C., describing the huge British dogs that fought beside their masters. Soon afterward, mastiffs were bought back to Rome, where they saw combat at the Circus, matched against not only other dogs but also bulls, bears, lions, tigers, and human gladiators. Marco Polo wrote of Kubla Khan, who owned five thousand mastiffs used for hunting and war. Henry VIII gifted Charles V of Spain with four hundred mastiffs intended for use in battle.

However, by the 1920s, mastiffs were disappearing from England. During World War I, people thought it unpatriotic to keep dogs alive that ate as much in a day as a soldier. By World War II, they were nearly extinct in England, but afterward, mastiffs were imported from Canada and the United States to start new kennels. Now they are well established again, but with a change: modern breeders have bred the mastiff for gentleness and companionship rather than fighting. In his Knight's Tale, Chaucer described mastiffs as large as steer, which sounds unbelievable until we remember that cattle were much smaller in those days. Today's mastiffs are the same massive size, but they're loving and sociable pets.

In 1680, Irish scientist Robert Boyle began selling coarse sheets of paper coated with phosphorus and wooden sticks with sulfur. A stick drawn through a fold of the paper would burst into flames. This device was the first chemical "match" and ultimately led to what we think of as matches today. In 1855, the first red phosphorus "safety" matches were introduced in Sweden, and paper "match books" were invented in the United States in 1889.

Bawdy songs have always been popular, and in the seventeenth century the English were more comfortable singing such verse than they tend to be today. They relished the ribald and didn't take pains to disguise sex as love. Cromwell's Puritan Protectorate may have driven lusty singing underground, but with the Restoration, the ballad sellers returned. These early entrepreneurs sold single-sheet songs on the street, cheaply printed overnight to gain the most profit from each newly written piece.

In 1661, publisher and composer John Playford put together a collection of these songs and ballads and called it An Antidote Against Melancholy. In 1682, his son Henry expanded the collection and published it as Wit and Mirth: An Antidote Against Melancholy. By 1698, the book was so popular that Henry expanded it again, this time sold as Wit and Mirth, or Pills to Purge Melancholy. It proved so successful that after Henry's death it was published by others, and five further volumes were eventually added. By the time Thomas D'Urfey edited the final edition in 1720, the six-volume set contained more than a thousand bawdy songs.

Most of the homes in my books are inspired by real places you can visit. Trentingham Manor came to life after I saw The Vyne, a National Trust property in Hampshire. Built in the early sixteenth century for Lord Sandys, Henry VIII’s Lord Chamberlain, the house acquired a classical portico in the mid-seventeenth century (the first of its kind in England) and contains a grand Palladian staircase, a wealth of old paneling and fine furniture, and a fascinating Tudor chapel with Renaissance glass. The Vyne and its extensive gardens are open for visits April through October.

Hawkridge Hall was modeled on Ham House, another National Trust property. Known as the most well-preserved Stuart home in England, Ham House was built in 1610 and enlarged in the 1670s. The building has survived virtually unchanged since then, and it still retains most of the furniture from that period. The house and gardens are open daily from April through October. Ham House was owned by the Lauderdales, one of the most powerful families in Restoration England, and a visit gives a wonderful picture of seventeenth-century aristocratic life.

Rand's house in Oxford was inspired by the house Edmond Halley (1656-1742) lived in while he held the post of Oxford's Savilian Professor of Geometry. If you visit Oxford, look for the house in New College Lane near the Bridge of Sighs. The building isn't open to tourists, but you can see the outside, including the rooftop observatory Halley added (although he never saw Halley's Comet from it, since it made no appearance during the years he lived in the house).

To see pictures and learn more about the places in Lily, please visit my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com, where you can also enter a contest, sign up for my newsletter, and find recipes for some of the seventeenth-century foods that Lily and Rand enjoyed in this story. I decided that nun's biscuits should be Lily's favorite cookies because they're my favorite, too! If you try the recipes, I hope you'll e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com and tell me which one you enjoy most.

If you'd like to hear about upcoming releases, my contests, and other news, please sign up for my newsletter, friend me on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter(@readLaurenRoyal) or Pinterest. I love to keep up with my readers!

I hope you enjoyed Lily—thank you for reading!

Till next time,

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks:

To my son Brent, for developing an awesome Mac app (Novelty Press) especially for me, so I can format my e-books to match my picky expectations.

To my husband Jack, for his patience whenever I ask for website updates (which is all the time).

To Terri Castoro, for critiquing my books again and again (and again).

To Jack, Brent, Blake, and Devonie, for putting up with the whims of a writer.

To my BFF Glynnis Campbell, for understanding the way only another author can.

To Ayn Rand, for the concepts behind Violet's philosophical musings on love at first sight.

To my parents, Joan and Herb Royal, for being the best (parents, that is).

To my official First Readers: Karen Nesbitt, Taire Martyn, Alison Bellach, and Jane Armstrong, for both the opinions and the laughter.

To Ken and Dawn Royal, for invaluable feedback and support

To the World's Best Publicity Team—Rita Adair-Robison, Debbie Alexander, Dick Alexander, Robin Ashcroft, Joyce Basch, Alison Bellach, Diana Brandmeyer, Carol Carter, Terri Castoro, Vicki Crum, Elaine Ecuyer, Dale Gordon, Darren Holmquist, Taire Martyn, Lynne Miller, Sandy Mills, Amanda Murphy, Karen Nesbitt, DeeDee Perkins, Jack Poole, Caroline Quick, Joan Royal, Ken Royal, Wendi Royal, Sandy Shniderson, Diena Simmons, Connie Story, and Julie Walker—for all their effort and enthusiasm.

And, last but certainly not least, to all my wonderful readers, especially those of you who send emails and post about my books on Twitter and Facebook.

Thank you, one and all!

For Karen Nesbitt,

Taire Martyn Ruffing,

Alison Bellach Sonderegger,

and Caroline Bellach Quick,

four crazy North Americans who share my love of

music, the UK, and good books

CHAPTER ONE

Trentingham Manor, the South of England

September 1677

Standing in her family's small, crowded chapel, Rose Ashcroft shifted on her high Louis-heeled shoes, wishing she were in a cathedral so there would be somewhere to sit.

Wishing she were anywhere but here watching her sister get married.

"Randal John Charles, Earl of Newcliffe, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will." The confident words boomed through the magnificent oak-paneled chamber, binding Rand to Rose's sister Lily.

But Rose wasn't listening to the ceremony. Instead she heard twenty-one, twenty-one, twenty-one running through her head. Twenty-one and a lonely spinster…while both her sisters had found love.

Happy tears brightened their mother's brown eyes. She leaned close, bumping against Rose's left side. "They're perfect together, aren't they?" she whispered.

Rose could only nod dumbly, staring at her sister's petite form laced into a gorgeous pale blue satin wedding dress embroidered with gleaming silver thread. Lily's hair, the same rich sable as Rose's, cascaded to her shoulders in glossy ringlets. Beside her, Rand beamed a smile, looking tall and utterly handsome in dark blue velvet, his gray gaze steady and adoring.

The two were so clearly in love, Rose knew they belonged together—and truly, she was happy for her sister.

If only Lily weren't her younger sister.

The priest cleared his throat and looked back down at his Book of Common Prayer. "Lady Lily Ashcroft, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…"

Standing on Rose's right, her older sister Violet shifted one of her twin babies on her hip and gazed up at her husband of four years, Ford. Sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, glinting off her spectacles. "Oh, isn't this romantic?" she sighed.

Holding their other infant, Ford squeezed Violet around the shoulders. Seated cross-legged at their feet, their two-year-old son Nicky traced a finger over the patterns in the colorful glazed tile floor, obliviously happy.

Rose gritted her teeth.

Her friend Judith Carrington poked her from behind. "I cannot believe Lily's wedding is happening before mine," she whispered in a tone laced with dismay. "I was betrothed first!"

Rose couldn't believe Lily and Judith would both be married before she even received a proposal.

"…so long as ye both shall live?" the priest concluded expectantly.

In the hush that followed, even knowing it wasn't kind of her, Rose half wished Lily would fail to reply.

But Lily didn't, of course. "I will," she pledged, her voice as sweet as she was, ringing clear and true.

A few more words, a family heirloom ring slid onto her finger, and Lily was clearly and truly wed now, the new Countess of Newcliffe.

And Rose was clearly and truly miserable.

When Rand lowered his lips to meet Lily's, Rose turned away. Behind her, Judith was grinning up at her own betrothed—although only a little way up, since his stature was less than impressive. Lord Grenville was five-and-thirty to Judith's twenty, and his pale brown hair was thinning on top, but Rose imagined that the way Judith looked at him made him feel like a king. And he looked down on her in a way that surely made pretty, plump Judith feel like a queen.

Rose wanted someone who'd make her feel like a queen. Good God, a duchess or countess would do. Or even a lowly baroness…

As the years crawled by without a husband on the horizon, she was getting less picky. So long as the man was titled, handsome, rich, and powerful, most anyone was acceptable.

The guests parted as Lily and Rand began making their way from the chapel. They'd taken but a few steps when a cat, a squirrel, and a chirping sparrow came to join them.

Rose moved to hug her sister. "It was beautiful," she murmured. "I'm so happy for you."

She was. Truly she was.

Lily leaned down to pick up the cat, straightening with a brilliant smile. "Your turn next."

A hurt retort came to Rose's mind, but she wouldn't snap at her sister on her wedding day.

"I'm happy for you, too, Rand," she said instead, rising on her toes to give her sister's new husband a kiss on the cheek. But not too far up on her toes, because Rose was a tall woman. Too tall, perhaps, or too slim, or too quick-tongued…or too something.

There had to be some reason she had yet to find love.

Too intelligent, most likely. At one point, she'd thought Rand might be the man for her. Handsome, titled, and a professor of linguistics at Oxford—surely a good match for Rose, given her own exceptional command of foreign languages. But he'd chosen her little sister.

"I'm the luckiest man in the world," he said now, making Rose feel the unluckiest woman.

She'd had better days.

Lily must have noticed her dejected expression, because her fingers stopped stroking the cat's striped fur. Concern clouded her lovely blue eyes. "You will be next," she said quietly.

"Undoubtedly so, since I'm the only one left," Rose quipped. "Unless, that is, Rowan manages to find himself a bride before I find a groom."

They both swung to look at their eleven-year-old brother where he stood with Violet's young niece, Jewel, their dark heads close together as they whispered animatedly.

"He may have found himself a bride already," Rose added dryly.

Lily's laughter rang through the chapel, echoing off the molded dome ceiling. "Surely someone will claim you long before Rowan gets it in his head to wed. Why, you're the most beautiful of all of us, Rose!"

Rose had always thought Lily the most beautiful, but she knew she was beautiful, too. Yet beauty, she'd learned, was not enough to hook a husband.

Well-wishers pressed closer. Rose began moving toward the drawing room and found Judith by her side. Forsaking her betrothed, Judith clutched Rose's arm. "Who is that handsome fellow?" she whispered conspiratorially.

Rose slid a glance to the man in question, a friend of Rand's whose gaze suddenly met hers, then skimmed her body in a way that might have made her heart pound…if she were at all interested. "That's Mr. Christopher Martyn—Rand calls him Kit. He's an architect," she added dismissively.

"Christopher Martyn, the architect?" Awe hushed Judith's voice. "Hasn't King Charles recently awarded him a contract to renovate Whitehall Palace?"

"Along with Windsor Castle and Hampton Court."

"Ah, a man of intelligence to complement yours." Clearly Judith considered the man's lack of a title no impediment. "No need for you to play the featherbrained coquette for him."

"I've no interest in him. And I've never acted featherbrained." But perhaps now was the time to start.

On her sisters' advice, Rose had tried to win Rand by appealing to his intellect, but that hadn't worked at all. Never again would she attempt to attract a man by flaunting her brains. No matter what her family or Judith said, she knew there were better ways to entice gentlemen.

Unfortunately, where Rand was concerned, she'd come to that conclusion too late. To her intense embarrassment, she'd stooped to propositioning him in her family's summerhouse, and when that hadn't worked, desperation had driven her to attempt bribery and trickery of the worst kind.

She couldn't imagine what had come over her that day and had feared she'd never be able to look Rand in the face again. But to her utter relief he seemed at ease with her, as though he'd graciously forgotten that humiliating episode.

"You cannot tell me," Judith whispered, dragging Rose back to the present, "that you don't find Mr. Martyn attractive."

Rose slanted Kit another covert look. Dressed in forest-toned velvet, he was tall and lean, his hair dark as jet, his eyes a startling mix of brown and green. She dredged up a wry smile. "I'd have to be blind to claim that."

"And he looks ever so nice. Do you think he's nice?"

"He's nice enough." Except for those unusual eyes, which were decidedly not nice. Wicked would be a better description.

"And good Lord, he's building things for the king! I'm certain he has money—"

"Money," Rose interrupted pointedly, "does not make up for lack of a title."

Her sister Violet walked up, sans children for once. "Who needs a title?"

Judith crossed her arms. "Lady Rose apparently wishes to become Lady Something-Higher."

"Oh, well." Violet sent Rose an indulgent smile. "That's only because she has yet to fall in love."

Rose smiled in return. "And given that it's as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, I've decided to concentrate on the former."

Violet and Judith exchanged a glance that set Rose's teeth on edge, then left her, to return to their respective men.

Since Lily had given their mother barely two weeks to plan the event, the wedding party was small. Still, there were more than enough guests to fill the drawing room and spill out onto the Palladian portico and into the exquisite gardens. Trentingham Manor was known for its gardens, thanks to Rose's father and his passion for flowers and plants.

But it was a warm, sunny day, and Rose feared for her creamy complexion, so she opted to stay indoors. She wandered the crowded drawing room, sipping from a goblet of the new and frightfully expensive champagne her parents favored for celebrations. Although she enjoyed sharing a word or two with various relatives and neighbors, she was generally feeling at loose ends, not quite sure what to do with herself.

Until, that was, she heard her father's voice and turned to see him addressing Kit Martyn.

"…one of those newfangled greenhouses," Father was saying. "On the east side of the house, I'm thinking, to catch the morning sun. Since autumn is nearly upon us, I'd be much obliged if you could start it immediately."

Rose couldn't believe her ears. It was the second time her father had asked the esteemed architect to build him a lowly greenhouse.

Half tempted to ball up the lacy handkerchief she had tucked in her sleeve and stuff it into her father's mouth, she hurried to join them. "Mr. Martyn builds things for the king, Father! Palaces, for heaven's sake. He hasn't—"

"Well, not quite palaces," Kit corrected her. "Renovations to palaces, additions to palaces, but I've yet to build an entire—"

"See?" Rose met her father's deep green eyes, speaking loudly and slowly to make sure he could hear her over the hubbub of the celebration. "Palaces. He hasn't the time to build you a greenhouse."

Kit sipped from his own goblet of champagne, then grinned at Rose's father. "Oh, I think I might find the time," he disagreed, his words infused with a hint of laughter. "In exchange for a dance with your beautiful daughter."

He shifted to look at Rose, making it clear which daughter he meant. His green-brown gaze swept her lazily, almost as though he were mentally undressing her…and if his expression was any indication, he plainly liked the results.

Lord Trentingham frowned. "My bountiful bother?"

Kit looked confused, and Rose knew she should remind him that her father was hard of hearing at the best of times—and in a crowded room, he was all but deaf.

But she couldn't seem to speak. The audacity of the man, thinking he could trade a building for her company. Surely her father would never—

"I'll be most pleased to build your greenhouse," Kit reiterated, "if your lovely daughter will oblige me with a dance."

"Oblige you with advance?"

Understanding dawned in Kit's eyes. "A dance," he shouted. "May I have the honor of a dance with Lady Rose?"

"Oh, yes. Of course," her father said. "Now, about that greenhouse—"

"I'll do a preliminary design before I leave," Kit all but bellowed.

"Excellent." Lord Trentingham turned a vague smile in Rose's direction. "Run along, dear. Enjoy yourself."

Her mouth dropped open, then shut when she found herself propelled from the drawing room by a warm hand at her back. Then she was stepping out onto the covered portico, which had been pressed into service as a dance floor.

Three musicians in one corner were playing a minuet, a graceful dance that facilitated conversation. The wedding guests chatted and flirted, their shoes brushing the brick paving in unison. Though the dance was already in progress, Kit handed both their champagne goblets to a passing maid, took Rose's hands, and swept her into the throng.

She'd never touched him—certainly not skin to skin—and the contact reminded her just how attractive she'd thought him the first time they met. The mere sight of him had set her blood to singing inside her. But that, of course, had been before she'd discovered he was a plain mister. Since then, seeing him had had no effect on her at all.

So it was disconcerting to find that touching him now seemed to make the champagne bubbles dance in her stomach.

"Lovely Corinthian capitals on the columns and pilasters," Kit noted, ever the architect. "Do you know who carved them?"

She pliéd and stepped forward with her right foot at the same time she finally found her tongue. "Edward Marshall, who also carved the Ashcroft family arms in the pediment. And in future, please keep in mind that there's no need to ask my father's permission for a dance. Ashcroft women make their own decisions."

"So Rand has told me," Kit said, breezing over the implication that she might have refused him.

They rose on their toes, and when he pulled her closer, she caught a whiff of his scent. A woodsy fragrance with a base of frankincense and myrrh. It smelled nice, she thought, wondering if she could duplicate it in her mother's perfumery.

"Your family is an odd one," he said. "I don't allow my sister to make her own decisions. Not the important ones, in any case."

She felt sorry for his sister. "Our family motto is Interroga Conformationem."

He looked at her blankly.

"Question Convention," she translated. What sort of educated man didn't know Latin? Certainly not one she'd ever consider husband material.

It was a good thing he wasn't in the running.

They dropped hands to turn in place, then he grasped her fingers again. "Is it true, as Rand said, that your father allows his daughters to choose their own husbands as well?"

She noticed Lily and Rand dancing together—much closer than the dance required. Surprisingly, envy didn't clutch at her heart this time. She only smiled. "Yes."

"In future, I'll keep that in mind," Kit responded with a disarming grin.

Ignoring his impertinence, Rose gazed across the wide daisy-strewn lawn toward the Thames. Just then, her brother Rowan raced onto the portico, looking like a miniature version of their father in a burgundy suit, his long midnight hair streaming behind him.

A quite ordinary-looking man followed more sedately, but as he wore red and white—the king's livery—he attracted more attention.

The musicians stopped playing, and the dancers ground to a halt.

"There he is," Rowan said, pointing to Kit in the sudden silence. "Mr. Christopher Martyn, the man you seek."

CHAPTER TWO

"If I may speak with you in private, sir," the messenger said. "I bring word from His Majesty."

Kit nodded and stepped off the portico, silently leading the way to the summerhouse he'd spotted earlier. He felt the eyes of the other wedding guests following him and heard their speculative murmurs, but the sudden appearance of the king's man didn't intrigue him as it did them. He was, after all, completing several royal projects. Likely Charles simply wanted a change.

As Kit crossed Lord Trentingham's celebrated gardens, he thought instead of Rose, vaguely wondering where he'd found the nerve to imply he might be interested in marriage. He'd been drawn to her when they first met, but quickly dismissed it when she failed to respond to his advances. He figured there were plenty of splendid women in the world—which meant there was no sense pursuing one who wasn't attainable.

But today she'd sipped champagne, and he'd noticed her lips were made for kissing. And he'd taken her hands and felt something like a punch to his gut. And she'd challenged him verbally, and those words had jumped out of his mouth.

Ludicrous words. As a man who'd never wanted for female attention, he was frustrated by Lady Rose's obvious disinterest, but deep down he knew that pursuing her was an absurd waste of time. Although he thought her lovely and intelligent—he'd watched her decipher a coded diary weeks earlier and been nothing short of astonished—he had no illusions of winning Lady Rose. Or, for that matter, any lady at all. He knew his place in the world.

Commoner, through and through.

His best friend might be an earl who'd grown up in a mansion, but Kit had been raised in a single-room cottage. No Martyn had ever borne a title. Before him, he doubted any Martyn had ever even considered the possibility.

He knew that, social perceptions aside, he was damn well as good as anyone else. But he was also well aware that he wasn't considered good enough for the Earl of Trentingham's daughter. And wishing things were different would never make them so.

At least, not in the near future.

The circular redbrick summerhouse was a small building with classic Palladian lines. He ushered the king's man inside. Owing to the admirable design—large arched windows over each of the four doors—it was bright beneath the cool, shaded dome.

Bright enough to make out the seriousness in the messenger's eyes.

Apprehension soured the champagne in Kit's stomach. "Yes?" he asked.

The man's words were anything but reassuring. "This concerns one of your projects. I've been sent to advise you that the ceiling at Windsor Castle is falling—"

"Falling? Has anyone been hurt?"

"I should say chunks of plaster have fallen—not the ceiling itself. But it's sagging, and there are many cracks. There have been no injuries, but His Majesty wanted you to know—"

"I understand." Kit understood Charles's underlying message all too well. If he failed to complete this project on time and satisfactorily, his dream of being appointed Deputy Surveyor—a step toward someday becoming Surveyor General of the King's Works, the official royal architect—would be as good as dead.

And without that, the rest of his dreams—his plans to obtain a title for himself and marry his sister Ellen to a peer of the realm—would die along with it.

He yanked the door back open. "I shall depart for Windsor posthaste."

"Sir." The man bowed and preceded him outside.

Back at the house, Kit looked around for Rand, but his friend was nowhere to be found. He went instead to give his apologies to his hostess. "Forgive me, Lady Trentingham, but I must take my leave. There's a problem at Windsor Castle. I cannot seem to locate Rand—"

"He and Lily have a habit of disappearing," she told him with a suggestive twinkle in her eye that took him by surprise. She was, after all, the girl's mother. But then her brown eyes turned sympathetic. "I'll explain," she added. "He'll understand."

In no time at all, Kit was settled in his carriage, rubbing the back of his neck as the vehicle lumbered its way toward Windsor.

Could he possibly have made an error in designing Windsor's new dining room? Had a flaw in the plans gone unnoticed? He unrolled the extra set he always carried, spreading the linen they were drawn on over his lap. But he couldn't seem to concentrate.

Especially when his carriage jostled past the village of Hawkridge, where he'd grown up.

Toying with the small, worn chunk of brick he carried in his pocket—a chip off his first building—he found himself gazing out the window as memories assaulted him. Nights whiled away in his family's snug cottage, he and Ellen playing on the floor while their mother read by the fire. Days spent with his father, learning carpentry and building. Afternoons fishing with the local nobleman's son, Lord Randal Nesbitt, both of them starved for companionship their age.

That felt like a lifetime ago. Rand was married now, a man who declared himself in love. As for Kit, love wasn't high on his list of priorities.

A luxury, love was, and one Kit felt quite capable of living without. After all, love had done his parents no favors. They'd been happy together, content with their simple lot in life—and both ended up in early graves.

That wasn't going to happen to Kit or his sister.

For twelve years—through school, university, and a quickly rising reputation—he had dedicated himself to one goal. The Deputy Surveyor post was almost within his grasp.

He couldn't fail now.

CHAPTER THREE

"You look melancholy," Rose's mother said later that evening. Standing with Rose in her perfumery, Chrystabel picked over the many flower arrangements on her large wooden worktable, plucking out the marigolds. "Why the long face, dear? Are you sad to see your creations destroyed?"

"Of course not." Rose added a purple aster to a pile of flowers and some ivy to a bunch of greens. She looked up and forced what she hoped sounded like a romantic sigh. "The wedding was beautiful, wasn't it?"

"Made more so by your lovely flowers." Rose had filled the house with towering creations made of posies cut from her father's gardens. "Which is why," her mother added, "I thought—"

"I don't care what becomes of my flower arrangements. Honestly, Mum, it makes no sense to let the blooms wither and die when we can turn them into essential oils for your perfumes. I don't mind in the least." With a bit more force than was necessary, Rose tugged two lilies from the vases and tossed them onto the table. "Whatever happened to Kit Martyn, do you know?" she asked in an attempt to change the subject.

"That messenger brought news of a problem with one of his projects. He had to leave."

"Which project?" Rose asked.

"He didn't say. Or perhaps I don't remember." Chrystabel fixed her with a piercing gaze. A motherly gaze. "Does it matter?"

"Of course not. It was only idle curiosity." A headache threatened, pulsing in Rose's temples. "Why should I care what happens to the man's projects?"

"You danced with him—"

"Father traded that dance for a greenhouse. It meant nothing."

Her mother nodded thoughtfully, beginning to pluck petals from a bunch of striped snapdragons. "You just look melancholy."

If Rose weren't already suffering from a headache, that swift change back to the original subject might have prompted one. She lifted the lid off the gleaming glass and metal distillery that Ford had made for her mother while he was courting Violet. "It's nothing, Mum."

"It doesn't bother you that your younger sister is wed?"

"Why shouldn't I wish her happy?" She was chagrined to hear her voice crack. "I do, Mum, I vow and swear it."

"It's no failing of yours, dear, that Lily found love first."

"Stuck as we are in the countryside, it's a wonder she found a man at all, whether she loves him or not." It was an ancient complaint, but in her present mood Rose had no compunctions against dragging it out again. "We hardly ever get to London, or anywhere else we might meet eligible—"

"You have a point," Mum interrupted.

"Pardon?" Rose blinked.

"You heard me. You haven't much opportunity here to meet men." Chrystabel tossed the pink petals into the distillery's large glass bulb. "I'm thinking that we—you and I—should attend court."

"Court?" Rose decided she couldn't be hearing right. One of them had clearly drunk too much champagne. "As in King Charles's court?"

"I believe they're at Windsor now—they do move around, as you may know."

"What I know is that you and Father have always claimed court is no place for proper young ladies."

"Well, you're not so young anymore," Chrystabel said, then came to wrap an arm around Rose when she winced. "I didn't mean it that way, dear. But you're one-and-twenty now, a woman grown. And I will be there to chaperone. It's perfectly acceptable."

It was more than acceptable, Rose knew—girls as young as fifteen went to court, many of them unchaperoned. And she also knew the licentious men there treated them like full-grown women. Violet had been to court with Ford, and she'd come back with stories that had made Rose's eyes widen.

A little part of her wondered if this was really such a grand idea.

But she wasn't going to argue when faced with such surprising good fortune. "Gemini, I'd best go talk to Harriet. She'll doubtless need to alter some of my gowns, and it will take me hours to decide what to bring before she can even begin."

"There's no time for alterations, dear." In opposition to Rose, whose stomach was churning with excitement, Chrystabel calmly plucked petals. "I mean to leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Rose dropped the stem in her hand. "Tomorrow?"

"There's no time like the present," her mother said with an enigmatic smile.

Normally, Rose might have been vexed at the implication that she was getting more spinsterish as the days sped by. But this was no time to be touchy.

No, it was time to prepare.

She was going to court! Leaving her flowers on the table, she rushed to her chamber to pack.

"What a day." Chrystabel slipped beneath the counterpane to join her husband in bed, sinking into the mattress as she relaxed for the first time in what seemed like weeks. "Thank God they're married at last."

"I suspect you're really thanking God they can no longer create a child out of wedlock," Joseph teased, leaning up to kiss her lightly on the lips. He lowered himself onto an elbow, smiling into her eyes, his own a deep, sparkling green.

She pushed a lock of dark hair off his forehead. "Well, there is that," she admitted. When Lily and Rand's marriage plans had been threatened by Rand's father, she'd been mortified to realize she'd allowed them to share a bed before her daughter was safely wed. It had seemed a fine idea at the time, but it wouldn't be happening again with Rose—or Rowan, for that matter.

Chrystabel reckoned she could learn from her mistakes.

"But mostly," she added, "I'm just gladdened to see them happy at last. Everything worked out."

"It usually does," said her ever-practical husband.

She released a contented sigh. "Another wedding."

"Another wedding night," he responded with a lustful grin.

A tradition, their wedding nights. That was one of the reasons she so loved arranging other people's marriages. Not that either of them needed an excuse to make love, but there was something thrilling about watching a wedding while anticipating their own wedding night to come.

She smiled as he kissed her again, then moaned when he slipped a hand beneath her night rail's neckline to caress a sensitive breast. For long minutes they said nothing, their breathing growing louder and more ragged in the stillness of their thick-walled room.

Here, in their quiet, private chamber, her Joseph could hear whatever she said. Every word, those spoken as well as the silent ones that passed between two as attuned as they.

But they didn't need words now. Actions would do. A brush of lips, warm skimming hands. Bodies coming together, creating a thrill that the years had done nothing to dim. Soft cries filled the chamber, matched by a low groan of pleasure that echoed into the night.

When their hearts had calmed, when Joseph leaned away to blow out the single remaining candle, Chrystabel sighed. "I'll miss you."

"Where are you going?" The words vibrated against her throat where he'd settled back into her arms.

"I'm thinking to take Rose to court at Windsor. With your permission, of course," she rushed to add, knowing he would never deny her.

"Court? Do you expect that's wise? The men there—"

"I'll watch her like a hawk. And rest assured, there's not a man at court I want for Rose. She belongs with Kit Martyn. He's at Windsor as we sleep, checking on a project—"

"Kit Martyn? Chrysanthemum my love, I know you fancy yourself a matchmaker, but Rose has shown no interest—"

"Which is exactly why he's the perfect man for her."

Joseph lifted his head and searched her eyes in the dim, flickering light from the fire. "Come again?"

"You know how she is. As soon as she sets her sights on a man, the act begins. The flirting. The flattering. Don't you see? She has a much better chance of winning a man she thinks she doesn't want. With Kit she'll be herself. Charming, intelligent, sharp-witted….why, he cannot fail but fall in love with her."

"I suspect he's taken with her already," Joseph said dryly. "But what good will that do if she doesn't fall for him? We've promised her she can choose her own husband."

"Making her fall," Chrystabel said, "will be Kit's problem, and I've no doubt he's up to the task. I need only provide the opportunity."

"You cannot push, Chrysanthemum."

Her laugh tinkled through the darkness. "I would never. I know full well our daughters pledged to avoid me arranging their marriages. Yet I managed to match both Violet and Lily without either being the wiser, didn't I? Have no fear, darling—Rose's romance will follow suit. And she'll have no idea I was behind it."

Kit stood in a corner of Windsor Castle's soon-to-be new dining room, watching two carpenters affix carvings of fruit to the paneled wall. The piece, exquisitely worked by Grinling Gibbons, was made of the finest wood.

He wished he could say the same for the rest of his project.

His gaze went to the sagging ceiling on the side of the room that had recently been part of a brick courtyard. Jagged cracks ran this way and that, and bits of broken plaster littered the floor underneath. On his orders, men were hastily erecting scaffolding to support the damaged ceiling until it could be repaired from above.

All day, Kit had measured and figured, tearing out parts of the ceiling to search for causes, to find where his planning had gone wrong. It hadn't, he'd finally discovered—the plans had been perfect. That was, if they'd been executed with the fine materials he'd used in his calculations.

But Harold Washburn, his project's foreman, had apparently not seen fit to order those materials, no matter that he'd been supplied with the funds. Instead, the new portion of the room had been built with inferior goods that weren't strong enough to support the ceiling. Kit had found beams made of wormy wood that had obviously been hit by lightning, weakening it; and cheap, substandard plaster that might look fine on first inspection, but wouldn't hold up over the years, sagging ceiling or not.

And Washburn, no doubt, had pocketed the savings. Making Kit look the fool.

Calculations in hand, he stalked toward the bald, dark-eyed man. "Washburn!"

The man swung around, his beady gaze hooded. "Aye, Martyn? Have you a plan to repair the faulty addition?"

"Faulty?" Seething, Kit struggled to keep his temper in check. "The only thing faulty is the material you purchased to build it—which isn't anywhere near the quality in my specifications."

Washburn had the gall to pretend shock. "Sir! I would never—"

"Never again for me, at any rate," Kit interrupted. He gestured with his rolled-up sketches. "Be gone."

The man's breath huffed in and out through a large nose crisscrossed with tiny red veins. "You cannot just dismiss me," he snapped.

"Lord Almighty, you're a nithing half-wit. The damn ceiling could have fallen on your good-for-nothing head. You're lucky I'm only dismissing you."

To Kit's astonishment, Washburn simply shouldered past him and walked away.

Was it Kit's imagination, or did the man actually look smug?

Kit consciously unclenched his jaw, reaching for the scrap of brick he usually carried in his surcoat pocket. His fist clenched around it; he'd been itching for a fight.

In the end, though, the anger faded, replaced by relief. In truth, the problem had resolved more quickly than he'd any right to expect.

He took a deep breath, promoted a grateful man to take Washburn's place, then headed to the small chamber he'd been given to use as an office, revamping the schedule in his head. The project would still finish on time.

That there were greedy men in the world wasn't news to Kit. But this particular one wouldn't cost him the Deputy Surveyor post.

It would take a much bigger problem to destroy Kit Martyn's plans.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Hurry," Rose said. "Or by the time we get to court, the presentations will be finished."

"Stop worrying, dear." Seated together with Rose at the single dressing table in the rooms they'd been assigned at Windsor Castle, Mum held very still while her maid, Anne, used hot curling tongs to put the final touches on her hair. "We'll still be allowed inside, even if we're late."

With all the last minute preparations, they'd left home today much later than they'd planned. Chrystabel had needed to leave instructions for the running of the entire household, and Harriet, Rose's maid, had taken forever to pack. It had been dark by the time they'd reached Windsor, and Rose, dying of curiosity, had hardly been able to see anything of the huge castle as a warden showed them by torchlight to their small apartments.

"I don't want to be late," Rose complained. Beneath burgundy satin sleeves fastened at intervals with jeweled clasps, her skin prickled with suppressed excitement. "I want to meet the king and queen."

"You will, dear." Chrystabel met her gaze in the dressing table's mirror. "You look very pretty."

"Yes, you certainly do," Harriet added as she wove matching burgundy ribbons through the bun on the back of Rose's head. "And just think of all the new men you're going to meet! I can hardly believe I'm here, so far from Trentingham."

Actually, it wasn't far at all—little more than a couple of hours downriver. Though Rose had never been inside the castle before, she and her sisters often came to Windsor to visit the shops. But Harriet had been born at Trentingham Manor and, at age nineteen, had never gone farther than the nearest village before today.

Rose suspected that was half the reason for their late start. Harriet had been so flustered, she'd been unable to keep her mind on the preparations.

"You might meet a new man, too," Mum told Harriet, a familiar light coming into her brown eyes. Chrystabel was always happiest when matchmaking. She didn't care whether the couples were royalty or servants, so long as—thanks to her—two people were finding their lifelong mates.

"Do you think so?" Harriet's fingers fumbled with the ribbons as she breathed a romantic sigh.

Rose had never thought of Harriet as pining for marriage. Harriet was just Harriet, a sturdy girl with frizzy red hair and pale green eyes in a wide face full of freckles.

But now those eyes went dreamy. "I would so love to fall in love."

"I shall keep that in mind," Chrystabel promised her.

"There, Lady Trentingham, you're finished," her own maid Anne said. "And you look pretty, too. As for you," she added to Harriet, "my lady will find you a special man to love."

Four years earlier, Chrystabel had successfully matched Anne with a coachman from the Liddington estate. Today, they both lived happily at Trentingham, and so far they had produced one little future chambermaid and a tiny stableboy-to-be.

Chrystabel stood and smoothed her peach silk skirts, looking to Rose. "Come along, dear. What's taking you so long?"

Though a retort hung on the tip of Rose's tongue, she kept her mouth shut and followed her mother from the lodging. As they crossed the Upper Ward, excitement churned in the pit of her stomach.

She was about to meet the king and queen of England.

When they reached the open courtyard called Horn Court, where two red-and-white liveried footmen stood guard at the door, she paused and pulled a curl forward to rest artfully on one bare shoulder. Her breath was coming short, and it had little to do with the rigid, pointed stomacher that stiffened the front of her bodice.

"Shall we?" Chrystabel asked, gesturing toward the door.

One of the footmen pulled it open.

To Rose's disappointment, the monarchs weren't waiting right inside. Instead, she followed her mother into a tall, wide hall that held nothing but a staircase. But what a staircase. "Oooh," she breathed. "It's beautiful!"

"It looks French," Chrystabel whispered back. "While exiled on the Continent, King Charles was much taken with Versailles."

French or English, Rose thought the staircase was lovely. Twin flights of steps rose to their right and left, meeting at a central landing above. The rooms they had been given here were rather ancient, with plain plastered walls, but these walls were covered in colorful painted murals depicting Greeks and Trojans. Giants battled on the deeply coved ceiling that towered over her head.

As Rose climbed the steps, carefully holding her skirts, she felt very small and insignificant. She supposed that was the desired effect. Even here, outside his chambers, the king would want to project strength and power.

At the top of the stairs, she held her breath while another liveried footman opened another door.

But she was disappointed again. Beyond the door lay an enormous rectangular room with no furniture—and no king or queen, either. A few lords and ladies stood in little clusters, absorbed in softly murmured conversations.

Rose's and Chrystabel's high-heeled shoes made clicking sounds on the planked floor as they crossed the chamber. Rose huffed out a sigh. "Where are the king and queen?"

"We're getting there, dear. This is the Guard Chamber."

As though she couldn't have guessed. Military trophies covered every inch of the walls: helmets and drums, shields and armor, guns and lancets, swords and knives. "Are there any weapons left for the army?" she whispered.

Mum's laugh broke the hush of the chamber. "I certainly hope so!" She met Rose's gaze, her brown eyes glittering. "It's an impressive display, but all the same, I expect we're still well defended."

The painted ceiling featured Jupiter and Juno seated on thrones at either end. In the center, a glassed octagonal opening provided a view of the stars and, Rose imagined, a great splash of natural light in the daytime.

Reaching the door at the far end, Chrystabel paused. "Lady Trentingham and Lady Rose Ashcroft," she announced, her voice laced with quiet dignity.

Finally. As one of the six guards bowed and opened the door, Rose lifted her burgundy satin skirts.

But the room beyond was deserted, save for an usher at the far end.

"What's this?" Rose demanded.

"The King's Presence Chamber." Chrystabel curtsied in front of the magnificent red velvet throne, taking Rose's hand to make certain she did, too.

Thinking it the most ridiculous thing she'd ever done, Rose frowned as she straightened. "Despite the name of the chamber, the king," she said pointedly, nodding toward the empty throne, "does not seem to be present."

"Come along," her mother said with a half-concealed smile.

Rose looked to the heavens for patience, seeing instead a painted ceiling where Mercury was presenting a portrait of the king to the four corners of the world.

She was beginning to think all this decoration might be a tad overdone.

A red-and-white-garbed usher grandly opened the next door. By now, Rose wasn't expecting to see Their Majesties on the other side. In fact, she figured that at this rate she might be a wrinkled old crone by the time she actually met them.

"The Audience Chamber," Chrystabel intoned softly. "You'll curtsy to this empty throne as well." She glided toward the canopied seat. "Charles does sit here to receive visitors in the daytime."

"Does he never sit in the other throne?"

"That throne is only symbolic, dear. Ceremonial."

Rose had been sure she'd find the court's pageantry intriguing and exciting, but in truth, it all seemed a little silly!

The next chamber made her jaw drop open, and it had nothing to do with the gaudy decorations—or even the spectacular clothing and jewels that adorned all the people milling about.

Unable to avert her gaze, she drifted slowly through the room by her mother's side. There, in that dark corner, a woman sat sprawled on a man's lap, her head thrown back in laughter. Across the chamber, a fluttering curtain left the distinct impression that action of some sort was going on behind it.

Nearby, another couple was kissing. No, more than kissing. Rose squinted, wishing there were more chandeliers overhead, or that those yeomen holding flaming torches would move closer to…

Gemini!

Her eyes widened. The woman's stomacher was unfastened down one side, hanging drunkenly, and the laces beneath were undone, and—oh, dear!—the man had his hand—

His gaze met Rose's for a moment. Or at least she thought it had—she couldn't be sure, given how quickly she shifted to focus on the ceiling overhead. But the painting above did nothing to erase the shocking-but-intriguing mental picture. There, the painted Charles rode in a chariot surrounded by naked angels, just as the real Charles was apparently surrounded by naked—

"Come along, dear. We're about to be announced."

"Announced?" She'd been so shocked, she hadn't even realized she'd finally made it to the chamber where Their Majesties waited.

Rose had always considered herself unshockable, but quite suddenly she felt like an innocent country mouse. Father had been right all along, she thought. Court was no place for a well-bred young lady.

Good thing she wasn't so young anymore.

The couple in front of her bowed and curtsied and moved out of the way, and she found herself approaching a red-canopied dais.

"Lady Trentingham!" the stuffy usher called. "Lady Rose Ashcroft!" Rose held out her satin skirts—so plain compared to the jewel-encrusted gowns of the other ladies—and dropped into a deep curtsy. When she came up, she aimed a smile at King Charles, a bit startled to find that he seemed to be an ordinary human being.

She'd seen paintings, of course, but of a younger man, and somehow not such a real one. The king was forty-seven now, and a bit of gray-streaked hair peeked out from beneath his long, curled black periwig. His dark eyes were as sharp as ever, though—or at least as sharp as Rose had always heard. They swept her from head to toe, a gaze both approving and more than a bit lascivious.

Well, he was known for that.

In contrast, Queen Catharine's eyes were a warm, liquid brown. She wasn't a beauty, but her appearance wasn't displeasing, either—she looked sad, and a little world-weary.

After fifteen years of marriage, she had yet to present her husband with a child.

Standing before Catharine, Rose mimicked what her mother was doing with Charles and lifted the queen's hand to press a kiss to the back.

She was rewarded with a smile. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Catharine told her in flowing, Portuguese-accented English.

"The pleasure is mine," Rose returned sincerely. Really, she couldn't imagine why her sisters had gone all fluttery over the prospect of meeting the monarchs. They were just people!

She switched sides with her mother and bent her lips to the king's hand.

He surprised her by gripping her fingers. "You're as lovely as your mother."

Chrystabel blushed. Rose grinned at Charles. "Your reputation is well deserved, Your Majesty."

Still holding her hand, he grinned back. "My reputation, my dear?"

"As a ladies' man."

Chrystabel gasped. When Charles threw back his head and laughed, Rose shot her a victorious smile.

Charles glanced around the room. "It seems you're the last to be presented," he said, not looking at all displeased about that. "Would you honor me with a dance?"

Now it was Rose's turn to gasp. She knew the protocol was for ladies to ask His Majesty to dance, not the opposite. Feeling light-headed, she curtsied again. "It would be my honor, Sire."

"The second dance, then," he said, rising from his throne. He held out a hand to Catharine, and she rose as well and allowed him to guide her to the dance floor, the jewels on her gorgeous lavender gown twinkling as she moved.

The incessant chatter in the room ceased as everyone turned to watch the king and queen dance the first dance. Rose drifted to join the small crowd that surrounded the dance floor, hugging herself with excitement. After the king danced with her, surely other men would want to do the same. Maybe one of them would end up her husband.

In fact, before the first dance even ended, she felt a light tap on her shoulder and turned to see a handsome specimen. The man was tall and fair, his clothing dripping with lace, his manner oozing aristocracy.

He struck a pose, one hand resting lightly on the jeweled hilt of his court sword, the other on the head of his high, beribboned walking stick. "Lady Trentingham, may I have the honor of an introduction?"

Rose wasn't surprised the gentleman knew her mother's name. Mum was known far and wide as an amateur matchmaker—and a very successful one, at that. Could the request for an introduction mean he was looking to find a wife?

Chrystabel laid a hand on Rose's arm. "Lord Rosslyn, may I present Lady Rose Ashcroft. My daughter," she added meaningfully. "Rose, this is the Earl of Rosslyn. And how is your wife, my lord?" she asked in pointed tone.

"She's well," the man replied blithely. He inclined his head toward the left, where Rose saw a woman half entwined with a man who had to be a decade her junior. "Like most here at court, we have an understanding."

Rose was half tempted to bash him over the head with his own walking stick, but before she could react, Charles appeared by her side. He bowed and held out a hand. "My lady?"

Rosslyn's eyes widened, making Rose feel rather triumphant as she joined the king on the dance floor.

It was a country dance, performed in two lines, one of women, one of men. When it was her turn to parade down the center with Charles, their joined hands held high, Rose felt the eyes of the entire chamber on her.

The king's eyes were on her as well. Dark and glinting, they captured hers quite effectively. The fabled Stuart charm. "It's a pleasure to have a new face at court, my lady. Especially one as lovely as yours." Charles danced superbly, very graceful for so tall a man. His voice was just as smooth. "Why have you never graced us with your presence before, my lady?"

She blushed—becomingly, she hoped. "My father thought me too young."

"Young?" he echoed, sounding puzzled.

And then they had to return to their respective lines.

As she executed the simple steps, she furtively glanced around. There were ladies of her mother's age, certainly, but there were also girls of fifteen and sixteen. Or perhaps she should think of them as women, since they hung on the arms of grown men, flirting madly.

Clearly, she wasn't too young.

The next time she met up with the king to parade down the center, she had a more plausible reason. "I've come to court to find a husband."

"Ah." His dark eyes glittered speculatively. "Interesting choice of word, my lady. Husbands we have, although many are already wed." He smiled at his own jest. "Take me, for example—"

"I won't be," she interrupted archly.

Though she immediately worried that he might be offended, he only laughed. "You are your mother's daughter," he conceded good-naturedly.

Among this social circle filled with promiscuous spouses, her parents were known as uncommonly devoted.

When the dance came to an end, the king raised her hand to his mouth, pressing warm lips to the back. "It was a pleasure, my lady. I wish you every success here at court."

For a moment, while he still held her hand, Rose found herself suffused with wonder. Here she was, in the King's Drawing Room at Windsor Castle, with none other than Charles himself. An experience like this could go to a woman's head, she thought giddily.

Then he led her from the dance floor, and she watched him go straight to a girl of no more than seventeen and kiss her soundly on the lips. Rose couldn't help but notice his queen was studiously gazing elsewhere, resignation etched on her small, foreign-looking face.

Apparently all was not lightness and fun here at the castle.

But this was Rose's first evening at court, not a night to shoulder the worries of the world. She looked away, determined to enjoy the spectacle that was Charles's court. Courtiers wore every color of the rainbow. Gentlemen walked with swaggering, elegant movements while ladies fluttered exquisitely painted fans.

"May I claim the pleasure of a dance?"

Startled, she turned to see a heartbreakingly handsome man. "Absolutely, my lord…?"

"Bridgewater. The Duke of Bridgewater," he clarified with a warm smile and a smart bow.

Rose was pleased to see he wasn't carrying one of those foppish ribbon-topped walking sticks. And he was a duke! Not only a duke, but a youngish duke—of an age, Rose guessed, not above thirty.

Most dukes, in her experience, were doddering old men of forty or more.

As he swept her into the dance, her heart skittered with excitement. Already she was dancing with exactly the sort of man she'd come here hoping to meet.

"My given name is Gabriel, and my family name is Fox," he informed her quite pleasantly. "You're Trentingham's daughter, aren't you?"

"Yes. Rose Ashcroft," she said, gazing up at him—for he was tall. Tall enough to make her feel nearly as petite as her sister Lily. Her gaze skimmed from the top of his very-English blond head, past blue eyes, and down a patrician nose to his smiling mouth, each detail making her even happier.

He was perfect!

She was certain she was falling in love already.

"My dear Rose—may I call you Rose?" he asked, and then continued without waiting for confirmation. "I hope your mother will approve of our dancing without a proper introduction."

He was not only a duke, but a gentleman as well.

She gave a well-practiced flutter of her lashes. "To be sure, your grace." Imagine being called your grace—her stomach fluttered at the mere possibility. "My mother brought me here to meet gentlemen like you." Men exactly like you, she revised silently, thrilled to have the attention of such a great catch.

And she did have his attention. His hands gripped hers a little tighter than was necessary, as though he were loath to let her escape. Not that she minded. To the contrary—his rapt attention made a little thrill run through her.

Court was wonderful. Even while dancing with Gabriel—for already, she thought of him as such—she couldn't help but be aware of her surroundings. The entire room glittered with the light of hundreds of candles in the chandeliers above and tall torches held by liveried yeoman, not to mention all the flashing precious metal and gemstones that adorned everyone in attendance.

That observation prompted her to check out Gabriel's jewels. A heavy gold chain draped flat across the peacock blue velvet of his surcoat. Beneath that, a strand of fat pearls gleamed in the firelight, swinging a bit as he moved with the dance. His lacy white cravat was secured with a large diamond pin, and the buttons on his suit boasted sapphires and diamonds set in glittering gold. Froths of lace spilled from his sleeves onto hands adorned with various rings set with rubies, emeralds, and jet. His high-heeled shoes sported gold and sapphire buckles.

Not only was he a duke, he was a rich duke!

When the dance came to an end, Rose felt deflated. One never danced with the same man two tunes in a row. But when Gabriel bowed over her hand and kissed it, she knew he would ask her again.

No sooner had he straightened than another man rushed over and begged the honor of a dance. And after that, another. And another and another until the evening grew late and the men all blended in her head.

Marquesses and earls and barons, light-haired and dark-haired and handsome and plain, short and tall and in between. She gave each and every one of them a fair appraisal.

Truly, she did.

But she knew—she just knew—that none of them was as perfect for her as the absolutely perfect Duke of Bridgewater.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kit walked briskly through the dark castle grounds toward Sir Christopher Wren's apartments—the official apartments of the Surveyor General, apartments he hoped to own for himself someday. Not that he'd actually live there. He'd just put the finishing touches on his brand new house here in Windsor, situated on an enviable plot of land on the banks of the River Thames.

In fact, his sister, Ellen, was waiting for him there now. At least, he hoped she was waiting for him. She'd declared herself in love with a completely unsuitable man—a pawnbroker, for God's sake—and he feared she might be off at his damned pawnshop.

Ellen never had been the type to pay heed to his brotherly concerns.

Arriving at his destination, he knocked twice on the old oak door and waited for Wren's secretary to admit him. He was slightly startled when Wren himself answered, dressed in shirtsleeves. He'd obviously been working. He wore no periwig, and his long, dark hair was a mite disheveled, as though he'd been raking his hands through it.

Wren didn't reside in the official Surveyor General's apartments either, but instead used the rooms as office space. Like Kit, Wren had recently built an impressive house for himself in town. But as the Dean of Windsor's son, he'd been raised right here in the castle deanery, a playmate of the young Prince of Wales—now King Charles—and he and his monarch were still intimates. Kit was hoping their long-standing relationship would mean Wren could convince the king that Kit was the right man for the Deputy Surveyor post.

But the look on Wren's face wasn't reassuring.

"This new development does not bode well," Wren said without preamble, motioning Kit inside. Perching one hip on a large drafting table strewn with copious drawings, he waved Kit toward a chair.

Like Charles, Wren was two decades Kit's senior. But Kit had known him for years, ever since he'd found himself Wren's student at Oxford. Professor and pupil had grown close, and although Kit knew Wren was also acquainted with his rival for the position, he knew as well that Wren had never held the man in high esteem. Gaylord Craig, now the Earl of Rosslyn, hadn't been a stellar student—and Wren was a man who valued intelligence augmented by hard work.

Unfortunately, however, the decision wasn't Wren's alone. Charles owed many Royalist families for their support in the Civil War, and government appointments were less costly than most methods of repayment.

"Until this unfortunate occurrence," Wren continued, "you were the front-runner for the appointment. But Charles hasn't the patience for costly errors—the monarchy, I'm afraid, is as cash-strapped as ever."

Kit rubbed the chunk of brick in his pocket. "The error wasn't strictly mine—my foreman chose to use substandard materials. Not," he rushed to add, "that I don't take responsibility. Quite clearly I erred in hiring the man in the first place. I'll cover the losses myself."

Wren nodded thoughtfully, his brown eyes sympathetic. "Regardless, I'm now under pressure to award the post to Rosslyn. Last I saw, however, the dining room was coming along beautifully—your design and eye to detail are impeccable. Charles plans to inspect it tomorrow, so if you can make certain the site is safe and any debris is cleared—"

"Of course."

"—perhaps we can divert his attention to the impressive decoration."

"I have everything under control," Kit assured him.

If necessary, he would comb the town for extra hands and have the men work overnight. Sufficient scaffolding would be erected to assure no safety concerns, and the site would look pristine, whatever it took to make it that way. "What time have you scheduled the visit?"

"Noon."

"Then I shall be ready by ten."

"Make sure you are." Though Wren's words sounded serious, he tempered them with a small smile. "With any luck, we can pull this off."

"I've never put much stock in luck. Hard work and perseverance have done well by me so far." Kit returned the smile with a wry one of his own. "But I suppose a little luck wouldn't come amiss just this once."

Wren rose and opened the door, giving Kit a companionable slap on the back as he ushered him through it. "I'll do what I can."

"I'm counting on it," Kit told him.

Hard work and perseverance. He'd always believed that with both, anything could be his.

He headed back to his site. The castle grounds were quiet this time of night, the Round Tower on its huge mound of earth looming tall and imposing between the Lower and Upper Wards. His footfalls echoed off the cobblestones as he skirted the circular structure and made his way to Horn Court.

Nodding a familiar greeting, the usher there opened the door to admit him to the King's Staircase. Kit hurried up the steps and through the progression of chambers—rooms he didn't belong in, if one went strictly by rank. But as one of the king's architects, he had free access.

Someday he would have the rank, too.

His mind on his project and what he would have to accomplish tonight to assure its successful completion, he fairly ran through the Audience Chamber and into the King's Drawing Room, where court was in full swing this evening. There, he stopped short.

Rose Ashcroft was on the dance floor.

His breath caught at the sight of her, a vision in wine-colored satin. The wide neckline bared her creamy shoulders. Her long sleeves were caught at intervals with jeweled clasps that left gaps, revealing tempting glances of a diaphanous chemise underneath.

He had no idea how she'd come to be here, but she was dancing with some lucky bastard who was tall, blond, and exceedingly aristocratic.

As she spun in the other man's arms, Kit felt that punch in his gut again. And jealousy spurted through his veins. Which was absurd, aggravating, and unproductive.

Mr. Christopher Martyn was still years away from gaining the title that could give him access to Lady Rose Ashcroft. Wren hadn't been knighted until well after he'd become Surveyor General. Deputy Surveyor was just the first step.

Unless…

What if he managed to impress King Charles with his abilities as a master architect? Windsor's new dining room would prove to be spectacular, of that he was certain. The renovations at Whitehall Palace and the new building at Hampton Court—apartments for Charles's long-time mistress Barbara, whom he'd created the Duchess of Cleveland, and their five children—could prove to be Kit's making.

Charles might be pleased enough to award him a knighthood along with the Deputy Surveyor post. That would speed along Kit's plans, perhaps allowing him to win the stunning woman now gliding on the dance floor in the arms of another man.

His jaw set with determination, he tore his gaze from Rose and strode through the glittering assembly, exiting the drawing room into the small, as-yet-unrenovated vestibule that led to his project.

"Martyn."

Kit turned to see the Earl of Rosslyn follow and close the heavy door behind him. After the hubbub of court, the vestibule seemed quiet, the music and voices muffled to a dull hum.

"Yes, Rosslyn?"

Slim, fair, and elegant in a vaguely effeminate way, Rosslyn shook his head sympathetically. "I was sorry to hear of your misfortune."

Given that they were competing for the same post, Kit couldn't help wondering if the man was sincere—but after all, they went back a long way. Oxford, of course, and before that, they'd both attended Westminster School. They'd never run in the same circles, since Kit was a King's Scholar with his tuition paid by the Crown, while Rosslyn stuck to his wealthy crowd. But Kit had always got on well with everyone, and as it had become clear in the last few weeks that he and Rosslyn were the final candidates for Deputy Surveyor, he'd found himself a bit disconcerted to be competing for the post with a friend.

Not that that dimmed his determination to win. He'd been working toward this appointment all his life. Now he was so close.

He tried for a blithe smile. "What misfortune is that?"

"Your project here has suffered a setback, hasn't it?"

Kit managed an unconcerned shrug. "Minor, I can assure you. I'll finish within deadline as planned."

"Excellent." Rosslyn toyed with the ribbons that crowned his walking stick, his pale blue eyes speculative. "I must say I have mixed feelings about winning the Deputy Surveyor post over you. The last thing I need is more projects—I'm overwhelmed with commissions as it is." One square-toed high-heeled shoe tapping, the earl eyed Kit's plain suit with ill-concealed disdain. "And I certainly don't need a knighthood."

Apparently Rosslyn wasn't feeling competitive, Kit thought with some relief. He grinned and held out a hand. "Well, then, for the sake of the kingdom, may the best man win."

Rosslyn's grip had always been of the limp variety, and this occasion was no exception. Kit knew he was the best man.

Now he just had to prove it.

CHAPTER SIX

As the evening wore on, Gabriel sought out Rose for a second dance and then a third. "People will talk," she told him as he guided her toward the dance floor once again.

"Do you care?" he asked.

"Not at all, your grace." Rose's attention was drawn by a spectacle that was already becoming familiar: King Charles crossing the chamber followed by a bevy of yipping spaniels. Amused, she smiled as she saw him stop before a short woman and slide an arm around her possessively. "Who is that?" she asked.

The duke barely spared the couple a glance. "Have you never met Nell Gwyn?"

"Is that Nell Gwyn? Gemini!" Rose knew of the woman, of course; she doubted there was a soul in England who hadn't heard of the brothel-born actress who'd stolen His Majesty's heart. But she'd expected Nell to be exquisite.

Although the woman enthusiastically kissing Charles was pretty, Rose wouldn't call her beautiful. Her small body was lushly curvy, her hair a riot of red-brown curls. Rose's eyes widened as Charles worked his mistress toward a chair and tumbled her onto his lap. Over the music, Nell's delighted laughter mixed with the ever-present yaps of the king's dogs.

"I had no idea she was allowed at court," Rose mused. "Has Charles granted her a title?"

"Of course not." Gabriel maneuvered her around to where she couldn't stare. "But Charles made their young son the Earl of Burford, and Nell herself was appointed Lady of the Queen's Bedchamber these two years past."

Rose blinked. "And what does our dear queen think of that?"

"I don't expect our dear queen was given a say in the matter." The duke raised a brow as he looked down at her. "Wives usually aren't."

"Not all wives," she said archly. "I'll have you know my family's motto is Interroga Conformationem."

"Question Convention?" he translated, looking amused.

Rose smiled, pleased. On top of everything else wonderful about him, the man knew Latin.

After a few more dances with men who failed to measure up to the duke, Rose sneaked off toward the ladies' attiring room, hoping for a rest. As she approached the small chamber, Nell Gwyn's distinctive laughter drifted out. "Aye, my ladies, the tale is true."

"Tell us," a feminine voice demanded.

"Yes, do tell!" came a veritable chorus.

Wondering just how many ladies were crowded into the attiring room, Rose stopped outside the door and listened.

"I took His Majesty to a bawdy house," Nell confided, "and encouraged him to run up a bill treating everyone to drink. Incognito, of course—it wasn't the type of place his cronies frequent, you understand." That was met with titters of laughter. "By and by, I took him up to a room and got him undressed—then I ran away with his clothes."

"You're a bold one, Nelly Gywn," someone chortled out. "What happened after that?"

"Well, the brothel owner didn't believe this man wrapped in a sheet was her sovereign—you cannot blame the poor fool, can you? He carried no money, so to pay his debt and for something to wear, he offered an emerald ring as security. It was all he had on him, you see."

"And fair enough," a lady pointed out.

"Well, the proprietor refused, claiming it was paste for certain. Our dear king nearly burst a vessel, he did, when fortunately someone recognized him and convinced the owner as to his identity. So all was well."

"He must have been furious," someone breathed.

"You don't know my Charles," Nell declared. "Once it was over, he thought it a fine jest indeed!"

Hoots of laughter greeted Rose when she stepped into the room. "Good evening, ladies."

Her smile faded as the chamber fell silent and, one by one, the women shouldered their way past her and out the door.

Finally only Nell was left. She shrugged and made her way to Rose. "Don't pay them no mind, milady." Like a man, she held out a hand. "I'm Eleanor Gywn, Nell to my friends."

"I know." Nell's hand felt small and warm for the moment Rose held it. "I'm Rose Ashcroft."

"Lady Rose Ashcroft, I've been told." Nell's twinkling eyes almost closed when she smiled. "They're only jealous of your beauty. And afraid you'll steal their men."

"Gemini!" Rose exclaimed. "Most of them are married!"

"Ah, a babe in the woods." Nell gave a kindly sigh. "Here at court, that makes no difference. The women consider all male courtiers fair game, and the men hunt amongst the women just as freely. Fidelity went out with Cromwell," she concluded, then wiped her tongue and spit, having uttered the hated name.

Rose slanted her an assessing glance. "You don't seem to worry that I'll help myself to a courtier or two."

Nell's infectious laughter poured forth. "Bloody hell, sweetheart, what do I need with the pompous fools? I bed with the king. It doesn't get any better than that!"

Rose wondered if by better Nell meant that he was a great lover. Or was it a simple reference to Charles's exalted status?

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask when another lady barged in, her milk-white complexion mottled with angry red. Giving Nell a glare that said she wished her dead, she plopped onto a green baize bench with her back to them both, her dark ringlets shaking with barely controlled fury.

Nell snorted, then sailed out the door with Rose in tow. "Don't pay no mind to her, either," she said, none too quietly.

Rose waited until they were out of earshot to ask, "Who is she?"

"The high and mighty Louise de Kéroualle."

"The Duchess of Portsmouth?" Another of Charles's mistresses—this one, Rose knew, not nearly as popular with the people. Of course, that was due to her Catholicism rather than any fault of her personality, which, after all, the populace could hardly be acquainted with.

Nell, on the other hand, had been known to proudly proclaim herself "the Protestant whore."

"Squintabella is in a snit," Nell said now, "because she arrived today after a long journey from Bath, but although Charles took dinner with her, he didn't invite her to stay the night, preferring my bed instead."

"Squintabella?" Rose echoed weakly, her head spinning with all this delicious court gossip.

"Did you not notice the slight cast in the duchess's eye? I was here at court before her, and I'll be here long after she's gone. She's managed to send Barbara running across the Channel, but she won't do away with me so easily."

"Barbara has left England?" The news was a shock. Barbara was Charles's longest-standing mistress, having accompanied him home for his Restoration.

"She's on the outs now, thanks to Louise. Living in Paris. But she'll return—she always does. And no matter what she's done, Charles always forgives her."

"You must find that maddening," Rose said.

"Hell, no. She's had him wrapped around her finger for seventeen years. I know better than to expect that to change now." Nell laughed as she bussed Rose on both cheeks, sang "Good luck, dearie!" and flitted back into the drawing room.

No sooner had she left than Louise came out the door. "Enjoying court, Lady Rose?"

Still reeling, Rose turned to her in surprise. "Very much," she told the gorgeous woman. Baby-faced with almond-shaped eyes, full red lips, and enough jewelry hanging all over her to stock a small shop, Louise made Rose feel plain in comparison.

But the duchess's demeanor wasn't so beautiful. "You'd do best," she advised haughtily, "not to fraternize with such as she."

"Could you mean Nell?" Bristling, Rose couldn't help but notice that small squint Nell had mentioned. "Whyever not? Charles seems to think her good enough."

"I cannot credit that he's taken with such a coarse, common orange wench." As a young girl, before she'd stepped on stage at the Theatre Royal, Nell had been employed there selling oranges. "She calls him her Charles the Third, you know."

Rose could feel jealous venom spewing from this bitter woman. "Charles the Third?"

"Her earlier lovers included Charles Hart—a common actor—who then passed her to Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst. She called him her Charles the Second, and now the king has become Charles the Third."

Rose's lips twitched.

"It's not amusing," Louise said with a sniff. "His Majesty deserves respect—not least from one such as her."

Louise de Kéroualle, daughter of a Breton family of ancient and distinguished lineage, quite obviously considered herself much above Nell Gwyn. But Rose couldn't help liking the "coarse orange wench" better. Louise was rumored to be a French spy, which Rose suddenly had little difficulty believing.

Pretty is as pretty does, her mother had always told her three girls. Rose was imagining Louise's lovely face transforming into that of a hag when Gabriel appeared and laid a hand on her arm.

"Did you not promise me the next dance?" he asked, although she hadn't. Before Rose could answer, he nodded toward Louise. "Your grace."

The pale beauty nodded back, a smile curving those bloodred lips. "Your grace," she echoed, her voice as sweet and smooth as honey.

The woman, Rose realized, was a natural-born predator. Although she knew tongues would wag when the duke led her off toward the dance floor yet again, she went more than willingly.

As she took her place across from him, her heart pounded with the thrill of it all. She'd always said it was as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, and the Duke of Bridgewater certainly had a title worth falling for.

The dance was a branle, and all the running, gliding, and skipping rendered her breathless. Or maybe it was the duke…she couldn't be sure. She only knew that when he took her by the arm and drew her toward an exterior door, her heart gave a little lurch.

"We shouldn't—" she started.

"Whyever not?" His smile looked innocent enough. "Aren't you heated after that dance? I certainly feel overwarm…" One pale, arched brow rose, and his tone implied the heat resulted from more than just exertion.

Well, she shouldn't refuse him, should she? After all, it was only a walk outside. She glanced toward her mother, but Chrystabel was engaged in conversation across the room. The men at court had wicked reputations, but if Mum were concerned, surely she'd be watching more closely.

In any case, it hardly mattered, since while Rose was dithering, the duke had managed to steer her from the room.

She'd never liked the dark, so she was relieved to see a few torches. It was a mild evening, but no one else seemed to be outdoors enjoying the favorable weather. "Should we be out here?" she asked nervously.

"It's open to the public. Charles expanded this terrace recently, and he's invited the townspeople to enjoy the views. Enormous as it is, it's crowded as hell in the daytime."

She'd bet it was—and for some reason, she found herself wishing all those people were here now. But when the duke took her hand and began walking, her fleeting unease was replaced by a sense of wonder. Her first time at court—how amazing that she should find such a perfect man so quickly! She should have come to court years earlier.

"How long have you been here at Windsor?" he asked.

"We just arrived today."

"I guessed as much—or I would surely have spotted you before now."

They fell quiet as Gabriel guided her toward the edge of the terrace and stopped by the rail. This castle, like most, was built on high land, and the terrace afforded magnificent views. Beneath the castle wall, parkland gave way to a few twinkling lights and the moon reflecting off the Thames in the distance. Stars winked in the heavens above.

"It's a lovely night," Rose said to fill the silence.

"Yes, it is." He smiled down at her, his face lit by the moon. "And made more so with such lovely company."

Rose liked what she was hearing.

Surely there was no reason to feel uneasy…

CHAPTER SEVEN

Kit had six men erecting scaffolding, two chipping off the ruined plaster, and another two hauling away the debris. At the same time, he had a team dispatched to London to fetch the quality materials that had been figured into his original specifications. With any luck, they'd return on the morrow, or at worst, the day after that.

Construction work generally halted at dusk. There were no chandeliers in the room as yet, so the men worked by the light of torches and candelabrum. If Kit could persuade the rest of his crew to remain on the job twenty-four hours a day, he would. But of course they were snug in their beds while he fretted. Artists, especially, were temperamental creatures.

"Careful!" he warned, one eye on the late-night crew while he reworked the schedule again in his head, planning contingencies in case the new materials arrived late. "We're strapped for time, but I won't have injuries. Or a fire."

"Pardon me!" a musical voice exclaimed. He turned to see the swish of peach-colored skirts as Lady Trentingham swiveled away, narrowly missing being whacked in the head by three men carrying a beam. "I've apparently stumbled into the wrong room."

Emerging from the shadows, Kit strode toward her, his footfalls muffled by the protective tarpaulins on the new oak flooring. "It's perfectly all right, Lady Trentingham." Taking her arm, he drew her over to a safe corner.

"Mr. Martyn!" she said warmly. "I was searching for my daughter—"

"Lady Rose? I thought I glimpsed her earlier. What a surprise to find you both here."

She turned slowly, inspecting the chamber. "I've brought her to court to find a husband."

He should have guessed. A woman as beautiful and bright as Rose would be snapped up here within days—if she wasn't debauched first. Absurdly, disappointment tightened his chest as he watched Lady Trentingham scan the room and saw her pretty brown eyes—so like Rose's—widen with appreciation.

"This ceiling is going to be exquisite," she commented, gazing up at the half-painted details on the older portion of the room—the part that wasn't ruined. "A banquet of the gods, am I right? Fish and fowl…and look, a lobster! How very charming."

"I'm pleased you think so. I envisioned it both exquisite and somewhat amusing." He hoped the king would be even half as impressed as she. "I hired Antonio Verrio to paint it. You may have heard of him?"

"Heavens, yes. The Duke of Montagu brought him from Paris, didn't he? I arranged his marriage. The duke's, not the artist's." She ran a hand down the intricate oak carving on the wall beside her, a melange of fruit and vegetables. "And who is responsible for this?"

"Grinling Gibbons, assisted by Henry Phillips."

She nodded approvingly, still looking around. "The cornice is his work as well, if I'm not mistaken. Are you interested in my daughter, Mr. Martyn?"

He blinked at the rapid change of subject. Not to mention the subject itself. "Lady Rose is indeed interesting," he replied cautiously. "And please, call me Kit."

"Kit." She dropped her gaze to meet his. "That isn't the sort of interest I was enquiring about, and"—a small smile curved her lips—"I suspect you know it. Do you want Rose?"

He wished there were furniture in the unfinished room, so he could sit down. "Do I want…"

"I don't mean in a carnal sense," she clarified, then her eyes twinkled. "Well, of course that's part of it…but do you want her as a wife?"

"A wife?" Furniture or no, if this line of questioning continued, he was going to have to sit. The floor was looking mighty tempting. His knees felt weaker than the plaster that was crumbling overhead.

And he hadn't the slightest idea what sort of reply Lady Trentingham was seeking. He rubbed the back of his neck.

Do you want her as a wife?

Only in his most ludicrous dreams.

If he answered yes, would Lady Trentingham berate him for aspiring far above his station? If he answered no, would she take offense on her daughter's behalf?

Thankfully, she saved him from answering at all. "You would make me a fine son-in-law, but if you wish for that to happen, you'd do best to hide my approval from my daughter."

Kit could hardly believe his ears. Elation sang through his veins, tempered by a rush of confusion. "I…" He paused for a deep breath. "Doesn't it bother you that I'm not of noble birth?"

Lady Trentingham graced him with a soft smile. "I know a good man when I see one, and a title rarely has much to do with it. In my opinion, that is. I wish I could say my Rose felt the same way." Her voice was laden with warning. "If you wish to pursue her, I'm afraid you'll have your work cut out for you."

He wondered if he was up to the task. But with the approval of Rose's mother, he was damn well willing to try. "She told me she's allowed to choose her own husband."

"Yes, she is. And furthermore, she's determined not to wed anyone of my choosing. I'm rather known as a matchmaker," she added, but it wasn't a boast, rather an honest nugget of information. "Like my other daughters, she wants no part of any marriage I arrange."

"I see."

She cracked a smile. "Nevertheless—and unbeknownst to my children—I chose both Violet's and Lily's husbands. And I aim to make it three for three. How's that for an impressive accounting?"

"My lady, I wish you every success in attaining that goal." He'd never spoken more earnest words, since her success would mean his as well.

"I'm pleased to hear you agree. One more thing." She placed her hand on his arm, commanding his gaze. "My daughter is an innocent…and I expect her to remain one until the day she's wed. I'm well aware of the goings-on here at court—"

"I'm no courtier," he rushed to assure her. He waved an arm, encompassing the half-finished chamber. "I'm only the hired help."

"I'm glad to hear it." She smoothed down her skirt. "Now I must leave your glamorous room and seek out my daughter, before another man—who is a courtier—gets his claws into her. Can I persuade you to accompany me in my search?"

As Rose and Gabriel walked, she found herself mentally bouncing back and forth between trying to be her most charming and marveling that the Duke of Bridgewater was choosing to spend so much time with her. As a result, she feared their conversation had been a bit stilted.

But that was only to be expected, wasn't it? After all, they hardly knew each other. Still, her family had always been rather vocal, discussing anything and everything with great enthusiasm, so the awkward silences made her uncomfortable.

"What do you think," she asked after a particularly long gap in their dialogue, "of the maritime agreement we've just signed with France?"

"Maritime agreement?" The duke's perfect brow creased in puzzlement.

Did people not discuss these matters at court? Didn't he read The London Gazette? She plucked a yellow bloom off a potted hollyhock plant. "English ships will now be permitted to carry Dutch cargoes without fear of French interference."

A little chuckle burst from his lips. "What would a woman know about that?"

She forced a laugh in return. "Oh, just something I heard," she said and cursed herself silently.

Though she wasn't a student of history or prone to philosophical musings, she'd always been interested in what currently went on in the world. But how could she have forgotten her own rule to dazzle men without revealing her intelligence?

She sniffed the flower daintily. "I was just wondering if you could tell me what the agreement might mean to us here in England." When he gave her a blank look, she worried that he might no longer like her. "The significance of such an action escapes me," she lied in a desperate effort to redeem herself.

"That's quite all right, my dear." He squeezed her hand. "Don't worry your pretty little head."

Did he still like her, then? she wondered.

But then he drew her between a turret and a potted tree, and she knew.

He still liked her.

In fact, he was going to kiss her.

She could tell when a man was aiming to kiss her. After all, it had happened before. In truth, she'd lost count of the number of men who'd contrived to press their lips to hers. She supposed it wasn't surprising, given she was comely and not nearly as proper as her sisters. And they were only kisses, for heaven's sake—it wasn't as though she allowed men to take further liberties.

So she'd been kissed before, and she knew what to expect. But she had a sad secret.

She didn't much care for kissing.

"Gabriel," she whispered when he turned her to face him. "May I call you Gabriel?"

"But of course, sweet Rose." His voice had deepened, and he raised a hand and skimmed her cheek. Then it curled around the back of her neck as he drew her closer, and before she could say anything further—before she could attempt to slow him down, to possibly suggest they get to know each other better before sharing this intimacy—he lowered his head.

His other arm went around her, and his hand pressed into the small of her back, drawing her against his body. As the flower dropped from her fingers, his mouth crushed down on hers.

She stiffened, but he didn't seem to notice. His lips coaxed hers open, and his tongue pushed into her mouth, wet and frantic. Just like she'd expected, she thought with a mental groan. Most men seemed to prefer this kind of kiss, and the duke was apparently no exception.

Gabriel let out an amorous little moan and shifted her in his arms, slanting his lips across hers. Faced with such honest passion, she tried to relax and participate, tried to learn to enjoy this kiss. But try as she might, it didn't feel as wondrous as it was supposed to. In fact, it didn't feel like much at all beyond a messy mashing of mouths.

She was relieved when he pulled away—and even more relieved when her mother's distinctive soft laughter floated to her on the night air.

She turned and stepped back onto the terrace. "Mum! And…you," she added rather ungraciously as her gaze shifted to her mother's right.

There stood Kit Martyn, looking impossibly handsome. A commoner had no right to look so good. She felt those champagne bubbles again, and she hadn't even been drinking spirits.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him.

"Building a new dining room for the king. What have you been doing here?" he asked in a way that made it clear he thought he knew.

Rose felt herself turning red. For once, she appreciated the dark.

"She's with me," the duke said, sounding rather possessive. "Though what business is it of yours, I wonder?"

Picturing these two in a fistfight, Rose feared Kit might win. "Your grace," she said quickly, "may I present Mr. Christopher Martyn. Kit, the Duke of Bridgewater." She looked up at Gabriel. "He's a friend of the family," she added, feeling it necessary to explain.

"And I asked Kit to help me search for you," her mother put in. "I felt it unsafe, as a woman, to be out in the dark alone."

"Indeed, it wouldn't have been wise." Kit held Gabriel's gaze until the man looked away. "I'm glad to have been of service, but I must be off. I've much to accomplish before tomorrow. Lady Trentingham, Lady Rose." He nodded toward them both, then addressed the duke with an elegant bow. "Your grace."

Slightly disconcerted, Rose watched him walk away.

"We should return as well," her mother told her. "I'm grateful to have found you in such safe hands."

If Chrystabel's voice held a bit of warning, Rose chose to ignore it.

On their way back to the drawing room, she smiled up at Gabriel. She'd liked the way he'd made it clear she was there with him. He truly was perfect.

It wasn't his fault she didn't enjoy his kisses.

She'd listened, jealous beyond belief, while her sisters rhapsodized about the sensual kisses they enjoyed with the men who were now their husbands. But kisses had never been like that for her. In all honesty, she found them more than a mite disgusting.

Of course, she'd never told her sisters that, so she sometimes wondered if they, too, were hiding their distaste. But she thought not. Both her sisters were honest to a fault. How they could enjoy men mauling their mouths was beyond her, but apparently they did.

Though she wished it could be the same for her, experience had convinced her otherwise. She could only hope that the rest of what happened between men and women wasn't nearly as repugnant.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"I'm pleased." King Charles nodded thoughtfully, his dark eyes skimming the dining room again with approval. "And I'm satisfied with your explanation, Mr. Martyn. Do be certain, however, to complete this project per schedule."

"I can assure Your Majesty that will not prove a problem." Kit walked with Charles toward the double doors and threw them wide. "I thank you for taking the time to visit."

Kit smiled as he watched the king make his way through the vestibule, several of the man's ever-present spaniels yipping after him. After pulling the doors shut, he unfolded some tarpaulins and laid them near the side of the chamber that was supported by scaffolding. Then he strode through a door at the other end, along a corridor, and into Brick Court. "Come along, now! Beams, lumber—move!"

Dazed, he stepped aside to let the workmen through with the first of the new materials he'd ordered.

If it wouldn't be such a bad example, he'd slump against the wall.

He'd passed.

He wandered back along the corridor and into the dining room, keeping out of his crew's way. He'd been up all night—supervising, reevaluating, working with his own hands—while his men secured the damaged area and hauled away all evidence of the mishap. He'd attached countless strips of decorative molding, polished all the oak paneling, stripped off the tarpaulins and polished the new floor, too. All in hopes of charming the king's eye.

He'd passed.

Dropping onto a fresh stack of wood and using it as a chair, he flipped blindly through a book of architectural renderings. He should go home; he was exhausted and needed to check in with his sister. Ellen had a habit of finding trouble when he wasn't around.

The drawings before him blurred.

He'd passed.

All was not lost.

When the double doors reopened, his heart seized as he wondered wildly whether the king had some complaint, after all. When two women entered instead, he sagged with relief. Then sat straight when he recognized them.

Rose and her mother, both dressed in bright, cheerful colors. Surely a sight for tired eyes.

"Oh!" Lady Trentingham exclaimed, meeting his gaze. "I didn't expect to find you here."

He wouldn't wager on that.

"I just wanted to show Rose this beautiful chamber," she added.

Kit shut his book. "I was about to leave, anyway. It's time I went home."

"Home? Surely you're not finished here. It looks wonderful, but—"

"It's stunning, Mum! Even better than you described." Rose gazed up at the ceiling. "Beauty and whimsy all rolled into one. I am not overly fond of the decoration here at Windsor. Overdone, if you ask me. But this room doesn't take itself as seriously as the others."

"Thank you," Kit said. Relishing the admiration in her voice, he watched her wander the chamber, touching a carved panel, the white marble mantel, a bit of grooved wainscoting. Smiling, he turned to her mother. "The project is well in hand for the moment; I'm not abandoning it, I assure you. I live right here in Windsor. Not a ten minute walk."

"Is that so? I imagine your home must be lovely."

He knew a hint when he heard one. "Would you like to see it?"

"Mum, I don't think—"

"We'd love to," Lady Trentingham cut in. "Weren't you just saying, dear, how tedious it is here in the daytime?"

Kit led them on the easy walk from the castle down the hill to the Thames. Rose decided it felt good to be out in the fresh air. And there truly was nothing to do at Windsor Castle in the daytime…with the exception of the palace staff, it seemed everyone was still abed, sleeping off the excesses of the night before.

When Rose had hit her pillow after midnight, court had still been in full swing. She would have to adjust her country hours and perhaps take a nap this evening before court got underway. They had just begun setting up gaming tables when she left. Although she'd never gambled, she imagined it was much fun. She wanted to see if she could win enough money for a new gown.

The steep, curved street followed the castle wall. Across the road, townspeople were going about their business, entering and exiting rows of gabled shops with living accommodations above. Women carried baskets over their arms, gathering purchases as children and dogs played tag in the cobbled street.

No dirt road here, in this bustling town where the king kept a household.

"Look," she said as they reached the bottom of the hill. "A bookshop."

"John Young, Bookseller," Mum read off the old, cracked wooden sign.

Rose was always looking for new books to help practice her skills. "I wonder if they might have any books written in foreign languages."

"They do," Kit put in. "I found this there." He raised the book tucked under his arm. "It's Latin."

"You read Latin?"

"Hell, no," he said with a smile, not surprising her in the least. He hadn't understood her family's Latin motto, after all. "I bought it to examine the drawings." He opened the book and held it up as they walked. "See? Classical architecture."

"But there are words," Mum pointed out. "Explanations."

"True." He sighed as he closed the cover. "I believe, actually, that this book is meant to teach one how to accurately draw buildings. But I enjoy studying the pictures."

"Rose can read Latin," Mum said.

Rose avoided her mother's gaze, instead looking longingly inside the bookshop as they passed. "May we stop here on the way back, Mum?"

"Perhaps."

"We can stop now, if you wish," Kit offered, pleasantly surprising Rose. She thought fleetingly that were it the Duke of Bridgewater walking beside her, she wouldn't have dared show an interest in books.

It was freeing to be with a man she didn't care about.

"Later," Mum said. "I'm anxious to see the house."

At last they came to the end of the street. On the bucolic River Thames, swans glided majestically. Rose gazed across the Windsor Bridge toward the charming town of Eton. "Where do you live?" she asked Kit.

"Right here," he said, gesturing toward an imposing redbrick house that sat beside the river.

No, not a house. A mansion.

She consciously closed her gaping jaw. "It looks like Rand's house."

Her mother smiled. "Rand's house is white, not brick."

"But the style in which it's built…" Rose looked toward Kit, knowing he'd understand what she meant. "It looks nothing like Windsor's dining room."

"The dining room reflects Charles's preferences, not my own."

"I like yours much better," she murmured as he led them under a small columned portico and into the house.

She paused on the threshold, admiring the clean, modern lines of the entry hall. The black marble floor was studded with small white marble diamonds. Smooth, pale stone walls were set off by classic dark oak molding. A high ceiling led to a corridor beyond, where Rose glimpsed a series of archways that vaguely reminded her of a vaulted cathedral.

As she'd said, it reminded her of the house Kit had built for Rand in Oxford. But better. Not to mention at least twice the size.

Kit Martyn was quite obviously a wealthy man.

"Mr. Martyn." A butler dressed in dark blue rushed to meet him. "Welcome home." His inquisitive pale blue gaze swept Rose and her mother. "Shall I have Mrs. Potts prepare dinner for three?"

"Thank you, Graves, but I don't believe the ladies are staying long."

"As you say, sir." The butler took himself off.

"You wanted to see the house?" Kit asked, directing the question to Chrystabel.

"We'd love to," she assured him.

He led them through to a drawing room, all white paneled walls with a gray marble fireplace. The furniture was upholstered but not fussy, the windows large and tall, allowing sunshine to flood the room.

"I prefer natural light to candlelight," he told them. "Would you care to sit?"

"No," Rose said. "Show us the rest, please."

He shared a smile with her mother.

Rose's favorite room on the ground floor was the dining room, a complete contrast to King Charles's in its simplicity. Other than wide crown molding, the ceiling was smooth and white—at night it would reflect the light of the single carved oak chandelier that hovered over the round table. The walls were covered with dark oak paneling, rich and simple except for a few ornately carved sections above the fireplace.

"Sixteenth century, all of it." Kit waved the book he still held, indicating the wood that graced the walls. "I rescued it from a house I renovated—the owner wanted something more extravagant."

Rose turned in a slow circle. "Something more like Windsor Castle's decorations?"

"Very much."

"That owner has no taste," she declared.

Kit grinned. "Would you like to see upstairs?"

A small, exquisite stained-glass window threw colored light onto the curving staircase. "Another item I rescued," Kit said, waving the book at it, too.

The bedchambers weren't simply sleeping rooms; they were suites—and there were many. His sister's was peacock blue with a lovely canopied bed, a sitting room with a settle, a desk, and a marble fireplace, and a mirrored dressing room that made Rose fairly seethe with jealousy. This suite was also the only cluttered area in the house, with pretty little items decorating every flat surface. Rose wondered what his sister was like.

Kit's chamber boasted more classic oak paneling, a red-draped half-tester bed, and a beautiful sitting room surpassed only by the luxurious dressing room. It had the biggest bathtub Rose had ever seen—not a tub that the servants had dragged upstairs, but a permanent one positioned before a fireplace.

Rose could imagine herself in that tub, not to mention that bed. She hoped the Duke of Bridgewater lived half as nicely. Many of the estates she'd visited were much too old and drafty, and she'd met quite a few men who seemed more than happy living with their grandmothers' choices in decor.

When the Ashcrofts had seen and admired everything, Kit led them downstairs. "Ellen isn't here," he muttered darkly as though to himself. "Anywhere."

"Ellen?" Rose asked.

"My sister," he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "Graves!" he called. The butler reappeared. "Will you send someone to the pawnshop to seek out Ellen? Should she be there, I wish to see her directly."

"Of course, sir." The butler went off, presumably to fetch and instruct a footman.

"Well." Kit set the book on a small marble-topped table in the entry. "I hope you enjoyed the grand tour."

"I did." In truth, Rose was overwhelmed. She'd never imagined a commoner would own such a lovely home. And Kit not only owned it, he'd designed it. He was responsible for the pleasing proportions of each room, the tasteful wall and window treatments, the spare but perfect accessories.

All it needed, she thought absurdly, was flowers. Yes, beautiful arrangements of flowers would be the crowning touch. Her fingers itched to design them. She'd use silver vases in simple classic shapes to match the house.

Chrystabel lifted the book. "It's a shame you cannot read this."

"Languages." Kit flashed a self-deprecating smile. "The one subject I failed in school."

"Rose could read it to you. Couldn't you, dear?"

Rose was still planning her flower arrangements. Red, she thought, would suit this entry perfectly. The black-and-white floor called for something bold.

"I desperately need to lie down, but why don't you stay here and translate this book for Kit? I'm certain he can find someone to escort me home."

"Stay here?" Rose echoed, wrested from her vision of the multicolored arrangement she'd create for the lovely dining room.

"It's early still, and you have nothing else to do until court this evening. It would be a kindness."

She collected her thoughts and considered. Not only was Mum right, she was known for being hospitable. While Rose herself was known, she knew, for being selfish. Inside, she'd never felt like the woman others seemed to perceive her, and if she wished to alter those perceptions, it wouldn't be a bad thing to follow in her mother's hospitable footsteps.

And truth be told, she'd enjoy the challenge of translating a book about architecture. Although she generally hid her linguistic talents from men, Kit was just her brother-in-law's friend and—now that he was building the greenhouse—her father's hireling. She didn't care if he thought she was too intelligent, since she wasn't interested in marrying him.

"Rose?" her mother queried.

"Very well."

Kit's eyes lit, suddenly looking more green than brown. "Graves! It seems we'll be requiring dinner, after all."

CHAPTER NINE

Before Rose could change her mind, her mother had departed, and she and Kit were in the beautiful paneled dining room, a lovely dinner of beef in claret and carrot pudding set before them.

To her surprise, she found Kit very good company.

"It's odd," she realized in the middle of their meal. "You're quite easy to talk to."

A forkful of carrot pudding halfway to his mouth, he laughed. "Do you always say exactly what's on your mind?"

"Usually." Unless she was with a man she thought of as husband material; then she had to watch her words. Thankfully, that wasn't the case here. "Do you not find it odd at all? After all, we hardly know each other."

"Perhaps we should get to know each other, then." He sipped thoughtfully from a goblet of Madeira. "What's your favorite color?"

"Red. Why?"

He met her eyes. "Color can say a lot about a person."

"Oh, yes?" She took a swallow of the sweet wine. "What do you suppose red says about me?"

"I imagine that you're decisive…and perhaps a bit daring."

She liked that description. "What's your favorite color?"

"The clear blue of a summer sky."

"But your bedchamber is red," she remembered.

"Red is also a color of power," he said, leaving her to ponder the significance of that.

Was he powerful in the bedchamber? What exactly did that mean? She felt her pulse flutter a little as she contemplated—

"Do you prefer sweet or savory?" he asked, interrupting her musings.

"Pardon?" She blinked and swallowed.

"To eat. Sweetmeats or real meats, which is it?"

"Oh, sweets, most definitely," she told him, relieved to be on a different subject. Enjoying this game, she eyed a cherry tart one of his serving maids had placed on the table. "But I'm not passionate about it."

He raised a brow. "Passionate?"

Feeling herself blush, Rose was certain he'd taken her statement the wrong way. "Violet's sister-in-law, Kendra—she'd have a wedge of that tart on her plate already. She always eats dessert first. In case she wouldn't have room for it later."

"Hmm. I appreciate a passionate woman."

Her cheeks grew even hotter. "And you? Sweet or savory?"

"Give me a hunk of beef any day." He speared a piece of meat and popped it into his mouth. "Which do you enjoy more, Christmas or your birthday?"

"My birthday. It's mine alone."

He sipped, looking amused. "But Christmas is a time for sharing."

"Exactly." Two could play this game. "What's your favorite book?"

His eyes narrowed as he considered. "The Odyssey."

"Homer's Odyssey? In Greek?"

"Hell, no. George Chapman's version."

"Homer's is more poetic." She swallowed the last bite of the buttery carrot pudding. "Why do you like it?"

He set down his fork. "Odysseus faced terrible obstacles, but he persevered and triumphed in the end. I admire that sort of man, that sort of success."

He sounded very serious. "He did it for love," she reminded him.

"For his wife, Penelope, yes. She waited for him twenty years."

Though Rose dreamed of such enduring love, she couldn't imagine waiting twenty years for anything. "Penelope was more patient than I."

He smiled. "What's your favorite book?"

"Aristotle's Master-piece," she said without hesitation, even though it was a scandalous marriage manual. It seemed she could tell him anything. "I learned quite a bit from that book."

"Did you?" That brow went up again, making her wonder if he knew what the book was about or if he assumed it was Aristotelian philosophy. But his thoughtful expression didn't give him away. "Musically," he asked, "do you prefer instrumentals or songs?"

"Songs. I love to sing." To demonstrate, she trilled a few notes, then grinned when he smiled. "Do you sing?"

"Not where anyone can hear me." Still smiling, he sat back and twirled his goblet between his palms.

"My turn," she said, focusing on the pewter cup. "Red wine or white?"

"Red. Most definitely red. It's richer, deeper, more complicated." He fixed that wicked gaze on her. "And you? Red or white?"

"Champagne," she said, feeling like she'd just sipped some.

"Rare and expensive. It fits."

Her face heated again. "The bubbles tickle my senses."

He opened his mouth to respond, but then apparently thought better of it. "Are you early to bed or late to rise?" he asked instead.

"Both," she admitted with a chuckle. "But that's about to change. Last night I was so early to bed, I have no idea what time the court festivities ended. Do you know, or did you seek your bed beforetime, too?"

"I never sought my bed at all. I had work that kept me there throughout the night."

Her jaw dropped. "You haven't slept?" She began to rise. "I must leave you to get some sleep, then. Although my mother's heart was in the right place when she suggested I read to you, she was clearly unaware of the circumstances."

He rose and helped her to stand, his hand warm on her arm through the thin silk of her purple gown. Her skin seemed to prickle underneath.

"I would have you stay and read," he said. "If you're finished with your dinner, we'll adjourn to the drawing room."

"But you must be exhausted—"

"Think of it as a bedtime story, then." When she laughed, his eyes glittered green in response. "Honestly," he added, "tonight will be soon enough for me to rest. I'm accustomed to keeping long hours when a project demands it."

And that was just the point, wasn't it? she thought as she let him guide her into the light-flooded drawing room. The people in her life had no demands that would keep them up all the night—or at least none they hadn't put on themselves. She had nothing in common with this man.

But despite that—despite herself—she liked him. His ease, his self-confidence, his quick sense of humor. In fact, she liked him a little too much. She felt uneasy when he was too close.

When he fetched the book and sat beside her on the pale moss green settle, she briefly considered moving to a chair. But considering they needed to work from the same book, that would be silly—not to mention insulting.

She took the book from him. "'Perspectiva Pictorum et Architectorum,'" she read aloud, "which means, 'Perspective in Painting and Architecture' by Andrea Pozzo."

"Just as I thought," he said, reaching to open the cover and flip pages.

She caught a whiff of his scent again—the same mix of frankincense and myrrh that she remembered him wearing at Lily's wedding. It was woodsy and masculine and made the champagne bubbles dance in her stomach, no matter that she'd been drinking Madeira instead.

She'd have to see if she could duplicate it in Mum's perfumery. Perhaps the Duke of Bridgewater would like some.

"See here," Kit said. "There's a sketch of how to properly mount paper on a board for drawing. I've done it, but I couldn't tell what to do after that." Rising, he strode across the room to a desk and lifted a piece of wood with sheets of parchment tacked to it. "What does that page say?"

"To the lovers of perspective," she translated. "The art of perspective does, with wonderful pleasure, deceive the eye, the most subtle of all our outward senses…"

While she read, Kit grabbed an inkwell and quill and wandered back to sit beside her.

She turned the page. "This section is called 'Explanation of the lines of the plan and horizon, and of the points of the eye and of the distance.'" She read on, turning the Latin into English as she went. "That you may better understand the principles of perspective, here is presented to your view a temple, on the inner wall of which…"

With quick, precise motions, he sketched the lines of the classic Greek temple pictured beside the Latin words. He nodded as he followed her translated instructions, adding a man—tiny, as fit the proportions—standing before the structure with its high, arched windows.

"Let me see," she said when she'd finished reading the page.

He set down the quill and turned the sketch board to face her. "What do you think?"

"It's lovely."

"Just lovely?"

"Well, you've drawn it skillfully, of course."

He smiled. "It's a perfectly proportioned structure. Can you see the way the arched windows echo the arches in the rest of the building? A true thing of beauty."

If she couldn't quite appreciate the structure itself, she couldn't help but notice his enthusiasm. "You find buildings beautiful."

"Not all buildings, but the well-designed ones." He cocked his head, piercing her with those all-seeing eyes. "What do you find beautiful?"

A little flutter skittered through her, but she ignored it. "Are we back to playing the getting-to-know-each-other game?"

"Tell me. Beauty is…"

"Oh, flowers, jewelry, rainbows—"

"No. Not what others find beautiful; what you find beautiful. For example, this curve of cheek to chin"—he reached a long finger to trace along her face—"is a thing of beauty."

She shivered.

"Tell me," he said softly.

Your eyes, she thought. Your voice, when you talk like that. Your ideas…

"Flowers," she repeated aloud. But then she added, "When they've just been kissed by the rain."

He nodded solemnly. "What else?"

"Children's laughter."

"And?"

"The sun reflecting off the Thames at dusk."

He seemed to be staring at her mouth. "Yes."

Her lips tingling, she licked them. "And my sister, playing the harpsichord. Even more beautiful when her husband sings with her."

Kit nodded again. "Rand has an incredible voice."

"Yes, he does." And it didn't hurt anymore to think of him as Lily's husband.

"How about," Kit suggested, "the first blade of grass that pushes through the ground in the springtime?"

"Oh, yes." She'd never thought of it before, but a blade of grass could be a thing of beauty.

"Church bells ringing through the fog."

"Fog," she repeated. "Tendrils of fog creeping over the rooftops of London."

"The fog in London?" Laughing, he picked up his sketch board and ripped off the top sheet of paper. "Perhaps we're getting carried away. Read on, please."

She hesitated a moment, wishing the game could continue. "'Figura Tertia—The Third Figure.' The delineation of an oblong square in perspective…"

CHAPTER TEN

Kit sketched while Rose read all that pleasant long afternoon.

And the longer he spent with her, the more he wanted her.

Rose was much more than just a pretty face. He'd known that, somehow—known it in his gut before he'd even really known her. But now he knew for sure.

"You've never seen these buildings," she commented after translating the text accompanying several more figures. Eleven, or maybe twelve—he'd lost count. "In person, I mean. Have you?"

"No." He placed the sketch board facedown on the table and stuck the quill into the inkwell. "I've always dreamed of traveling abroad to study the classical buildings, but"—he couldn't help but laugh at himself—"I don't know how I'd communicate."

"I've also never been outside of Britain." She shifted to angle toward him, her dark eyes growing hazy. "I'd dearly love to go to Italy—to travel anywhere, really, where I could see the world and try speaking the languages I've learned to read and write."

"How many?" he asked.

"I don't know." She lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug. "I've never counted. Ten, eleven…maybe more. You get to a point where new languages become easier, where the words and grammar parallel ones you already know."

"You get to that point," he said, then smiled when she laughed.

She was charming in that easy dismissal of her abilities. And she shared his dream, to travel. Although it was clear she wasn't talking about traveling with him, Kit couldn't help but remember her mother's matchmaking hopes and think that such a talented wife could assist him not only in the study of architecture, but to go far in other ways.

And Rose was kind, too—willing to sit with him all day and patiently translate his book. He enjoyed her quick laughter, her ready wit.

She returned his smile, displaying adorable dimples. He wanted to kiss those little indentations, one on each side, then settle warm on her mouth.

"You must have done well in school, though," she said, startling him back to reality, "in order to get where you are today."

He shook his head to clear it. "I did fine in my other subjects. I had to."

"What do you mean?"

"My parents both perished in 'sixty-five—"

"The Great Plague?"

"Yes." That year of horror. "Did it not affect your family?"

"We went off to Tremayne, an estate my family owns near Wales. We were safe there. Isolated."

"We weren't," Kit said succinctly. "My father was a carpenter, my mother a secretary and housekeeper for a local widowed noblewoman. They owned no land; we had no place to go."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Do you miss them terribly?"

"I did, but it's been twelve years. My sister, Ellen, was but six when they died. She remembers very little of that life."

"But you remember your parents well."

He nodded. "My mother was the daughter of a cleric, and she taught us how to read. My father taught me how to build. They were good people."

Not that that had saved their lives. The few titled families in the area had escaped before falling ill, but common folk like the Martyns hadn't any choice but to stay behind. Kit and Ellen had survived, but their parents had not.

The Martyns, Kit had resolved—what remained of them—wouldn't be left behind ever again.

Leaning closer, Rose laid a hand over his. "What happened after they passed on?"

"I was sixteen and determined to care for my sister, but we had no income, after all. Alone in our tiny cottage, we nearly starved."

Her fingers tightened on his, and she leaned closer still, swamping him with her rich, floral scent. "Oh, Kit…"

He waved off the sympathy. It would do him no good. He'd long ago learned to face life's problems and work toward solutions. Wallowing in self-pity got one nowhere.

"When my mother's employer, Lady St. Vincent, returned to Hawkridge after the danger had passed, she felt great remorse for having left our family behind. Accordingly, she took in Ellen and sent me to Westminster School. She saw to it that I was made a King's Scholar and promised to send me on to university if I did well. So I did," he concluded simply.

He'd been given a chance in life, and he hadn't been about to waste it.

"Did she follow through with her promise?"

"Indeed, she did. She sent me to Oxford, and not on charity, either. She paid my expenses and made sure I was treated as well as the best."

He waited a beat, hoping Rose would say he was the best, as good as all the titled lads at school. But she didn't, of course. She hadn't been raised in a world that believed that.

Glancing down to their connected hands, she looked startled and pulled hers back. "You enjoyed your years at Oxford," she said. "I can hear it in your voice."

"I was anxious to finish and get on with life, but the years were hardly a trial. Rand was there, a Fellow already—we'd been friends since childhood. And a few students from Westminster School ended up there, too. Gaylord Craig—"

"The Earl of Rosslyn?"

From the tone of her voice, he gathered she didn't like the man. "You know him?"

"I met him last night. He's your friend?"

"Of a sort. We were never close, but I always got on with everyone."

"I'm not surprised," she said, sounding as though she meant it.

Perhaps he was making inroads, he thought with an inward smile.

When she licked her lips, he wanted to kiss off that delicious sheen. "Someone's here," she said.

He heard footsteps on the marble in the entry, and the low murmur of Graves's voice followed by one with a higher pitch.

"That will be my sister, Ellen," he told Rose, rising. "Will you excuse me?"

As Rose watched Kit leave the room, closing the door behind him, a clock somewhere in the house struck the hour, chiming six times.

Where had the afternoon gone? The bookshop would have closed by now, and she'd wanted some reading material to pass the long, empty days at the castle. Court would be commencing soon, and she'd wanted time to rest. And she needed time to choose a gown and ready herself.

Mum must have been very tired, because surely she'd have come to fetch her if she wasn't still napping.

Voices sifted through the drawing room's closed door. Rose couldn't tell what Kit was saying, but he didn't sound happy. She couldn't understand his sister's replies, either, but Ellen was clearly giving as good as she got.

Rose hadn't even met Ellen, and she liked her already. Smiling to herself, she idly reached for Kit's sketch board and turned it faceup.

Her heart skipped a beat. Stunned, she could only stare. He hadn't been drawing Greek temples or Roman theaters. He'd been sketching her.

And he'd captured her perfectly.

Transfixed, she couldn't tear her gaze away. The woman gazing back at her wasn't the flirting Rose, the one with the big smile. Instead her lips curved as though she shared a secret. And her eyes glittered not with forced gaiety, but with simple pleasure in what she was doing.

Translating a book. Sharing a quiet afternoon.

It wasn't a painting, nor a work of careful artistry. The black ink on white gave no hint that her gown was a rich purple, her cheeks were pink with carefully applied cosmetics, her lips were dyed red and ripe. The drawing was plain and stark. True.

It was the Rose very few people ever saw.

How had he seen the real Rose? she wondered. And what had made him sketch her while she was describing how to draw classical buildings?

She blew out a shaky breath as Kit and Ellen barged in.

"I'm entitled to live my own life," Ellen said, continuing their argument as though Rose weren't there. "And you had no right having me fetched from the pawnshop as though I were your property."

"You are my property," Kit ground out. "Until you're wed—"

"Let me wed, then, and we'll both be happier."

"Not if you wed him."

"Him?" Rose asked.

They both turned to look at her, fire and surprise in their matching eyes.

"Thomas Whittingham." Ellen tossed her head of long jet hair.

"A pawnbroker," Kit spat.

Rose set down Kit's sketch and stood. "I'm Rose Ashcroft," she said to Ellen. "Tell me about this pawnbroker."

"My apologies for not introducing you." Kit's gaze nervously snapped between Rose's face and the drawing he'd done of her. He took a deep breath. "Lady Rose, this is my sister, Ellen. Ellen—"

"Lady Rose," Ellen drawled before her brother could complete the belated introduction. "Do you not think, Kit, that you're aiming a bit out of your range?"

"We're just friends," Rose rushed to clarify.

Surprisingly, she really did feel Kit was a friend. The pleasant afternoon had changed her view of him entirely.

But she wanted to be Ellen's friend, too. With her sisters both married and moved away, and the women at court giving her the cold shoulder, she desperately needed a female friend. And she sensed Ellen could be one. She liked this forthright woman.

She sat again and patted the cushion beside her. "Tell me about this pawnbroker," she repeated.

Ellen slid onto the settle and folded her hands in her lap, a female version of Kit dressed in an innocent tone of yellow. "He's kind and generous and handsome, and I love him."

"She wants to marry him," Kit said derisively. He swept the sketch board off the table and crossed the room to place it facedown on the desk. "I won't see her wed to a pawnbroker. To go from this"—he waved a hand, indicating the house, the life he'd built for the two of them—"to live above a pawnshop, is—"

"—what I want," Ellen rushed to finish for him. Then she met Rose's eyes, her own pleading.

Apparently they were friends already.

"How old are you?" Rose asked.

"Eighteen."

Rose had fancied herself in love at eighteen, too. But she knew now, having seen her sisters find love, that she'd been wrong. She knew now that she'd never been in love at all.

Even once.

"You're young yet," she said gently. "Can you not wait a while? Perhaps you'll find—"

"I love him. Kit has no right to dictate my life."

Ellen was wrong; legally, Kit had every right. But Rose was torn between that truth and the fact that she believed, truly believed, that women should be allowed to make these decisions for themselves. She knew her own parents were considered odd for permitting it, but she'd also listened to hours upon hours of her sister Violet spouting all her radical philosophy.

Violet thought she never paid attention, but that simply wasn't true.

And yet…she looked to Kit, who spread his hands and shrugged an exasperated shoulder. And back to Ellen, who looked so much like her brother. Just as hot-tempered too, from all indications. They probably butted heads precisely because they were so much alike.

But Ellen was young yet. And Rose had never before felt so old.

"Do you know, Ellen," she said carefully, "it's as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without."

"Oh!" Ellen cried. "You don't understand!" Tears sprang to her eyes as she jumped up and ran from the room.

Rose and Kit listened to his sister's footsteps until they faded up the stairs. "She likes you," he finally said.

"And our navy will conquer the Dutch tomorrow." Rose sighed. "I think I'd best return home."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Home" right now for Rose was Windsor Castle. That was what Kit wanted for Ellen: the rank that would give her the security of feeling at home in a royal castle. Or anywhere. The rank that would assure she'd never again be left behind.

And yet, when Rose had supported his position, he'd found himself not grateful, but vexed.

Her voice still echoed in his ears, so measured and reasonable: It's as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without.

Never mind that it was exactly what Ellen needed to hear, Rose's attitude didn't bode well for his own suit.

The sun was setting as he walked Rose back to the apartments she was sharing with her mother, the two of them chatting amiably. All the way past the Round Tower, into an Upper Ward building, and up a staircase, he listened to her amusing banter and watched her mobile lips.

Lips that begged for a kiss.

When she reached for the door latch, he stopped her with a hand over hers. She turned and looked up at him, her dark eyes questioning.

"Thank you for a pleasant day," he said quietly, watching the light dance over her face from the single torch that illuminated the deserted corridor. "And also for the translation. It was much appreciated."

"You're very welcome," she said, looking relieved. "I enjoyed myself."

When he felt her trying to draw her hand away, he held it tight in his. There was something between them, whether she knew it—or wanted it—or not.

"I'm happy to hear that," he told her.

She gifted him with a tentative smile. "No, I mean I truly enjoyed myself. I can see why Rand is happy to count you as a friend. You're the best—like a brother, but better."

Kit didn't want to be Rose's brother. Her mother had given him hope, but she'd warned that the decision was Rose's—evidently for good reason.

Like a brother.

He had to respect that, didn't he? Respect her. His heart heavy, he released her hand, then leaned to give her an innocent, brotherly thank-you kiss, a brush of lips against cheek.

She smelled of roses, pure and heady. And he felt something—an involuntary sway of her body toward his, an indefinable spark—that made all his resolve simply melt away.

His mouth slid across her satin skin, past one of the hidden dimples he'd wanted to kiss earlier, and met her lips in a sudden rush of heat. A consuming heat. His arms wound around her to draw her close. Locked against him, she was everything he'd dreamed of and more.

And Rose's world turned over.

She didn't like kisses, hadn't wanted one, but Kit's mouth seemed made to fit hers. Tender and urgent all at once, his kiss was a delicious sensation. Wantonly, she pressed herself closer, reveling in the feel of his hard body against her softness. An odd ripple shuddered through her, and her knees weakened.

This dreamy intimacy felt nothing like the other kisses she'd experienced.

She inhaled his woodsy scent, drawing his essence inside her. He nipped at her lips then traced the line between them, inciting shivers, making heat pool in her middle. Then his tongue delved inside to touch hers, but it didn't feel intrusive. Her senses skidded and whirled. She returned the caress, and it turned into an exciting, tangled dance.

All too soon, he drew away, leaving her shaking. And stunned. A sigh eased out between her still-parted lips.

Kit's kiss had been every bit as wondrous as those her sisters had described. A thing of beauty, she thought dizzily. But she didn't say it aloud, because she feared he would take it the wrong way. Not to mention she felt incapable of saying anything at the moment.

His eyes glittered green in the torchlight, his gaze piercing into her as though he could divine her scrambled thoughts.

As she watched, his mouth curved into a faint smile that might have been smug.

"Good night," he said and walked away.

Rose closed the lodging's door and leaned back against it, then released a long, long sigh. A sigh of relief.

She didn't dislike kissing after all!

Kit, of course, had no business kissing her, but she couldn't find it in herself to be sorry he'd done so. She'd watched him walk away, knowing she should call after him, berate him for having the nerve to take such a liberty, inform him that he was never to do so again.

But she hadn't found the strength to do that. She'd felt weak, boneless. And happy—so happy to find that nothing was wrong with her.

She enjoyed kissing!

And somehow, after experiencing Kit's kiss, she knew that she would enjoy the other things that happened between a man and a woman. All the things that the marriage manual Aristotle's Master-piece had described…those things she'd been so eager to try until she'd tried kissing and decided it wasn't to her taste.

Now she knew differently. How silly she'd been to jump to such a conclusion. Obviously a woman's enjoyment of kissing depended on the skill of the man. How unlucky she'd been to kiss so many men and never find a talented one until now.

"Dear? Are you out there?"

"Yes, Mum." Rose took a deep, calming breath and crossed the small sitting room toward the even smaller bedchamber she and her mother were sharing.

Chrystabel was seated at the heavy carved wood dressing table. While her maid Anne twisted the back section of her hair up into a bun, she tore a small sheet of red Spanish paper from a tiny booklet and rubbed it lightly on her cheeks. "Did you have a nice time, dear?"

Feeling heat flare in her face, Rose was glad her mother was busy looking in the mirror. "It was a fine day," she said carefully, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic.

She certainly didn't want her mother finding out she'd allowed Kit—a commoner!—to kiss her.

Mum set down the Spanish paper and lifted a kohl pencil. "What did you do?" she asked, carefully rimming an eye.

"Oh, we had dinner and then I translated part of the book." The sound of an ungraceful snore drew Rose's gaze to Harriet, dead to the world on a pallet laid out on the floor. Shaking her head, she crossed to her trunk and rummaged through it herself. "I met Kit's sister, Ellen."

"Was she nice?"

Rose held up a frosty pink gown and then rejected it; she was feeling much bolder than that. "I liked her. But she's eighteen and fancies herself in love. With a pawnbroker."

"Perhaps she is in love. And in a bustling town like this, a pawnshop is likely to be a thriving business."

"Surely she can do much better than to live life above a pawnshop. Look at the house she's living in now!"

Chrystabel turned to her, raising one kohl-darkened brow. "You liked it, then."

"Kit's house?" Rose shook out a bright red gown. Perfect. She laid it on the old canopied bed. "It was very impressive. It must be lovely to live right on the river like that and yet in a bustling town, too. And the house is beautifully designed."

Another thing of beauty, she thought, standing over her sleeping maid. "Harriet!" she called softly.

The girl bolted upright. "Yes, milady." She scrambled to her feet. "Forgive me, milady. I was tired."

Rose waved a dismissive hand, thinking she was a mite tired herself.

"You like the house's designer, too," her mother said.

"Kit? He's a pleasant man." Memories flashed: his smile, his laughter, his eyes…his kiss. Rose shivered, then made a show of rubbing her arms, moving closer to the fire on the grate. Curling tongs sat heating in the embers. "It's cold in this stone building, don't you think?"

"Not particularly."

Her mother's gaze was making her uncomfortable, so she turned to let Harriet unlace her gown. "I've been thinking, Mum…"

Shifting back to the mirror, Chrystabel opened a little jar of pomade. "Yes?"

"You've always cautioned us to kiss a man before we agree to marry him. I think that is excellent advice. I believe that if I see Ellen again, I shall tell her. Perhaps she'll find she doesn't love the pawnbroker, after all."

Chrystabel slicked the pomade on her lips, then stood and waved Rose toward the stool in her stead. "Love has to do with more than kisses, dear."

"Well, of course it does!" Rose settled herself, watching in the mirror as Harriet slid the pins from her hair. "But since a woman is expected to kiss her husband, she should at least make sure she likes his technique."

Leaning forward, Rose darkened her lashes with the end of a burnt cork while Harriet used the hot tongs to fashion perfect ringlets. What a pity the Duke of Bridgewater was such an abysmal kisser. He'd seemed so perfect.

Well, there were other suitable, handsome men at court. With any luck, she wouldn't have to kiss them all before she found one as talented as Kit.

"Kisses," Harriet murmured with a sigh.

Chrystabel stepped into high Louis-heeled shoes fashioned of golden brocade to match her gown. "Have you met any men here at Windsor yet, Harriet?"

The girl's freckles went three shades darker. "Not yet."

"Harriet's shy," Anne put in.

"Well." Chrystabel straightened and gave her skirts a shake. "We shall have to see about an introduction."

Rose barely resisted an impulse to snort. Whoever heard of "introductions" for servants? Only her hopelessly romantic mother would even think of such a thing.

"Mum," she started.

"Yes, dear?"

On the other hand…at least Mum didn't seem to be foisting any men upon her.

"Never mind," she said lightly, thanking her lucky stars her mother had found someone else to bedevil.

The last thing she needed was interference in her love life.

Better Chrystabel busy herself matching Harriet.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kit looked down the hill toward Ellen dragging along behind. "Come along, will you?" Walking backward, he squinted at her in the darkness. "What is that you're carrying?"

"A book."

"A book?" He stopped to wait for her to catch up. "Since when do you spend your time reading?"

"Since you went stark raving mad and decided I had to spend half the night watching you work. Since then."

It was dark as hell, too dim to see her expression, but he could hear the pout in her voice.

"Why won't you let me stay home?" she added.

"I'd let you stay home if you would stay home. But I know you, and you won't. I'd return to find you're at the pawnshop again."

"I love him," she said for the hundredth time. Or maybe the millionth.

"I want better for you," he said for the millionth time, too.

As they passed through the gate at Windsor, the drowsy old scarlet-uniformed guard snapped to attention. "Evening, Mr. Martyn."

"Evening, Richards."

The man narrowed his rheumy eyes. "Who goes with you?"

"My sister."

"Pretty thing." He smiled, displaying half a mouth of teeth. "Go on through."

"My thanks." In the torchlight of the gateway, Kit glanced again at the book clutched to Ellen's chest. "Where'd you get that? It's not even English."

She clutched the book tighter, as though she were afraid he might snatch it from her hands. "You don't want to know."

"Whittingham?"

"Maybe."

"He's a pawnbroker. Can he even read? Why would he give you a foreign book?"

He thought perhaps she blushed, but they were still walking and had left the circle of torchlight, so he couldn't be sure.

"I'm hoping your friend Rose can translate it for me," she said, neatly evading his question.

"Rose isn't my friend." He didn't want to be Rose's friend. He didn't want to be her brother, either. He hoped he'd made that clear earlier this evening.

"You drew a picture of her."

"You weren't supposed to see that."

"It was good," Ellen said grudgingly. "You should draw pictures more often. Of things besides buildings, I mean."

"I'm too busy trying to make you a good life."

Her reply to that was sullen silence.

He sighed as they skirted the Round Tower. "You cannot see Rose tonight. You'll be at my construction site. She'll be at court." He wouldn't walk Ellen through the king's chambers—they'd take the long way around. "Ellen Martyn doesn't belong at court. Until, that is, she marries a title."

"I'm marrying a pawnbroker," she said.

Rose had kissed three men already—one behind the heavy velvet curtains in the huge bay window, one in the little unfinished vestibule, and one out on the terrace…and she'd loathed all three experiences.

But at least her quest was getting easier. The first two men had been pleasantly shocked when she'd asked them for a kiss, but the third had come to her.

And here came another, swaggering her way. Trying to appear casual, she leaned a hand on the solid silver table by the wall where she stood. It felt cold—and very expensive—beneath her fingers.

"Lovely table, isn't it?" the man asked, coming to a stop before her. She looked him up and down. Although he wasn't any taller than she, he wasn't shorter either, and he had a pleasing face.

"The engraved top is nice," she said, unable to summon yet another charming and flirtatious reply.

Her face hurt from smiling so much.

He tried again. "Louis the Fourteenth has silver furniture like this all over Versailles."

"Does he? Gemini, that palace must be even more overblown than this one."

The gentleman appeared nonplussed. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of an introduction."

She lazily waved her fan while she considered him. His hair was covered by a long, curled periwig, but she guessed from his fair complexion that it was blond. That was, if he wasn't bald underneath—but she could hope not. His periwinkle suit wasn't too ostentatious, adorned with just enough jewels to make known his wealth.

He would do.

"Lady Rose Ashcroft," she replied with a calculated smile.

He took her free hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back. A bit wet, but not totally disgusting. "Lord Cravenhurst, at your service."

His voice wasn't too grating, and, unlike the last man, she guessed he'd bathed within the week. His perfume was light and not too cloying. Perhaps he'd ask her to dance before claiming a kiss. That would be nice.

But she was not to be so lucky. He leaned close, sneaking a peek at himself in the silver-framed mirror above the table. "I hear you enjoy kissing," he uttered in a confidential tone.

Rose fluttered her lashes. "Why, yes, actually, I do." With the right man.

Maybe he would be the one.

Although she would prefer a dance—or sitting somewhere alone where she could put her feet up—she allowed him to guide her behind the curtain again. There was a good view over Eton, but apparently he didn't feel like looking. One arm came around to clamp her tight, and his mouth descended on hers, parting her lips immediately.

She dropped her fan. He tasted funny, and his tongue felt slimy. When he snaked a hand down her bodice, she gasped and shoved him away. "I never gave you leave to do that!"

He didn't look at all fazed. "I was told you were a wild one."

"By whom?"

He shrugged. "It's all the buzz."

"Well, the buzz is wrong. A kiss is not an invitation to be mauled." One hand went to cover her probably bruised breast while she tossed open the curtain with the other. "Now go out there and tell everyone they were mistaken."

"And let on that you refused my advances? I think not," he huffed and stalked away.

She barely had time to catch her breath before another man hurried over. The Earl of Rosslyn, Kit's friend.

Since they'd already been introduced, he wasted no time on preliminaries. "My lady," he said with a bow, "I have it on good faith that you particularly enjoy kissing."

The cur. "You're married!"

He grinned. "Then you know I have much experience."

"What I know is that you're an adulterer."

"Why should that matter?"

Indeed. Looking around the chamber, she spotted couples in all sorts of embraces, doing everything, it seemed, short of actual coupling—and she had grave doubts that most of them were married. To each other, at least.

And where on earth was her mother? She might as well have come here by herself for all the chaperoning she was receiving.

She scooped her folded fan off the floor, half tempted to bash Rosslyn on the nose with it. "Go away," she told him instead.

To her vast relief, he did. She aimed a shaky smile at two passing women, but they both pointedly avoided her gaze, whispering behind their fans. And yet another man was headed in her direction.

Her tension eased as she realized it was the Duke of Bridgewater. At least Gabriel was a real gentleman. He was wearing russet tonight and looked even more aristocratic than she'd remembered. As he drew nearer, she opened her fan and composed herself.

"Your grace," she greeted him with a smile. "Where have you been all this evening?"

"I was detained until now," he apologized smoothly, "and I've dearly missed your company. Was Rosslyn bothering you?"

In truth, she could take care of herself—hadn't she just proven it? But she sidled up to him, waving the fan coquettishly. "I'm glad you arrived to protect me."

"You're in good hands, my dear." Looking pleased, he linked an arm through hers and began guiding her toward the terrace.

Good God, the blasted terrace again.

"Wouldn't you rather dance?" she asked, then whirled at hearing the meaty sound of a fist connecting with someone's skull.

Nell Gwyn's voice carried across the chamber. "Don't make me sorry I talked Charles into releasing you from the Tower!" she spat as she stalked off.

The Duke of Buckingham stood watching her go, his mouth hanging open, one hand held to the spot above his ear where petite Nell's punch must have landed.

What a woman. Rose wanted to applaud.

Gabriel reclaimed her arm. "Come along."

"What happened?" she asked.

"The idiot tried to kiss her." The duke managed to harrumph in a genteel manner. "Everyone knows that unlike Louise and Barbara, Nell is completely devoted to Charles."

"Is she?" Rose wondered, gratified to discover this was possible even at court.

"Oh, yes. She hasn't slept with another man since Charles made her his mistress. Nearly nine years, if you can believe it."

Gabriel's apparent amazement at that feat gave Rose pause, but she consoled herself that at least it seemed he admired Nell. She glanced back at the Duke of Buckingham, who still stood rooted in place. Even with his long black periwig all mussed, he looked entirely too dignified to have recently been a prisoner. "Why on earth was he in the Tower of London?"

"He's not the first man Charles has clapped in there, and he certainly won't be the last. It's political, my dear. You wouldn't understand."

Certain she would understand, Rose was about to ask for an explanation when he added, "Are you and your lovely mother coming along to Hampton Court tomorrow?"

Rose blinked, effectively diverted. "Hampton Court?"

"Haven't you heard? The court is moving—getting ever closer to London, as it were. The household will spend a few weeks at Hampton Court and then move to Whitehall for the winter, in time for the queen's birthday celebration on the fourteenth of November." He guided her toward the door. "Will you be coming along?"

"I'm not sure. I suppose I'll have to ask my mother."

"Well, I certainly hope she'll agree. I'd feel bereft without your company."

He sounded sincere, and she couldn't help but respond to his flattery. He really was the most handsome of all the courtiers. And the tallest—only King Charles was taller—not to mention the highest ranked.

There was the kissing problem, of course, but having experienced an excellent kiss herself, maybe she could teach him how to perform one.

It was worth a try, she decided as he drew her out to the blasted terrace.

She was getting nowhere in her search.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Burning the midnight oil, eh, Martyn?"

Working in the blaze of torches and candelabrum for the second night in a row, Kit looked up from his plans to see the Earl of Rosslyn. He offered his old friend a wry smile. "Oil lamps are a bit dim for my purpose, but you've got the gist of it, yes."

Rosslyn paced the chamber with an elegant swagger, his tall walking stick clicking as he went. He paused, watching men and supplies go in and out of the two sizable holes cut in the ceiling that gave access to the area above, where Kit's crew was busy reinforcing the structure. "It's coming along nicely."

"Thank you." While unsurprised that his rival should check on his progress, Kit was pleased with the man's pleasant tone. "And your own projects?"

"Oh, fine, fine." Rosslyn pulled a tortoiseshell snuffbox from his pocket. "You've done an excellent job recovering here, Martyn. But then, you always were up to the task, weren't you?"

Kit could remember a few occasions, back in their school days, when Rosslyn hadn't been up to the task. But then, he'd had no compelling reason to excel, as Kit had. The secure life of a peer had been awaiting him.

"What made you become an architect?" Kit asked. Surely an earl didn't need a profession.

Having partaken of a pinch of snuff, Rosslyn sneezed. "Monuments."

"Monuments?"

"I wish to leave something behind. Something so men will say there went Gaylord, the Earl of Rosslyn."

The man wasn't as shallow as Kit had thought. "Your theater in London is a masterpiece," he conceded.

"I rather prefer my last church. But I thank you." Rosslyn tucked the snuffbox back into his pocket. "Well, the ladies are waiting. I shall leave you to it." He turned on a high heel and swaggered toward the door, letting loose another sneeze followed by an "Oof!"

"Pardon me!" Lady Trentingham exclaimed.

"My apologies, my lady." Holding his walking stick in a wide stance, Rosslyn swept her a deep bow. "I was just leaving."

She turned and watched the man mince away.

"Lady Trentingham," Kit called over the bangs and scrapes of construction.

Rose's mother looked over and smiled. "Good evening," she greeted him, her own voice carrying well. He supposed that came of dealing with her half-deaf husband. She walked farther into the dining room, lifting the hem of her gown to step over a few boards and skirt her way around a sawhorse. "My, that scaffolding went up quickly."

"That's why I'm here," he told her, shooting a glance to his crew. "I long ago learned that my presence makes all the difference." He rolled up the plans. "Can I help you with something?"

She met his gaze, her own forthright. "I'm wondering what happened this afternoon with my daughter."

Kit slanted a look at Ellen. She'd stopped sulking and had her nose buried in her book. He would have to take a look and see what she was finding so fascinating.

In the meantime, though, he'd rather not have her hear his answer to Lady Trentingham's question. In fact, he was damned uncomfortable at the thought of answering the question at all. No matter that she'd encouraged his suit, the Countess of Trentingham was unlikely to approve of Mr. Christopher Martyn kissing her high-born daughter before there was a formal commitment.

He supposed there was nothing for it, but he wouldn't humiliate himself in front of his sister. "Would you mind stepping out onto the terrace?" he asked Rose's mother. "I feel the need for some fresh air."

The pounding of hammers and scraping of saws receded as they exited the room, leaving a pleasant quietness in their wake. The terrace was deserted, and for a minute or so, Kit procrastinated, listening to the tandem sounds of their footsteps, the thud of his heavy boots and the click of her feminine heels.

"I know you told me Rose is innocent," he began at last. "But—"

Her laughter was startling. "So you kissed her, hmm? Good for you. I suspected as much when she came in babbling about what an excellent idea it is for a woman to kiss a man before she marries him."

"Before she marries him?" he echoed. His heart suddenly threatened to beat its way out of his chest. He and Rose had enjoyed a nice afternoon, and an incredible kiss, but surely she wouldn't be swayed that easily. "She cannot be thinking to marry me," he said, hoping against hope he was wrong.

"Oh, no. Not yet, anyway. At the moment, she seems to be looking for another man with your skill. Interviewing them, you might say."

Now his heart threatened to stop. "She's kissing other men?"

"Not very successfully, from what I can tell. And unfortunately, she seems to be acquiring quite a reputation. As a mother, I'm a mite concerned about that. I'm considering leaving tomorrow; I believe Rose could benefit from a short break from court."

Kit's head was spinning. Though he knew full well he had no right to be vexed at Rose for kissing other men, he couldn't control his gut reaction.

His gut didn't like it.

And if Lady Trentingham wasn't angry he'd kissed her daughter, what did she want with him?

He slid a hand into his pocket. "Charles is leaving Windsor anyway, and everyone else will follow him, of course. To Hampton Court."

"A perfect excuse, then, should I decide to take our leave." She walked to the edge of the terrace and gazed over the half wall at the darkened Thames Valley. "As for Rose being innocent…"

He came up beside her. "Yes?"

"Well, for the record, my daughter may tell you that I heartily approve of kissing."

He blinked. "You heartily approve?"

"Yes, of kissing and—in your case—most anything else it takes to convince Rose you're the only man for her." She paused—for effect, he suspected. "Do you understand?"

His fingers gripped the top of the wall so tightly that stone scraped flesh. Thank God she was still looking at the landscape. "You cannot mean…"

He couldn't say more. He stared straight ahead.

"Nothing that would get her with child," she said, "and that's an absolute."

"Of course," he choked out. Lord Almighty. Could she be telling him to do what he thought she was?

When her laughter pierced the night again, he turned his head to find her looking right at him. "You've gone white," she said. "I can tell even by this dismal torchlight. Surely that's not such a daunting task? Or an unpleasant one?"

Any words he might manage to come up with remained stubbornly stuck in his throat. She was Rose's mother. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that seducing her daughter would certainly be pleasant, indeed.

When she laid a hand on his arm, the gesture eased some of the shock. "As my husband is fond of reminding me," she said softly, "I wasn't a nun before we wed. I don't expect my daughter to remain one, either. But I won't have her risking a child out of wedlock, and the decision of whom she will marry will be hers in the end."

He would never—never—have considered telling a man to seduce his sister, to any extent whatsoever. Not even a fine nobleman he hoped she would marry. In fact, short of marriage, he would tell any man to keep his hands the hell to himself.

But Rose's mother must know her very well.

"She'll be in good hands," he finally managed to say.

She squeezed his arm before releasing it. "I'm counting on that."

Even the king had tried to steal a kiss!

As Charles and Rose had ended a minuet, he'd murmured his intentions in a low, velvet-edged voice and leaned close, apparently unconcerned that anyone might be watching. Right then, Gabriel had walked up to claim she'd promised him the next dance, which had been lucky for Rose, because she had no idea how to gracefully turn down the king.

And she had no intention of kissing even one more man tonight.

A good loser, Charles had gone away happily enough, smiling when he spotted Nell Gwyn sashay into the chamber.

Now, as Rose and Gabriel performed the complicated steps of the galliard, she was aware of all the gazes on the two of them. Jealous gazes. The women were jealous because she'd captivated the most coveted bachelor at court. The men were jealous because he'd made his intentions crystal clear—and one didn't elbow aside a duke.

All the attention was positively heady, and part of Rose was thrilled beyond belief. A duke, and such a handsome one at that!

The only catch was his kisses.

She'd allowed four more, trying vainly to coax him to change his style. When that hadn't worked, she'd tried—really tried—to learn to enjoy his technique. Because, truth be told, she couldn't imagine why she didn't. It seemed to her that his kiss wasn't actually all that different from Kit's.

Some of the men had been positively boorish in their approach, but Gabriel didn't fit in that category. His kisses weren't too terribly slobbery, his breath was fresh, and he had the manner of a gentleman, if an impassioned one. So she couldn't put her finger on what Kit had done specifically that made his kiss magic while Gabriel's had no effect on her at all.

Or at least not the desired effect.

Perhaps she would have to allow Kit another kiss, in order to discern the difference. Once she figured that out, it should be a simple matter to explain to the duke what she wanted. Practice, after all, should make perfect.

If only the practice weren't so tedious.

"Thank you, your grace," she said kindly when the dance came to an end. She loved calling him your grace, not to mention imagining being called your grace herself. She noticed the musicians set down their instruments. "Is the dancing over so early?" she asked with a frown.

"Only temporarily." Gabriel gestured to another corner of the room. "I believe Nell is about to grace us with an entertainment."

Chairs had been arranged to leave the corner open as a stage of sorts. Rose and the duke drifted closer as the performance began, a clever comedy mocking court life and filled with bits of song and dance. It seemed Nell had brought friends, for other actors and actresses took the makeshift stage along with her. When the brief play ended, the chamber burst into applause, the king's the loudest of all.

"Extraordinary!" he exclaimed, the remnants of laughter still on his face. "Extraordinary!"

Laughing herself, Nell swept him an exaggerated bow. "Then, sir, to show you don't speak like a courtier, I hope you'll make the performers a handsome present."

Charles made a great show of patting his velvet clothing. "I have no money about me." He turned to his brother, the Duke of York. "Have you any coin, my dear James?"

His eyes dancing, the duke shrugged. "I believe, sir, not above a guinea or two."

Laughing harder, Nell turned in a circle, her arms outstretched. "Od's fish," she cried, borrowing the king's favorite oath, "what company have I got into?"

Rose laughed along with everyone else. With her robust sense of humor, Nell was truly delightful.

Gabriel tucked a hand beneath her elbow. "Shall we adjourn to the North Terrace?" he asked politely.

Not again. Her high spirits quickly faded. "I think not. I feel, um, a bit peaked. I should like to find my mother and see if she's ready to leave."

"Already? The gaming hasn't even started."

And she'd wanted to try that. But not as much as she wanted to escape now. Somewhere—anywhere—where she could find some peace and think about all that had happened this day.

"I believe I saw my mother head in that direction," she said, indicating the portion of the castle that was under construction—an area she suspected the fastidious duke would have no wish to enter. "I thank you for the dances."

Without looking back, she hurried away, hoping he wouldn't follow and heaving a sigh of relief when she made it into the unfinished vestibule without hearing any footsteps behind her. Thinking to hide herself even better, she slipped into the half-built dining room and sagged against an exquisitely carved wall.

This late at night, she'd expected the room to be deserted, but it wasn't. Across the chamber, Kit and Ellen were having words again.

Did the man never sleep?

"Let me see it," he said, reaching toward his sister. "Why should it be a secret?"

"It's mine," Ellen shot back, clutching a book to her chest. "Why do you have to stick your nose into everything that's mine?"

Dazed, Rose just watched. It struck her that in his fine but plain suit, with his gleaming black hair free instead of tucked beneath a wig, Kit looked anything but aristocratic. His skin was browned from working outdoors, and he carried his lean, rangy body with easy authority, not the controlled movements necessary to carry off the weight of layers of heavy fabric and ribbons.

In an odd way, she found the lack of fussiness appealing. But she wanted an aristocratic husband.

It was a good thing he was just a friend.

"Rose!" Ellen exclaimed, spotting her and abandoning Kit to hurry over. "I was hoping to see you tonight."

"Were you?" Rose asked.

"I brought a book I'd like you to translate."

"Did you?" Her gaze still fastened on Kit, Rose seemed to be reduced to two-word responses.

"Will you try?" Grabbing Rose by the arm, Ellen pulled her down the length of the chamber. "I'm dying to find some fresh air—this place is filled with sawdust."

Before Rose could protest, Ellen had propelled her out a door at the end of the chamber. As it shut behind them, Rose sneaked another glance at Kit. The last she saw of him was those wicked green-brown eyes.

It should be a crime for a commoner to be so attractive.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ellen led Rose down a long back corridor, around a corner, and out into a small brick courtyard. Unlike Horn Court with its uniformed guards and staircase to the king's chambers, this area was lit by a single torch and held nothing but stacks of building supplies and a weathered wooden table with two chairs. Rose gratefully dropped onto one of them, amused to hear assorted bangs, scrapes, and curses coming from the building to her right.

"We're nearly back where we started, aren't we?"

Ellen took the second chair. "The dining room is on the other side of that new wall, yes."

Despite the sounds of construction, the courtyard seemed private enough. "So…why wouldn't you show Kit the book?"

"He wouldn't like it. I fear he'd make certain I never saw Thomas again."

"Oh?" Though Rose felt drained, her curiosity was stronger. "May I see it?"

"In a minute." Ellen laid the book on the table and ran a finger over the gold lettering that gleamed in the torchlight. "Kit drew a picture of you."

"I know. I saw it. It was very well done. I had no idea he was an artist."

"He's not. Or not anymore. He used to draw all the time, and paint, too." Ellen's voice was so melancholy, Rose's throat tightened just hearing it. "Da used to bring extra wood home from his work—he'd spend hours sanding it smooth and cutting it to size so Kit could paint on it. And Mama would bring home leftover paints. The lady she worked for painted landscapes as a hobby."

"They sound like they were very devoted parents."

Ellen nodded, still absently tracing the gilt title. "They were. But Kit hasn't painted since they died. Not anything. He says he's too busy, but I'm not sure I believe him."

"He does seem very busy," Rose said gently.

Ellen's eyes, so like Kit's, went from sad to furious in a heartbeat. Brown to green. "All he wants to do," she said between gritted teeth, "is make money and add it to my dowry. He thinks he can buy me a titled husband. I don't want a titled husband. I want Thomas."

Rose had never been afraid to ask questions when she wanted answers. "How much is your dowry?"

"He adds to it constantly. Half of every penny that comes his way. Last I heard, it was up to eleven thousand."

"Pounds?"

"Pounds."

"Gemini," Rose breathed, stunned. "Mine is only three thousand." Hardly a pittance—three thousand pounds was ten years' income for a gentleman. "I have another ten from my grandfather, but that money is mine to control."

Ellen pushed back her unruly dark hair. "Kit doesn't let me control anything."

"He just wants what's best for you." Rose was sure of it. She was also sure Kit was going about it in a typical male, pigheaded way, but she wouldn't say that, at least not now. "He took responsibility for you so young," she said instead. "Only sixteen, wasn't he?"

"And I was six."

"Well, then, of course he couldn't let you make your own decisions."

"But I'm older now. Why can't he see that I've grown up? I hate being at odds with him. I hate the harsh words. I love him—but I love Thomas, too." Ellen fought to hold back tears. "Will you help me persuade him?"

"Me?" Rose blinked. "Why should Kit listen to me?"

"He drew you," Ellen reminded her. "He hasn't drawn anything but buildings in twelve long years."

And he'd kissed her, too, but Rose wouldn't be telling Ellen that. "I suppose I can try," she promised her. "But I'm not at all sure I can make any difference."

Pigheaded. That was Kit. But Rose also thought he was right—at least where Thomas was concerned.

A pawnbroker, for heaven's sake!

"Do you know, Ellen," she ventured carefully, "it might be a good idea for you to kiss Thomas before you decide you want to marry him."

"Kiss him?" Dashing away the tears, Ellen burst out laughing. "Mercy me, that's precious."

For a moment Rose was confused, but then she just felt like a fool. Of course Ellen had kissed her love. The girl was eighteen, and Rose had contrived to be kissed long before that.

She just hadn't enjoyed it.

"Show me the book," she said.

Sobering, Ellen pushed it slowly across the table. "I'd like to read it together with Thomas," she said, for the first time sounding a bit shy. "But it's not English."

"Yes, you said so." Rose looked at the title. "'I Sonetti Lussuriosi di Pietro Aretino,'" she read aloud. "It's Italian."

"Ah. I was wondering." Ellen scooted closer. "What does it mean?"

"It's authored by a man named Pietro Aretino, and it's called The Licentious Sonnets," Rose translated with some relish. This sounded good, maybe as good as Aristotle's Master-piece. She flipped open the book—and stared.

There, above the first sonnet, was an engraving of two people.

Naked people. On a bed.

She leaned forward to study it closer, wishing for more than the flickering torchlight. The man and woman were embracing, both lying on their sides, their legs entwined. Most of the woman's body was artfully hidden behind the man, but the man's bare bottom was there for the world to see in all its well-muscled glory.

So this was how people made love! Gemini. This was even better than the Master-piece. Much more instructive—the pictures made all the difference.

A small smile flirted on Ellen's mouth as she gazed at the picture, too. "He's a fine specimen of a man, isn't he?" she asked conspiratorially.

Rose wouldn't know—she didn't have anything to compare him with. But Ellen obviously did…

Suddenly, instead of feeling like the older, wiser woman of twenty-one compared to Ellen's eighteen, Rose felt about five years old.

Ellen wanted this book translated. Ellen wanted to read it with her love.

No, her lover.

"No wonder you laughed when I counseled you to kiss Thomas!"

Ellen didn't even blush. "We're in love," she said in an impassioned tone, as though that explained everything.

And maybe it did.

"What does the sonnet say?" Ellen asked.

"'Fottiamci anima mia, fottiamci presto; Poi che tutti per fotter nati siamo.' Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love." She looked up. "That's nice, don't you think?"

Ellen looked disappointed. "I thought it would be…you know, more racy, to match the pictures."

"The picture isn't all that racy." Now that she'd recovered from the shock of seeing naked people on the page, Rose decided the engraving was rather pleasing. "It's tasteful enough, all considered." She turned the page. "Oh…"

Not quite so tasteful, the woman was now on her back, half reclined against the headboard, while the man knelt between her spread knees, his body meeting hers in exactly the right place.

"Oh," she said again.

"Look at the next one." Ellen reached to flip the page.

"Oh!" Rose tilted her head, then turned the book sideways. There seemed to be so many arms and legs, she really couldn't tell what was going on.

Could people actually do that? She'd never imagined—

"And the one after that."

In Posizione Quattro, Position Four, the woman and man were both seated, facing each other, she on the edge of a bed and he on a chair pulled close. Gazing at the picture, Rose felt a wave of heat ripple through her. The woman's legs were spread wide. The man was touching her there. And the woman was touching his…yard, Aristotle's Master-piece had called it.

Rose hadn't heard the term yard before reading the Master-piece, but she guessed Ellen would already know that word—and probably more. Although Rose considered herself educated, she now realized the Master-piece had only explained how everything worked in clinical terms. The actual process of making love had remained somewhat of a mystery.

Until now.

A strange ache spread low in her middle as she tried to imagine herself as the woman in the engravings. The only problem was she couldn't envision doing any of those things with anyone she'd ever met…except Kit.

That odd ache intensified, and she shut the book.

After taking a moment to collect herself, she drew a shaky breath. "Where did you get this?" she asked Ellen.

"I found it in Thomas's shop."

"Someone pawned this book?"

"People pawn everything. Jewels and pottery and pistols and swords…it's like a treasure trove, I'm telling you. My favorite place in the world. You should pay a visit, Rose. The shop is right on the High Street."

Rose had never thought she'd like a pawnshop—they were seedy places, from what she'd heard. Disreputable, along with their owners. "Does Thomas have other foreign books?"

"Not like this one." Ellen laughed. "But yes, I've noticed other books that aren't in English. This book was part of a whole library someone pawned; I don't think Thomas ever looked through the titles to see what he had. He seemed surprised when I showed it to him."

"I'll bet he did." Rose couldn't imagine sharing this book with a man. Or rather, she could, but only one certain man—and she didn't want to think about that.

"Can you translate the rest of the first poem?" Ellen asked.

Rose slowly reopened the book, grateful that the words, at least, didn't seem disturbing. She would read those and try not to look at the pictures.

"Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love. And if you adore my…yard…"

Ellen nodded. She did know that word.

"…then I will love your…your…seat of womanly pleasure. Good God." Rose felt her cheeks heat; in fact, she couldn't remember blushing so much in her whole life as she'd done since coming to court. "This isn't sounding at all sonnetlike, is it? I've never before attempted to translate a sonnet."

"It's fine," Ellen assured her. "I am sure Thomas will enjoy hearing this." Her eyes glittered with anticipation. "I'll never remember it, though. Let me try to find quill and paper so I can write it all down."

Rose wasn't at all certain she felt up to translating these sonnets aloud in a courtyard in the middle of Windsor Castle. Especially with Kit somewhere on the other side of that wall. For all she knew, he could be heading here to fetch nails or a beam any minute.

She'd never considered herself a prude, but a lady had her limits.

"Never mind," she said when Ellen stood. "I shall take the book back to my apartments and write down the translations myself. That way I'll be able to think about the wording. Perhaps I can make it more sonnetlike."

"Oh, that's a very kind offer. But don't trouble yourself to work on the wording overmuch. Thomas is no devotee of sonnets."

Rose was looking forward to meeting this Thomas. She couldn't imagine he was a very refined man, but Ellen certainly didn't seem to mind.

"When will you bring me the words?" Ellen asked. "Tomorrow morning, at the pawnshop?"

"It's past midnight already." Rose stood with a yawn. "How many sonnets are there?"

"Sixteen."

All those engravings to study. She had a lot to learn…and that odd heat was building again already, just thinking about it. "I could translate one by the morning." It was late, not to mention she'd like to keep this book for a while. "Will Kit allow you to go to the pawnshop?"

"He has to sleep sometime," Ellen said with a mischievous smile. "And I imagine once he allows himself to succumb, he'll sleep like the dead. I should be able to sneak out easily enough. When he wakes, though, he'll surely come for me and drag me back here while he works all the day."

"And half the night," Rose agreed.

Kit was the hardest working man she'd ever met.

"Probably." Ellen sighed. "Will you visit the pawnshop tomorrow, then? In the morning?"

"I'll come," Rose promised. She grabbed the book, and the two of them returned to the dining room.

Kit was up on a ladder inspecting something or other. He'd removed his surcoat and wore only shirtsleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows. His forearms were muscular and sprinkled with crisp black hair.

The blasted man looked better than ever.

"Did you two have a nice visit?" he asked. As he climbed down the ladder, Rose saw muscles rippling under his thin white cambric shirt, too. She hadn't sipped any champagne tonight, but her stomach seemed to think she had, anyway.

"Very," Ellen said, but Rose couldn't remember what the girl was responding to. She was thinking Kit must carry big beams all the day to have developed so many muscles. And she was thinking about how she'd decided to let him kiss her again, to find out what he did differently from Gabriel.

And she was thinking about the pictures in the book.

Oh, this wasn't good at all!

"How did the translation go, then?" he wondered, his gaze on the book in Rose's hands.

She knew he was hoping to get his hands on it. "It was more difficult than Ellen had anticipated, so I'm going to take it home to work on it. Please excuse me. I must go find my mother."

She felt very relieved to escape. At least until she walked back into the drawing room and saw two men heading toward her. Gabriel and a man she had yet to meet.

Though the stranger wasn't as handsome as Kit, he might be a good kisser. But she didn't have the will left to find out. Not to mention she was holding a lewd book clutched to her chest.

She had to get rid of it.

When Gabriel got to her first, the other man turned away dejectedly. "Pardon me, your grace," she said quickly. "I was just heading to the ladies' attiring room."

"Are you quite all right?" Gabriel asked, his blue eyes radiating concern.

He really was terribly nice. "Oh, yes. I'm just feeling a bit, um, peaked."

"Still?"

"It's all the excitement, I'm certain," she told him with a practiced, romantic sigh.

When he smiled, she knew she'd succeeded in convincing him he was responsible for her excitement. Leaning close, he lowered his voice to an intimate murmur. "I do hope you'll be feeling better soon."

She didn't care for his perfume. It was too flowery. "Oh, I'm certain I will," she said blithely and sailed out of the chamber.

Blessedly, the attiring room was empty. She stuffed the book under her cloak and then dropped onto one of the green baize benches.

She really was feeling a little bit peaked.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Kit," his sister said a few minutes later. "I need to talk to you."

"One moment, Ellen." He turned back to inspecting the latest materials that had arrived.

"I need to talk to you now," she yelled across the courtyard.

"It will do nicely," he told his new foreman, then took a deep breath and strode over to his sister, thinking, not for the first time, that it had been a bad idea to bring her along while he worked. "What in your little selfish world is so important you had to interrupt me?"

Instead of bristling, she looked smug. "Lady Trentingham wishes to see you."

He slanted her a suspicious look. "Lady Trentingham doesn't even know who you are."

"Could that be because you weren't polite enough to introduce me?" She straightened her slim eighteen-year-old shoulders. "Well, she noticed me, anyway. Came right up and introduced herself, then asked where she might find you. I gather she looked in the dining room, but of course you were out here."

"Where did she find you?"

"On the terrace. She's waiting for you there."

He headed in that direction, wondering just what Ellen had been doing out on the terrace now that she no longer had her book to occupy her.

He admitted to himself it probably hadn't been fair to expect her to entertain herself all evening long. But he hadn't felt as though he'd had a choice. If he'd left her at home, she'd surely have run off to spend the evening in the company of that damned pawn dealer. Doing God knew what.

He certainly didn't want to know.

Life had been so much simpler when he was off at school and Lady St. Vincent was still alive and caring for Ellen. He and his sister had spent glorious times together during the weeks he'd been able to visit. They'd never argued.

Well, rarely. Only when she'd begged him to take her back to school with him.

He stopped in the dining room long enough to shrug back into his surcoat before stepping out to the terrace.

Lady Trentingham turned in a swish of golden brocade skirts. "Kit. Ellen found you."

"I apologize for not introducing you earlier."

She waved that off. "I knew at first glance you were related. She looks just like you. A little prettier," she added with a smile.

He grinned back. "I should hope so."

"I wanted to let you know that Rose is in the ladies' attiring room. I thought, considering our earlier conversation, you might want to be there when she comes out."

He'd almost convinced himself he'd dreamed that conversation. This whole day seemed naught but a dream born of wishful thinking: everything going right with King Charles, the wonderful afternoon with Rose, the kiss, his materials showing up in a timely fashion, Lady Trentingham encouraging him to seduce her daughter…

But then again, he was still fighting with Ellen. That was no dream.

And neither, apparently, was this. Lady Trentingham leaned closer and straightened his cravat. "Shall I show you where Rose will be coming out?"

"She's looking for you," he said. "She mentioned that the last time I saw her."

"Is that so?" A slow smile spread on Rose's mother's face. "Well, she's going to find you instead."

Rose had nearly steeled herself to venture forth from the attiring room when two young women walked in.

"Oh," the blond one said when she spotted her. "You're here."

Rose didn't care for her tone. She wanted to slap her across her pinched face. But she also wanted to be liked here at court, so she plastered on a smile. "I'm Rose Ashcroft. And you are…?"

"Lady Wyncherly." The woman fetched her drawstring purse and pulled out a tiny silver box.

"And I'm Lady Wembley." The other woman joined her friend at the large gilt-framed mirror. Her hair was so black Rose imagined she dyed it and used a lead comb.

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady…" Willoughby? Wemperley? "Ladies. You're both married, then?"

"Yes," they said in unison, and then the dark-haired one added, "and you're not."

Rose could think of worse things than not being married. Like being one of these shrews.

The blond Lady W touched a pimple on the other's face. "Right there," she said.

The woman glared at herself in the mirror. "Hell and furies, another one."

The blonde pulled a little silver box out of her drawstring purse. "Here, choose a patch."

While the pimply Lady W rummaged through the box with a fingertip, the blond one turned to Rose. "Why aren't you busy kissing someone?"

Rose was rapidly concluding it was just as well none of the women here seemed to like her, because she certainly didn't like them. But she decided to ignore the slur. "I'm resting until the gaming."

"There won't be any gaming tonight," pimply Lady W said, choosing a crescent-shaped patch.

"No gaming?" Rose echoed, crestfallen.

Blond Lady W pulled some adhesive from her purse and dotted it on the back. "Haven't you heard?" She stuck the black velvet on her friend's face. "This will be an early evening, because we're all leaving for Hampton Court tomorrow. Will you be coming along?"

She sounded as though she hoped not.

"I'm not sure," Rose told her. She'd found no opportunity to discuss it yet with Mum. Half of her wanted to go to Hampton Court just to spite these women, while the other half thought the peace of Trentingham Manor would be heaven in comparison.

Unfortunately, there were no potential husbands at home.

The blonde chose a patch for herself—a cupid—even though she was already wearing nine and had no pimple to cover. Patches were quite in fashion, and Rose wore one herself—a small heart at the outside edge of her right eyebrow—but she thought the woman's face looked diseased with so many black shapes all over it.

Maybe the blond Lady W was diseased. Maybe most of the patches were hiding hideous smallpox scars. Although Rose knew it wasn't nice of her, the thought of that made her smile.

"What?" the Lady Ws barked together.

Rose shrugged and walked out of the little chamber. She was certain they started talking about her the moment she cleared the door—and she doubted they had anything good to say. But she decided she didn't care.

Stepping into the drawing room, she stopped short when she saw Kit. He was standing there, gazing into space and looking uncomfortable. Well, he didn't belong here at court, so that wasn't such a surprise. Perhaps the king wanted the drawing room renovated too, and he was studying it.

She noticed Kit was taller than she, but not terribly much taller. Maybe half a head, while she only came up to Gabriel's chin. Kit didn't make her feel petite like the duke did.

He finally took note of her. "Rose," he greeted with a smile.

No Lady. Did that mean he considered her a friend now?

"Kit. You're still here. " She suddenly remembered her plans. "Will you kiss me?" she asked.

"Here? Now?" His eyes widened, becoming more green than brown.

"I didn't mean it like that," she rushed out, cursing herself silently for her habit of speaking before she thought. "I just…well, I just want to see how you do it."

He looked amused. "Like anyone else does it, I imagine."

He was wrong, so wrong, about that. As he moved closer, the little bubbles began dancing in her stomach.

He was very, very wrong.

His gaze locked on hers, now purest green with only flecks of brown. Flecks she was close enough to see. Though his scent wasn't heavy, it still overwhelmed her—that woodsy perfume mixed with the clean sweat of hard, honest work.

"Are you certain you want a kiss now?" he teased. "Right here, in front of the entire court?"

"Haven't you heard?" another man cut in. "Our Lady Rose quite enjoys kissing."

Startled, Rose turned to find Lord Davenport standing behind her. She'd kissed him earlier and been disappointed, but at least he'd had good manners.

"Greetings, my sweet Lady Rose," he said and kissed her again, right there—as Kit had said—in front of the entire court.

It was a chaste kiss. But it snapped Rose out of her trance. What had she been thinking, asking Kit Martyn—a common architect!—for a kiss before England's finest?

"Thank you," she told Lord Davenport, meaning it. If only she liked kissing him, she would give him another for saving her from humiliation.

"My pleasure," the man said, reaching for her again.

Hearing a throat clear, she turned back to Kit.

But he was gone. The Duke of Bridgewater was there instead. "Ah, Lady Rose. You promised me this dance, if I'm remembering right?"

She hadn't, but before she could say so he was leading her away. Lord Davenport just shrugged. Apparently he didn't feel up to challenging the duke.

"I don't like seeing other men kiss you," Gabriel said.

"Then don't look," she suggested, laughing when he began to protest. "I didn't encourage him," she told him.

"Shall I call him out, then?"

"Gemini, no!" She laughed again, furtively searching for Kit. He was nowhere to be found. "Lord Davenport isn't worth your time, your grace."

The duke's pretty blue eyes sparkled, telling her he liked hearing that.

They danced an almain and once again received jealous glances from men and ladies alike. Gabriel was a perfect gentleman. But after the dance, when he contrived to draw her behind the curtains, she sighed.

If only she enjoyed his kisses instead of dreading them, life would be so much better.

They weren't the only couple in the big bay window. In one corner, a man had his hand down the front of a lady's bodice, and if Rose could judge from the woman's moans, she was enjoying his attentions very much. As she watched, Rose felt her own breasts begin to tingle, and a strange, lazy warmth stole through her body, weakening her knees. She licked her lips, imagining a man doing that to her.

But the man wasn't Gabriel.

"Don't look," he whispered, turning her to face the other corner.

There, a man had his hand up a lady's skirts! The lady had raised one of her legs and wrapped it around his. Rose suddenly pictured one of the engravings in Ellen's book.

She needed air.

"I wish to go outdoors," she told Gabriel.

"Excellent idea. There's a distinct lack of privacy in this area."

She hadn't meant with him; she'd submitted to four of his kisses tonight, and she didn't intend to allow a fifth. Not until she'd kissed Kit again and figured out how to teach the duke to kiss her better.

As they emerged from behind the curtains, Rose looked around for rescue, relieved to meet the gaze of Viscount Hathersham. She'd kissed him, too, and from what she could remember, it hadn't been that bad. At least not bad enough that she couldn't risk encouraging him a little if it might save her from another private outing with the duke.

"Lord Hathersham!" she called, waving him closer. "I completely forgot that I'd promised you the next dance."

She hadn't, of course, but thankfully he wasn't dim enough to say so. He bowed and took her by the hand, raising it to his lips. His kiss was a bit more blubbery than she'd remembered, but at least it was to her hand, not her mouth. "The next dance will be my pleasure, Lady Rose. And well worth the wait."

As they moved toward the dance floor, Rose sent Gabriel what she hoped he would take as an apologetic glance.

"I never asked you to dance," the viscount said in a low tone that she imagined he thought was seductive.

"Well, you should have," she told him with a smile.

"You feel we two are suited, then?"

"For a dance."

Though a vigorous country dance would have been more to her liking, the musicians had chosen a minuet. As the dancers went to their toes, the viscount pulled Rose near. "I'm hoping I can persuade you we're suited for more than a dance." One of his hands slipped around her and rested on the small of her back. "You move nicely," he said.

"Thank you, my lord."

"I have nice moves as well." When she tried to gain some distance, he pressed her even closer. "Especially," he added, "in bed."

She forced a girlish giggle. "Oh, my lord! There's no bed here at court."

"We can find one," he murmured as his hand slid down to her bottom. And pinched.

"My lord!" She twisted subtly out of his embrace, not wanting to make a scene. "That isn't appropriate," she told him in a voice colder than the ice sculpture that decorated the refreshment table.

"But, my lady—"

"Hush up and dance!"

She held herself in check, though she wanted to rant and rave—and perhaps bash him over the head with something good and heavy. The Chinese vase on that silver table would do nicely.

The nerve of him, touching her bottom!

When the dance ended, she muttered a stiff "Thank you, my lord," and took off for the solitude of the terrace.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"She's distressed," Lady Trentingham said, standing with Kit in a dark corner of the drawing room. "And she'll be alone out there on the terrace. Go to her."

"I'd wager she won't be alone for long," Kit predicted. A safe bet, given the Duke of Bridgewater was meandering toward the door already.

"I'm sure she'd appreciate you taking her away from here."

"Away?" Rose's mother never failed to surprise him.

A short laugh escaped her lips—or maybe it was a snort. "Not for the night—just for an hour. You can find solitude, yes? You know this castle better than anyone." She gave him a little push. "Now, go. I'll keep an eye on Ellen."

He went, quickly, feeling like a poltroon as he elbowed his way past the more sedate duke and handily beat him outdoors. This entire courtship was beyond humiliating. Lady Trentingham had made it clear she approved of him pursuing her daughter, and he shouldn't be needing her encouragement—or worse, her nagging—to make each and every move.

He'd always gone after what he wanted with no holds barred, and from now on, he promised himself, he'd do the same with Rose.

Silhouetted in the moonlight, she stood at the edge of the terrace, gazing over the darkened Thames Valley.

"Rose," he called softly as he approached.

She started, then turned, looking amused. "Kit? You always turn up."

A glance back told him the duke had made it out to the terrace. "Would you fancy a stroll?" he asked her quickly. Without waiting for a reply, he began walking.

She followed without hesitation. "Where would you take me?"

"Around the courtyards, or—"

"Lady Rose!"

"It's Bridgewater," she whispered, walking faster. "Ignore him."

"Don't you like him?"

"Of course I like him! He's a duke!" She sped up, walking amazingly quickly considering her high heels. "I just need to leave court for a while, that's all."

Her mother really was quite perceptive. "And why is that?" he asked, steering her around a corner.

"I'm making a fool of myself here," she said with a sigh, never one to mince words. "I wish to break the cycle."

He laughed, then glanced back. Thankfully, they seemed to have lost the duke. "A fool?" he said. "I think not. It's quite obvious all the men like you."

He hadn't enjoyed watching that popinjay kiss her.

"And all the ladies hate me." He could hear the pout in her voice.

"They're only jealous," he soothed.

"I know that."

As he led her through a small courtyard, he laughed again, enjoying her candor.

"They're vulgar bores, anyway," she declared. "But a woman needs friends. I miss my sisters. I enjoyed talking with Ellen."

"She enjoyed you, too. She's in a much better mood now. Thank you for that."

She waved a hand. "I cannot think what I did, besides possibly offer friendship."

"She needs friends, too. Of late, she spends all her time with that man." He steered her around the Round Tower. "What was the title of the book she brought along?"

"I won't know until I translate it," Rose said glibly.

So glibly he suspected it was a fib. That book was making him more and more curious.

She stopped before the castle gate and turned to face him. Torchlight danced over her fine features, highlighting her puzzled smile and the charming little indents it made in her cheeks.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He hadn't known, but now he did. "To the river, if it pleases you."

Although Lady Trentingham had suggested he take her daughter to a secluded part of the castle, surely the river would do as well.

Rose knew she shouldn't have left the castle, especially with a man. But she'd wanted so much to escape. And Kit was a friend.

She'd never had a male friend before.

"It's quiet out here," she said.

"Unlike your friends at court, most folks rise with the dawn and seek their beds when the sun sets."

"I guess that's why none of the windows are lit." The hill was steep, the uneven cobblestones treacherous. "It's so dark." A little wobble in her voice matched a sudden lurch in her gait.

He reached to steady her. "You're not afraid of the dark, are you?"

"No," she snapped, then added, "Well, maybe. A little," when she caught him looking at her sideways.

What was it about this man that made her spill her most embarrassing secrets?

She waited for him to laugh, but he didn't. "I'd know the way with my eyes closed," he said. "Here, take my hand."

She did, though she knew she shouldn't be doing that either. But Kit's fingers felt good linked with hers, comforting instead of intimidating. His skin felt warm, his palm rougher than those of the other men who'd touched her tonight. Work worn, she supposed. And while she was holding his hand, the night didn't seem quite as dark.

At the bottom of the hill, rowdy laughter drifted from a tavern called Bel and the Dragon. The sound of common men thick with drink. Kit was common, too, but for now she didn't care. It was peaceful here, away from court. And no one was threatening to kiss her.

Not even the man she wished would.

When they reached Kit's house and he turned and started up the steps, Rose pulled her hand from his. "You said we were going to the river."

"We're stopping here only a minute." He fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door; it was late enough that Graves wasn't there to open it. "Wait here," Kit whispered, ushering her into the entry. A single oil lamp burned on the small marble-topped table. "I'll be right back."

Hugging herself, she watched him walk deeper into the house. Through an open window, more laughter floated from the river, faint and joyous. People celebrating on a barge, she imagined.

She didn't have to wait long. A minute later Kit was back, a cloth sack in one hand and a cloak in the other. "Ellen's," he explained. "I thought you might be cold."

He moved close and settled it over her shoulders, wrapping her in its warmth. Fine gray wool with black and silver braid, it was much heavier than her own velvet one and smelled faintly of Ellen, a light, carefree fragrance compared to her own heavier perfume. But Kit being so near, his own scent seemed stronger—woodsy, masculine, and heady enough to overwhelm her.

She was on the verge of asking for a kiss again when he stepped away.

"Thank you," she said quietly as he guided her back outdoors. "It was very kind of you to take me for a walk. Away from…all that."

"I needed a break from my work. And now that I've taken it, I'm realizing I'll be needing sleep soon, too."

Ellen was counting on that, Rose thought, wondering why she felt disloyal. Whose side was she on regarding this brother–sister tug of war? She wasn't sure. She only knew that right here, right now, she was in the right place.

The streets were deserted this time of night, the river slow and dark, the moon illuminating its ripples. Kit guided her past the bridge that led to Eton, its shops dark and shuttered. They came to a wooden gate with white lettering that gleamed in the moonlight. "Romney Walk," Rose read aloud.

The gate creaked when Kit opened it. "There's a place near Trentingham named Romney as well, isn't there?"

"There are many such places, I believe." Beyond the gate, the path angled closer to the river. Although the moon provided enough light that she could trod the packed dirt without tripping, she allowed Kit to keep a steadying hand on her elbow. "The word derives from a Saxon word, rumnea, meaning water."

He looked at her with admiration. "You know ancient languages, too?"

She smiled, liking that look. She couldn't remember a man ever admiring her for more than her appearance.

It was the difference between a suitor and a friend.

"No, Rand told me about that. I'm not so much interested in old tongues—I'd rather learn languages I can use someday when I travel. What's in the sack?"

"Bread. For the swans." Several had been following them as they walked, gliding soundlessly on the water. One of them honked now, as though he'd heard Kit and knew food was in the offing. "I thought you might like to feed them."

"It would never occur to me to bring bread. Lily would think like that."

"She loves animals, doesn't she?"

"Almost as much as she loves Rand."

She wondered what her sister was doing this evening. In the middle of the night, so soon after her wedding…Rose was afraid she knew. She'd lay odds Lily was doing those things that were still a mystery to her, those things that she feared would be distasteful…except when she thought about doing them with the man here with her now.

She released a long sigh. "Lily is nice to everyone and everything, human and animal alike. I could never live up to her perfection."

"No one's perfect, Rose. Not Lily or anyone else." He reached into the sack and handed her a few cubes of stale bread. "Shall we sit?"

The bank rose here, forming a little grassy hill that overlooked the river. Rose lowered herself to the springy ground, tucking Ellen's cloak beneath her. She tossed a bread cube out on the water and watched the swans rush to gobble it. "I wonder what it is about you that makes me so glib," she mused.

He sat beside her. "You don't seem tongue-tied with anyone else."

She blushed, thankful for the cover of darkness. "I don't generally admit to people that I'm imperfect."

"I hesitate to disillusion you," he said wryly, "but I imagine they could figure that out without you informing them."

Laughing, she shoved at his shoulder and tossed more bread. Swans honked, demanding still more. Across the river, a tiny bridge was barely visible over small rapids gleaming white in the moonlight. The sounds of running water were soothing.

After a moment of silence, Kit reached over and took her hand. When she didn't pull away, he raised it to his mouth and pressed his warm lips to the back.

She knew she shouldn't allow it. But his kiss on her hand felt different from Lord Hathersham's, so different it made her shiver.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"No. Will you kiss me?"

"Shy as usual," Kit teased, sounding pleased as he reached for her.

Her heart began pounding. "I don't mean…" Agitated, she scrambled to her feet. "Good God, I just want to see how you do it."

He rose and moved close. "Like any other man, as I told you." With a hand beneath her chin, he tilted her face up and leaned near. His warm breath brushed her lips. "A kiss is a kiss."

"Oh, no," she breathed. "It isn't."

Then she couldn't say more, because his mouth had met hers.

She tried to concentrate on his technique. But as his work-roughened hands cupped her face, as his gentle pressure turned into more, as the kiss deepened and his tongue tangled with hers, she couldn't seem to think straight.

Was he more tender? Not really—and not at all when the caress turned more demanding. Was he more skilled? She had to think so, but she couldn't discern how. Did he taste different? Well, certainly. He tasted like Kit, only Kit…the most divine flavor ever to grace her lips.

She heard a moan and realized it was hers, and then she couldn't think at all. She could only feel. A wonderful heat began spreading through her. She wound her arms around Kit's neck and threaded her fingers into his hair, pressing her body against his. It seemed she could feel his pulse, his lifeblood, beating in tandem with hers. A perfect moment.

A thing of beauty.

When he broke the kiss, she tugged him back for another. He obliged her for a moment before drawing away with a low laugh. "So I'm different, am I?"

"Oh, yes," she sighed. "But I cannot figure out how. I…I don't like deep kisses."

"Oh," he said, "I think you do."

"Only yours." He was kissing her neck now, little wet kisses that should disgust her, but they didn't. Instead, they made her shiver again. "How do you do that to me?"

"Maybe," he murmured, his lips teasingly warm on her earlobe, "I do that to you because we belong together."

"No." That couldn't be it. She couldn't belong with a commoner. Kit was her friend, and she liked kissing him, and that was all. "No."

"No?" He nibbled lightly along her jaw. She should hate this, but she didn't. His lips inched toward her mouth, making her own lips tingle with anticipation. "Shall I kiss you again to prove it?" he asked, his mouth moving closer, but not quite there.

Frustrated, she took his head in both hands and crushed her lips to his. And with another low laugh, he set to proving his words right.

It was a kiss to sink into. This time his arms went around her. His hands spread on her back, pressing her close. She molded her curves to his body as the fluttery bubbles in her stomach became a hot, insistent ache.

Then his hands moved lower and cupped her bottom. She would swear she felt their warmth through her gown and Ellen's cloak, along with an odd, exciting tingling. The viscount had touched her there, and she'd hated it. But when Kit's hands pulled her closer, she melted against him. She felt a hardness where their bodies met, a hardness that made her think of the engravings in I Sonetti.

"Rose." Her name was a husky entreaty. He tore his mouth from hers to open the cloak and press kisses to her throat, her chest, the tops of her breasts displayed in her low décolletage. Lord Cravenhurst had touched her there, and she'd felt nothing but revulsion. But now her skin prickled, and beneath her chemise and the long, triangular stomacher that covered her laces, her nipples tightened.

It was all she could do to keep from tearing her own clothes off.

This would never, ever do.

"Kit," she breathed on a sigh.

He lifted his head and kissed her mouth, a warm clinging of lips. "Hmm?"

"I think we should go back." She didn't want to go back, but she had to. This wasn't where she belonged. "Please, take me back. I…I'm afraid this isn't right. I mean…we aren't right."

He paused a long, heart-stopping moment before stepping away. Then he took her hand and started down the path. She didn't pull her hand from his. She knew she should—but she just couldn't.

"I think, dear Rose, we are very right," he said after a while. "And I believe that in time you'll agree."

It was a good thing he was just a friend, because she feared she might agree already.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Lady Trentingham?"

Chrystabel turned to the Duke of Bridgewater and took note of his troubled expression. "Yes, your grace?"

"I thought I should let you know your daughter is missing."

"Oh?" Poor man, he really seemed to care. "Whatever makes you think that?"

"She went off more than an hour ago. I was hoping she'd return within a reasonable time, so I'd have no need to alarm you—"

"Did she go off with Kit Martyn?" Feeling sorry for him, she laid a hand on his arm. "Mr. Martyn is a friend of the family. I asked him to escort her."

"Back to your apartments?" When she didn't answer, he apparently took that for an affirmative. "She did say she felt peaked. Will she be returning later this evening?"

"I'm not certain," Chrystabel said slowly, feeling a twinge of guilt for misleading him.

But she hadn't really lied, had she? She'd merely allowed him to jump to a conclusion. He truly did seem concerned. A pity he was all wrong for Rose—too dull and unchallenging.

Although her daughter would make her own decision, Chrystabel had no doubt that, with her subtle help, in the end Rose would choose the right man.

Bridgewater suddenly frowned. "It seems that, besides Lady Rose, a number of other ladies have gone missing."

Chrystabel looked around, surprised to find he was right. There were noticeably fewer women than earlier. The abandoned men shifted restlessly, standing in little groups and talking about God knew what.

"Do you expect they're all feeling peaked?" Bridgewater asked. "Perhaps the prawns were bad."

"You men ate prawns, too, did you not?" Dull, just as she'd thought. But his heart was in the right place. Looking over to her right, she brightened. "Oh, here comes Rose now."

Her daughter's step was lighter, her cheeks pinkened from the fresh night air—and perhaps an encounter with Kit.

Chrystabel could only hope.

Bridgewater swept Rose a bow. "We missed you, my lady."

"Did you?" she murmured distractedly.

Chrystabel took that as a good sign. If Rose was failing to flirt with a duke, she must have another man on her mind.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked politely.

"I…um…not really, I'm afraid. I…I just returned for my cloak."

"You're wearing a cloak," he pointed out.

"Oh." She blinked. "I borrowed this one." She unfastened the gray wool garment and shrugged it off, handing it to Chrystabel. "Will you both excuse me?"

The attiring room was so crowded, Rose had to edge her way inside.

"Marry come up!" a lady was saying. "Will you look at this? How do you expect it works?"

"Very well, I can assure you," another courtier said smugly.

"But this"—there was a pause during which Rose heard pages flipping—"this looks bloody uncomfortable."

As a mass, the women all leaned closer. "Uncomfortable for the man," a high-pitched voice put in. "But I'd like to be that lady!"

Amid laughter, Rose worked herself toward the center. And then froze. Eleven—no, twelve—courtiers were huddled over Ellen's book.

She was beginning to back away when one of them glanced up. "Lady Rose! Could this book be yours?"

"Mine?"

The pimply, black-haired Lady W held up Rose's purple cloak. "We found it under this. It's yours, isn't it?"

"The cloak, yes. But the book…" Oh, dash it—she couldn't leave it here, so there was no sense in lying. "It belongs to a friend," she said, holding her head high. After all, given the behavior she'd witnessed here at court, these women had no call to think her a wanton—not for simply having a book.

"A friend? Wherever did he find it?"

"She," Rose corrected. "And why? Have you heard of this book?"

"Heard of it?" a plump brunette said. "Why, I Sonetti Lussuriosi is known far and wide." She pronounced the Italian words with a horrible English accent. "It was suppressed by the Vatican in the last century; didn't you know? There are few copies surviving, and many men searching for them."

"And women," someone added, prompting giggles.

"Lord Chauncey has a set of the engravings on his bedchamber walls," one lady slyly informed them. "I've seen them."

"A crude set," a second lady put in. "Copies. Nothing like the fine artistry of these originals."

"You've seen them, too?" a third lady asked.

"You haven't?" a fourth replied with an arched brow.

From the laughter that ensued, Rose concluded that Lady Number Three—and she—were the only women at court who hadn't found their way into Lord Chauncey's bedchamber.

Odds were he might be a good kisser. Unfortunately, he also sounded like a terrible rake.

A wistful sigh came from one of the ladies. "I do so wish I could read Italian. These sonnets must be fascinating."

"That they are," Rose said.

As one, the assembled group stopped focusing on the book and swung to her instead. A few of them sidled closer.

"Can you read Italian?" one of them asked. Or rather, slurred. She was wearing the newly fashionable plumpers—cork balls inside her cheeks to round out her face.

Rose nodded. "Yes, I can read it." Perhaps it wasn't considered ladylike to study languages, but she was far past trying to impress these women.

And oddly enough, they didn't seem disapproving. Quite the contrary. "Will you read this book to us?" one asked.

Rose's face flamed at the thought. "I…I don't read Italian that well," she fibbed. "Not well enough to read aloud."

They all sighed together rather theatrically.

"But I'm translating the sonnets for a friend," she found herself telling them. "One at a time. I could bring the written translations to court, too, if you'd like."

The brunette's overly made-up eyes widened at this offer. "Would you?"

The pimply Lady W smiled. "We'd be most grateful."

"Mosht grateful," slurred the woman with the plumpers.

The blond Lady W stepped forward. "I must say, dear Lady Rose, that's a very kind offer, indeed. I'm so pleased to have made your acquaintance here at court."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was a good ten more minutes before Rose managed to make her way out of the attiring room with I Sonetti hidden beneath her cloak. It was another hour before her mother had fallen asleep and she could sneak from their bedchamber into the tiny attached sitting room. She closed the door between the two rooms quietly, then lit a candle, fetched paper and ink, and set to work.

In the old days, she would have feasted her eyes on the engravings first thing, but she was determined to become a new, better Rose. She wouldn't allow herself to look at the pictures until she'd translated the first sonnet for Ellen.

It proved an exercise in frustration. She worked until the candle guttered and she had to light another. But try as she might, she couldn't seem to make the English sound like a sonnet.

Let us make love, my beloved,

quickly, for we were made to make love.

And if you adore my yard,

then I will love your seat of womanly pleasure.

The world would be worthless without this.

And if it were possible to make love after death,

let us make love until we die of it,

and then make love to Eve and Adam,

who found death so distasteful.

Truly and verily,

if the scoundrels had not eaten forbidden fruit,

I know not whether the lovers would have been contented.

But let us stop speculating, and drive your yard into my core,

until my spirit comes alive and then dies.

And if it be possible, push even more of you inside me,

So we should witness every pleasure of making love.

It would have to do, she finally decided—Ellen had said that Thomas didn't care for sonnets, anyway. A clock on the mantel was striking three when at last she allowed her gaze to stray to the drawing.

It was nice, as she'd remembered. Bare skin notwithstanding, the couple looked relaxed, the pose romantic. Their arms were wrapped around each other, their lips meeting above while their bodies met below. As Rose studied the picture, that slow heat started building again inside her.

When she imagined herself with one special man, the heat built to an ache. This, she realized suddenly, could be beautiful.

Releasing a shuddering sigh, she turned to the second engraving, and then the third and the fourth—the one where the man and woman were reaching out to touch each other. Her cheeks burned, no matter that she was alone. Unable to resist, she flipped to Position Five, an engraving she had yet to see.

The man sat on the edge of a bed, and the woman sat on top of him, facing away. She was reaching between her own legs and back to grab his…yard…and guide it into herself. . .

Rose swallowed hard and forced her gaze to the words.

Such pleasure I feel with my yard in your hand,

I shall explode…

On the next page, the woman had settled on the man's lap.

You are filling me, thrilling me,

and I could stay seated here for a year.

And then the woman was lying on the floor with the man standing over her, holding her raised legs.

Spread your thighs, let me see your lovely bottom

and your seat of womanly pleasure.

The sight makes me pulse with passion,

and I've a sudden urge to kiss you…

Ah, she remembered the kisses. Kit's kisses. And the thought of her on the floor, a man standing above her…a certain man…

That ache was intensifying. A yearning ache that felt all but unbearable. Right where the man in the drawing was looking.

Spread your thighs…

Quickly she flipped another page and froze, staring.

Will you look at this? she remembered a high-pitched voice saying. How do you expect it works? This looks bloody uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable, indeed. Why, the lady was all but folded in half, and…good God. Rose's hand fluttered up to her throat. Would her husband expect her to do this?

Position Nine was even more unbelievable, and Position Ten—did bodies really twist like that? In Eleven the woman arched on one elbow and foot, her other leg raised in the air, while the man—

Gemini.

If this was what awaited her in the marriage bed, she'd as soon remain a spinster.

She flipped hurriedly through the rest of the engravings, sixteen in all, and finally slammed the book shut. Shaking, she hid it carefully, then folded the translation and tucked it into her embroidered drawstring purse. As the clock struck four, she tiptoed back into the bedchamber and slid beneath the covers, leaving a lamp burning low as always.

But sleep eluded her as the pictures played over and over in her head.

Did her sisters do these things? Were Lily and Rand doing them even now? Aristotle's Master-piece had warned there would be "some little pain" the first time, and Rose had never worried about that. But from what she could see, there must be pain every time. And not a little, either. She ached just thinking about those positions.

The fire in the grate sputtered and died, leaving nothing but glowing embers—and still Rose lay sleepless. At long last, she forced herself to remember the first engraving.

The beautiful one.

Her skin tingled where the sheets seemed to caress her…and she wished they were male hands instead. The man in the engraving hadn't had a clear face. Shutting her eyes tight, she tried to picture the duke.

But the face she saw was Kit's.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Didn't you sleep well, dear?" Chrystabel frowned as Rose yawned for the dozenth time. "Perhaps you should go back to bed."

"I slept fine, Mum." And she had—for the three hours she'd actually slept. "I overslept, in fact. It's past ten already, and I promised Ellen I'd visit her at the pawnshop this morning."

"The pawnshop?"

She crossed to the window to check the weather. "I never made it back to the bookshop yesterday, and Ellen said the pawnshop has books. Foreign books. And I need to return her cloak." It looked sunny, so she decided against wearing her own. "It's amazing how quickly we've become friends."

"Sometimes friendships are meant to be. Just like some men and women belong together."

"Like the ones you introduce to be married?" With an indulgent laugh, Rose turned from the window. She grabbed her little purse and slid the cord over her wrist, then draped Ellen's cloak over one arm. "The court leaves today for Hampton; did you know that?"

"Of course."

"Will we go with them?"

"Do you wish to?"

"I'm not sure." Rose didn't want to make this decision. She watched her mother reach for her own drawstring purse. "Where are you going?"

"You didn't think I'd let you go to the pawnshop alone, did you? A young lady doesn't parade around town on her own."

Plenty of young ladies did, but Rose didn't feel like arguing. She only hoped she'd be able to slip Ellen the translated sonnet without Chrystabel noticing. Not that there was anything wrong with what she was doing, but it wasn't something she felt like sharing with her mother.

Outdoors, the courtyards were abuzz with servants hauling luggage, but there was no sign of any courtiers. "Has the court left already?" Rose wondered, half hoping they had. Maybe she'd arisen too late to leave for Hampton Court, and the decision would be out of her hands, at least for today.

But as they skirted the Round Tower, Chrystabel laughed. "I imagine they're all still fast asleep."

"I thought everyone was planning to leave early."

"That, Lady Rose," came a male voice, "depends on your definition of early."

Rose turned to see the Duke of Bridgewater fall into step beside them. He looked very dapper this morning, with a broad-brimmed, ostrich-plumed hat shielding his golden head from the sun.

"And what is your definition of early, your grace?"

"Oh, before noon, I suppose. I'm certainly proud of myself for being up and about before the sun reaches its zenith." He grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. "Most of us wake as the sun sets. I fear the court will find it tedious to have to rise and travel in broad daylight today."

She laughed, enjoying the company of so pleasant and impressive a man. Even for traveling, he was dressed to the height of fashion. His bright burgundy suit sported rows of gold buttons along the front edges of both the long waistcoat and the embroidered surcoat that went over it. The breeches beneath were secured at the knee with gold buttons, too. His lace cravat was tied at his neck in a wide bow, and, unlike Kit, he wore shoes instead of boots—heeled, with a double sole and small gold spurs.

She smoothed her red silk day gown, wishing it were adorned with pearls or something else extravagant. She'd always considered her clothes fashionable, but the ladies here made her feel like a country frump.

"I'm so glad to see you're feeling better this morning." The duke took her arm. "Please tell me you're coming along to Hampton Court."

She exchanged a glance with her mother, who shrugged, apparently leaving the decision up to her. "We're just on our way to the pawnshop," she said, evading an answer.

"The pawnshop?"

If Rose could judge by the duke's tone, he and Kit held similar opinions regarding pawnshops. "We're not pawning anything," she assured him with a laugh. "Just visiting a friend there."

"A friend?" Sounding slightly disturbed, he gripped her arm tighter. "I shall accompany you, then, at least as far as the door."

"That's not necessary," Rose protested.

"I was planning to take a walk in the Great Park, anyway. A brisk morning stroll does wonders for a man's constitution. I usually leave from the castle, but I can enter off Park Street, no harm done."

There was no arguing with him, it seemed. They walked through the Lower Ward, Rose wishing some of the ladies were around to see her on the arm of the tall, handsome duke. Perhaps she should go to Hampton Court, because she sensed she was on the verge of snagging him.

Beyond the gateway, it was a short stroll down Castle Hill and a left onto the High Street. The pawnshop was right there, as Ellen had said. Three golden balls—the pawn trade's age-old symbol—dangled from a bracket that projected from the building. As they approached, Rose couldn't help but notice the business looked prosperous. A wooden sign overhead said WHITTINGHAM'S PAWN SHOP in fresh gold paint.

Then she lowered her gaze from the sign to find a gorgeous pair of earrings in the window. Set in delicate gold filigree dangles, rubies sparkled and pearls gleamed. "Oooh," she breathed, fingering her few coins through the thin fabric of her drawstring purse.

Dozens of items crammed the window, but the earrings stood alone as dainty works of art. She fairly itched to own them.

"Aren't these earrings beautiful?" She gazed at them on their bed of black velvet. "If we go to Hampton Court and there's gaming tonight, maybe I'll be lucky enough to win them."

"They match your gown superbly," Gabriel observed. "I think this is your lucky day."

"Pardon?"

He grinned. "I've never patronized a pawnshop before, but wait here, ladies, if you will." He bowed and then entered the shop, a bell jingling as he pushed the door open.

Rose pressed back against the building to avoid a careening carriage. "Mum, do you expect he's going to buy those earrings for me?"

Chrystabel shrugged and smiled. "It seems so."

A masculine hand went into the window, square with pale hair sprinkled on the back. Rose watched the earrings and the hand disappear. "I hope he won't think I belong to him afterward."

"Does that mean you don't want to?" Chrystabel raised a brow but didn't wait for an answer. "In any case, they're only earrings. A trifling item for a man like the duke."

Rose breathed a sigh of relief, for the truth was, she wanted the earrings. She could hardly wait to see them on her ears. She hoped someone had pawned a mirror.

A moment later, the duke stepped back outside and presented the jewelry to her with a flourish. "Enjoy, my lady."

The rubies sparkled even more in the sunshine; the pearls shone like they held secrets; the gold was intricate, fashioned by a talented hand. Chrystabel slipped into the shop as Rose fumbled with the first earring.

"Here, let me help." Gabriel took it from her and stepped close to fasten it on her lobe.

He still smelled of too much perfume, but Rose didn't care. "Thank you, your grace."

"It's nothing." He reached for the other earring. "Beautiful women deserve beautiful things."

She turned her head to allow him greater access. "I love them."

"I'm glad. I want to see you happy, Lady Rose."

She smiled. He truly was very nice, and generous and handsome and a duke, too. When he was finished, she tucked her long ringlet curls behind her ears, the better to display her new treasures.

"Stunning," he pronounced. Then he leaned close and pressed his lips to hers.

She tried to act enthusiastic, because truly, a kiss was a small price to pay for such beautiful earrings. But she was glad that Ellen's cloak over her arm gave her an excuse not to embrace him.

Thankfully, the kiss was short. Gabriel was too polite to attempt a seduction in broad daylight on Windsor's High Street. But short as it was, all Rose could think was that his kiss was nothing like Kit's.

When Gabriel pulled away, he reached into one of the deep pockets in his breeches and pulled out a handful of coins. A small, secret smile curved his lips as he counted them, dropping each into a little leather pouch. "It's just as I thought."

Rose touched her new earrings, assuring herself they were still there. "What's that?"

"The fool gave me too much change. A crown more than I was due."

"It was good of you to notice. I'm sure he'll appreciate its return."

He blinked his nice blue eyes. "Return? Why the devil should I return it?"

"It's dishonest not to. Besides, I imagine he needs it much more than you do."

"A pawnbroker? I think not." He tucked the pouch into his pocket. "The knaves prey on the most unfortunate, paying pence on the pound for their goods, then charging exorbitant fees for their return. Ten percent a month—and when the poor clodpolls cannot pay, the brokers sell their goods at an enormous profit."

Rose reached up to finger the ruby earrings. She didn't like to think of them as belonging to a poor clodpoll. Surely they hadn't. "So you'll just keep the money?"

"His loss, my gain. A wise man is more careful when doing business." The duke patted the leather pouch where it was hidden inside his pocket. "Now I must be off for my walk. I'll need to get back to the castle in time to see all my luggage is safely transported." He executed a small, formal bow. "Your servant, my lady. I hope to see you at Hampton Court late this afternoon."

"Thank you for the earrings," Rose called as he walked away. Then she went into the shop.

The bell on the door was still jingling as she headed toward a pockmarked blond man who was polishing a glass counter. Though he was younger than she had pictured Ellen's Thomas, he looked very industrious indeed. And certainly not like a knave who preyed on the unfortunate.

"Lady Rose!" Ellen came running over. "Thomas and I were just having the most lovely conversation with your mother. And the duke bought you earrings, did he?" Her eyes danced. "Mercy me, imagine that."

"Kit loaned me this last night," Rose said, handing over Ellen's cloak.

Ellen looked at her sharply. "When?"

"Later, when it grew cold." Rose dug in her drawstring purse and pulled out a silver crown. "Mr. Whittingham gave Bridgewater too much change. He asked me to return it."

Ellen set the cloak aside, effectively distracted from wondering how she'd come by it. "That wasn't Thomas's doing, but the new apprentice he's training." Her disapproving gaze went to the young man behind the counter. "Thomas will have a word with him for certain."

Rose felt sorry for the boy. "I'm sure it was an honest mistake."

"Fear not, Thomas doesn't beat the lad. But he must learn to be more careful." Ellen took the coin gratefully. "Please thank his grace for returning this, next time you should see him. Thomas needs every penny, because he dreams of moving the shop to London—to the Strand, no less!" She laughed as she walked over to add the crown to the till.

Noticing a fine gilt-framed mirror perched on the wall, Rose went over to admire her new earrings. She turned her head this way and that, watching the rubies catch the light. "Where is your Thomas?"

"In the back, talking to your mother. Come, I cannot wait for you to meet him."

"Just a minute." She sidled closer to Ellen and pulled the paper out of her purse. "Here," she whispered, passing it to her.

"The sonnets?"

"One of them. It took me half the night." She didn't mention that was because she'd spent the majority of the time goggling at the engravings.

And thinking about Kit.

"Thank you." Ellen tucked the paper into her skirt. "Thomas will enjoy reading this."

From the glint in Ellen's eyes, Rose suspected the two of them would enjoy it together.

She followed Ellen into the back. The shop was deceiving, because although it looked large enough on the inside, even more space was hidden behind. Here, apparently, was where Thomas kept the goods that he was holding for customers to return and claim—and he had more in that category than goods for sale. Items were piled up on shelves and stacked in trays and spilling out of trunks—a treasure trove, as Ellen had said.

"Mr. Whittingham has been telling me all about the history of pawning," Chrystabel said after the introductions.

Rose traced the silver embroidery on a deep green velvet surcoat. "There's a history?"

"Most certainly." Thomas had brown hair, blue eyes, and a strong chin that lent him a mature air although he looked no older than five-and-twenty. "Pawnbroking can be traced back over three thousand years to ancient China, and there are also records of it in early Greek and Roman history."

Thomas seemed intelligent, too. More learned than she'd supposed a pawnbroker would be—and certainly more learned than Kit seemed to give him credit for. "And the three gold balls?" she asked. "From where did that symbol come?"

"In times past, the Medici family in Italy were well-known moneylenders. Legend says one of the Medicis battled a giant and slew him with three sacks of rocks. The three balls became part of their family crest, and eventually, the sign of pawnbroking."

"It's an honorable business," Ellen put in. "Where else can the common people find money should they need it? It's not as though they can approach noblemen for loans. Pawning has saved many families' homes and farms—they consider themselves lucky to have a broker to turn to."

Rose remembered Gabriel's opinions about preying on poor clodpolls. "Even when they cannot afford to redeem their pawned goods?"

"Sometimes they just choose not to." Ellen lifted her chin. "It's a business, after all. Thomas is entitled to make a living."

"Of course he is," Chrystabel said.

Rose turned to Ellen's love. "However did you get into this trade?"

"My father was a pawnbroker, and his father before him."

She hadn't thought of a pawnshop as something a man could inherit. In fact, she'd never thought about pawnbroking at all. It was unlikely she would ever require such a service. But she had to admit, standing here amongst neatly tagged jewels and guns, tools, household goods, swords, and clothing…the business wasn't nearly as seedy as she'd assumed.

She wondered if Kit had ever really looked at Whittingham's shop with an open mind. Not to mention listened to the man's plans. She smiled at Thomas. "Ellen was telling me you wish to move to London."

"I do, as did my father before me. He saved for twenty years toward that goal. Trade in London would be much brisker—there are so many more people."

"So many more destitute people," Rose put in.

"We can help them," Ellen said. "This trade isn't about taking advantage, no matter its reputation."

Rose hadn't missed the we. "Why the Strand?" she asked.

Thomas waved an arm at the trays and trays of jewelry—clearly the most often pawned item. "The Strand is home to many of London's goldsmiths. Whittingham's could compete favorably, drawing customers—paying customers, not pawning ones—from the patrons who frequent the area. The real estate there, however, can be prohibitively expensive. My father never did manage to save enough to make the move. And prices are still rising—the Great Fire made London's remaining developed land even more precious."

"But after we're wed…" Ellen murmured, then left it at that.

Rose knew she was thinking about her dowry. Eleven thousand pounds—surely more than enough to open the fanciest shop on the Strand. But she also knew that Kit wasn't going to be happy turning that money over to this man.

The bell tinkled in the outer room, signaling another customer. "Pray excuse me," Thomas said.

As he left, Chrystabel turned to examine a sword with a jewel-encrusted hilt. "Isn't this beautiful?"

"It is, Mum."

She hefted its shining weight, watching sapphires and emeralds twinkle in the light from the small, barred windows. "If this isn't claimed, I'll be tempted to buy it for your father."

Rose couldn't imagine he'd be too impressed—the sword wasn't a flower or plant, after all—but she knew her mother liked for him to look nice when they went out in public. "I'm certain he'd love it, Mum."

Chrystabel looked up from the sword. "You've a fine young man, Ellen."

"Thank you. I think so. I just wish I could convince Kit." She sighed, then took Rose's arm. "Come out front. Thomas has so many wonderful things for you to see."

"I want to see the books. Especially foreign ones."

But as they stepped back into the main room, they spotted Kit through the window, striding purposefully toward the door. Ellen gripped Rose's arm tighter. "Mercy me, I'm in trouble. I was hoping to return home before he woke."

Even the bell sounded angry when Kit slammed into the shop. "We must leave, Ellen. I've had word there's a problem at Whitehall. A fire."

Ellen's green-brown eyes widened. "Whitehall has burned?"

"Not the entire palace. Just the east end of the Chapel Royal where I'm building the new altar." He swore under his breath. "Come along."

Ellen set her jaw. "I don't want to go to London. I'll stay here."

"No, you won't." Despite his normal tanned complexion, Kit looked paler even than Bridgewater. And he hadn't noticed Rose. He shot a glance to Thomas instead, then glared back at his sister. "Do you think me a simpleton? If I leave you here, you'll elope. You're coming with me."

"We're going to London, too," Mum announced, surprising Rose.

Kit looked surprised, too. "Lady Trentingham. And Lady Rose." His startled gaze met Rose's, disturbing her as much as ever. Something seemed to be fluttering in her stomach.

Chrystabel moved closer put a hand on Rose's shoulder. "My daughter's favorite seamstress, Madame Beaumont, resides in London. Rose needs to order some new gowns if we're to spend more time at court."

That was news to Rose, but she thought it a fine idea. Not least because it would give her some time to think about Gabriel…and Kit, blast him. He might be frantic with worry and wearing a simple blue wool suit instead of embroidered silk and gold, but she could no longer deny he roused feelings in her that Gabriel never would.

Feelings she didn't want.

Mum squeezed her shoulder. "Perhaps," she added, "we can have Kit and Ellen to supper, since they'll be in London, too."

"That would be nice," Kit allowed, "assuming I can leave the project. Assuming there's still a project to leave. Now, we must be off. Excuse us, please."

As she watched him herd his sister out the door, Rose realized he hadn't even taken Ellen to task for escaping to the pawnshop this morning.

He had to be very worried indeed.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Three days later, Ellen strode into Whitehall's Chapel Royal. "I'm ready, Kit."

Kit swept the newly framed altar with one more glance before turning to his sister. "You're all packed?"

"Yes. My maid is seeing everything brought to the carriage. How about you? You've spent two solid days in this chapel. Have you eaten? Slept? Are your things all packed?"

"I have enough at the house in Windsor," he said, neatly evading her other questions. If he needed to forgo food and rest to accomplish his goals, so be it. What he didn't need was Ellen nagging him.

She bent to scoop up some wood scraps and toss them onto a pile. "I'm so glad we're returning to Windsor."

Reaching into his pocket, Kit fingered the heavy vellum invitation that had arrived yesterday, a gracious request from Lady Trentingham to join her and her daughter for supper. If his plans worked out, Ellen wouldn't be returning to Windsor, but he wouldn't argue with her now. "I thought you loved staying here at Whitehall, where you can pretend you're a fine courtier."

"I loved it before I loved Thomas. Now I know that was only a childish game."

Evening was falling, and he'd dismissed his crew for the day, so he picked up the last of the tools himself. "It's not a game, Ellen," he said as he put them into a crate. "You can be that woman."

"I don't want to be that woman. I want to be Thomas's woman instead."

He bit back a retort, preferring to savor a good day's work. The situation here at Whitehall hadn't been as bad as he'd feared. Although the fire had destroyed the half-built altar, the building had remained intact. Yesterday he'd hired extra men—triple his original crew—and procured new materials. The progress today had been gratifying, surpassing his revamped schedule. Save for elusive bits of ash and the lingering scent of burned wood, all evidence of the fire was gone, and the new altar was framed already.

Disaster had been averted again. But he didn't like the way things were going. The continued mishaps were jeopardizing his likelihood of being appointed Deputy Surveyor. Ellen could doubtless make a good marriage anyway, thanks to the dowry he'd saved for her, but should he fail to win the post he feared his chances with Rose would be dashed.

He had no explanation for the fire, as he'd had for the problem at the castle. But he suspected something foul was afoot. In short, he reckoned the blame landed squarely on one man's shoulders: Harold Washburn, the foreman he'd fired at Windsor. Kit intended to seek the man out. And he preferred not to have his sister along to distract him. Not there at the scene and not at his house in Windsor, either—for he knew better than to believe she'd stay meekly at home. Not with her lover so close.

Kit wasn't the sort of man to lock his sister in a guarded bedchamber. Sometimes he cursed himself for that weakness.

He folded the drawing of the new altar and slipped it into his pocket, then rolled the rest of the plans and tucked them under one arm. "Let's go. Lady Trentingham will be waiting."

Since the king and his followers were lodged at Hampton Court, Whitehall Palace was quiet. They exited into a large, grassy courtyard, their footfalls crunching on the gravel path as they followed it toward the gate. "I don't like traveling late at night. There could be highwaymen." Ellen pouted. "Can't we just go straight to Windsor?"

Kit heard: Can't we just go straight to Thomas? "It would be rude to refuse Lady Trentingham's invitation. Besides, don't you want to see Rose?"

"You want to see Rose."

"So what if I do?"

"She'll never be yours. Can't you see, Kit? Your winning her is as unrealistic as your wanting me to marry a title."

"Who said I want to win her?"

She snorted. "You look at her the same way Thomas looks at me."

He didn't like to think of any man looking that way at his sister. "If I'm appointed Deputy Surveyor, perhaps I'll soon be Sir Christopher Martyn."

"Is that what you're counting on? It won't change you."

"Exactly my point. I'm good enough for anyone now, and so are you. But you cannot argue that perception makes all the difference, and a change in rank will affect how outsiders look at us both."

"I don't care what outsiders think. I care only about Thomas."

Every discussion with Ellen was circular—back around to Thomas. Kit counted to ten, and then, as they crunched past the Banqueting House, changed the subject. "I wish I'd built that."

"It's pretty," she conceded. "But considering the rest of the palace is so old, it stands out like a sore thumb."

"Inigo Jones designed it with a basilica in mind." He nodded a greeting to the guard at the gate. "I heard the construction costs ran to more than fifteen thousand pounds. I believe it was the first modern building in all of London."

"When Thomas builds his shop on the Strand, it will be modern, too."

Thomas again. Of course. Taking Ellen's arm, Kit helped her into the waiting carriage with a little more force than was necessary. He pulled the door shut and dropped down across from her. "Just where do you suppose your Thomas will find the funds to build such an impressive shop?"

It was too dim inside the coach to read her expression, but he could see the tilt of her head. And hear the flippancy in her voice. "If the Banqueting House cost fifteen thousand, I expect eleven will more than do for a pawnshop."

"Eleven?" For a moment he could say no more. But then the words came out in a rush. "If you think Thomas Whittingham will ever see the money I've saved for your dowry, you'd best think again."

If the pawnbroker was courting her for her money, he'd best think again, too.

"You wouldn't keep it from me," Ellen said smugly.

"You cannot know that," he shot back, although he feared she knew him all too well.

A tense quiet stretched between them, a silent battle of wills. When Ellen finally replied, her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it over the rattles and squeaks of the carriage.

"If you do," she said, "I will never speak to you again."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Built just a few years earlier, the Ashcrofts' gray stone town house in St. James's Square was the height of modernity. Kit insisted on a tour before they all sat down to supper. He admired the ornamental scrolled ironwork on the staircase, the intricate pediments over the doorways, and all the chimneypieces carved with festoons of fruit and flowers.

For Rose's part, she'd decided it was all a bit overdone compared to the clean simplicity of his house.

"We cannot stay too long," Ellen said when they were finally seated. "We need to be on the road to Windsor before it gets too late."

"I understand." Chrystabel smiled as she lifted her goblet, looking pleased the Martyn siblings had come at all.

Rose couldn't figure why her mother had taken such an interest in these commoners, but she supposed it wasn't out of character. After all, she did "introductions" for servants. Mum might have married into the Ashcroft family, but their motto, Question Convention, described her to a T.

Chrystabel sipped. "Have you solved the issues at Whitehall?" she asked Kit.

"I hope so." He speared a bite of chicken fricassee, managing to graze Rose's arm for the third time in the process. "The issue of getting it finished on schedule, in any case. The issue of how and why the fire started is another matter entirely—one I'm hoping to solve in Windsor. There's a man there who's less than happy with me—the foreman I fired after the ceiling collapsed."

Rose wasn't sure if he was touching her on purpose or not, but either way, she was having trouble eating with the little bubbles dancing in her stomach. "You think he set the fire?"

Kit met her gaze, his eyes looking more green than brown. "A dishonest man like Washburn is the type to take revenge, and sabotaging another of my projects is effective revenge, indeed."

She sipped from her goblet, half expecting to taste champagne instead of the sweet Rhenish wine.

"This artichoke pudding is delicious," Ellen said with a hum of delight. "Almost worth delaying my return to Windsor."

"I'm so glad you're enjoying it." Chrystabel poured more wine. "I'd be happy to teach you how to make it."

Ellen's eyes widened. "Would you? I don't know how to cook at all."

"No? How is that?"

"I was but six when my mother died. While Kit was in school and university and I lived with Lady St. Vincent, I wasn't even allowed in the kitchen. And since then I've lived with Kit…"

Without brushing Rose this time, Kit set down his fork. "My sister has no need of cooking. When she marries, she'll have an army of servants to prepare her meals."

"Not if you won't give me my dowry," Ellen said darkly.

Chrystabel looked between them. "Preparing a few special dishes can be a joy," she told Kit carefully. "No matter whether one has a staff in the kitchen. Most every lady has a number of signature recipes."

"I would love to learn how to cook this," Ellen said. "It was very kind of you to offer, Lady Trentingham."

Chrystabel smiled. "We shall have to plan another visit soon."

"May we?" Ellen asked her brother.

"Perhaps sooner than you think." Kit cleared his throat, sweeping both Chrystabel and Rose with a glance. "I hesitate to presume upon our acquaintance, but I'm wondering if Ellen might stay here with you for a day or two while I take care of my business in Windsor."

"No!" his sister burst out.

Seeing the determined set of Kit's jaw, Rose turned to Ellen with a smile. "It could be fun. We could visit the shops at the Royal Exchange, and you could come along to my fittings. Maybe Kit would allow you to order a new gown."

"Two," he offered quickly, obviously willing to placate his sister.

Ellen's eyes narrowed. "The only new gown I need is one for my wedding to Thomas."

Kit's eyes blazed.

"I could teach you how to cook," Chrystabel put in before he could open his mouth. "We could start tonight."

"I'm lea—"

"You're staying here," Kit said.

If looks could kill, Rose thought, his sister would be dead as the chicken on the platter.

Ellen apparently knew when to give up. She swallowed hard and put down her fork. "You're very kind," she told Chrystabel in a voice devoid of emotion. "Unlike my brother."

A strained silence stretched between the siblings. Before more hurtful words could be spoken, Rose turned to Kit and tried to distract him. "I've seen what you're doing at Windsor, but tell me about Whitehall."

"It's a small project, just a new altar for the Chapel Royal." He took a bracing swallow of wine. "It's not my design. Here is Wren's sketch." Setting down his goblet, he dug a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her.

The drawing showed not only the architectural detail but also an elevation complete with an altar cloth, alms dish, candlesticks, candles, and books. The lovely columns, carving, and molding looked much more modern than she supposed the rest of Whitehall to be. "It's beautiful."

"Can you see the original Tudor window behind?" When he leaned close, touching a finger to the sketch, she smelled frankincense and Kit. "Wren designed this to be the same width, so the two would appear harmonious together."

Chrystabel reached for the drawing and nodded. "Why didn't he build it himself?"

Kit waved a hand. "He has far more important projects. Besides, I've a suspicion Charles wanted to see me spread thin. Projects at Windsor, Whitehall, and Hampton Court all at once…plus my own. It's a test, you understand? If I can complete all three of the Crown's projects successfully, and on time, he will know he's found the right Deputy Surveyor."

"And the fire threatened this deadline," Rose said.

"Seriously. But fortunately it's a small project, and the damage could have been worse. I hope to overcome my bad luck a second time."

He was still tense, his answers clipped, his gaze settling too often on his sister. Rose tried again. "Hampton Court is a larger project, isn't it?"

"The largest of the three. A whole new building. Apartments for the Duchess of Cleveland—"

"Barbara, the king's longtime mistress," Ellen interrupted, apparently having recovered some spirit. Derision laced her voice. "He is allowed to have whatever lovers he wants."

Kit turned to her with a lethal raised brow. "Charles married where he was advised to. If you wish to take Thomas as a lover after you wed a peer, that will be between you and your husband."

Ellen glared. Kit stabbed another bite of chicken. Rose shifted on her petit-point seat.

She and her siblings squabbled, of course, but they rarely harbored true animosity. She wished these two would get along. "Is Charles wanting large apartments for the duchess?" she asked.

He chewed and swallowed. "Larger than my house. He wishes their five children to have rooms there as well. I'm certain he'll be scrutinizing this project most of all."

"Did Wren do those plans, too?"

"No, I did. Top to bottom, start to finish, the building is mine. Thankfully, nothing has gone wrong with it."

"Yet," Ellen said.

He set his jaw. "When I'm finished with Harold Washburn, he won't be making any more trouble."

Chrystabel pushed back from the table, looking at Ellen. "Shall we begin your first lesson? Something sweet to complete supper?" When Ellen shrugged and began to rise, Chrystabel looked to Rose. "Perhaps you can entertain Kit while we work. A turn in the square might be nice."

"Kit must leave," Ellen said. "He needs to get to Windsor."

Kit pulled out Rose's chair. "It's late already. I believe I'll return to Whitehall tonight and leave early in the morning."

For a moment Ellen stood there openmouthed.

"What?" Kit asked.

"You plotted all along to get me and my luggage here, didn't you? No wonder you didn't bring your own things. You had no intention of leaving for Windsor at all."

"We came tonight because we were invited. And I've urgent business in Windsor that I intend to take care of tomorrow. It doesn't matter whether I travel there tonight or tomorrow morn. But believe what you wish…you will, anyway." He sighed. "Come along, Rose. I could use some fresh air."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Outside, torches burned brightly before each of the houses around St. James's Square, bathing the neighborhood in a pale, hazy glow.

As they crossed to the fenced square, Rose felt Kit's hand warm on her back. He slipped his other hand into his pocket and pulled out a small rock. "It's quiet," he said, turning it over and over with his fingers.

"Until recently, I wouldn't dare come out here at night." She paused to unlock the gate. "There were no rails—the square was just a big open area between the houses, used as nothing more than a receptacle for offal and cinders, not to mention all the dead dogs and cats of Westminster. Squatters lived among the filth, and there were thieves galore."

Kit gestured at all the stately three-story redbrick and stone houses. "Are these not the homes of dukes and earls?"

"Mostly. It was a travesty." The gate banged closed behind them as they entered the square. "Once Parliament approved their application for permission to put up rails and plant trees, the dukes and earls wasted no time seeing it done."

The dirty pavement had been replaced by soft grass and wide, curving paths with benches scattered throughout. Young trees rustled in the light breeze. When Kit slung his free arm around her shoulders, she couldn't bring herself to pull away.

Her will seemed to vanish whenever he touched her.

He was still playing with the rock. "What is that?" she asked.

He looked down as though surprised to see it there. "A piece of my first building," he said with a small, sheepish smile. "A little chunk of brick." He handed it to her.

It held the warmth of his body and felt smooth, though she knew it must once have been angular. "Was it a church? A mansion? A theater?"

A rueful laugh broke the quiet of the night. "It was a warehouse. But I assure you, it's the most beautiful warehouse to ever grace God's green earth."

"I'm sure it is," she said, imagining a redbrick warehouse with triangular pediments over the windows and white marble columns flanking the doors. Smiling, she handed back the chunk.

He sobered as he slipped it into his pocket. "Will you watch over my sister?" he asked quietly.

"Why? Do you expect Ellen will run off and elope?"

She'd meant the question to be facetious, but he took it seriously. "From here? No. She won't have time to get a message to Whittingham and pull off such a trick before I return." His voice dropped. "I'm just worried for her. She's not herself."

"You care."

"Of course I care." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Did you doubt that? She's my sister. I love her."

A horse clip-clopped around the square with a carriage creaking behind. "You two quarrel all the time."

"Not all the time. Only since she met Whittingham."

"Have you met Thomas?"

"Briefly. Long enough to know he doesn't have horns. But I want better for Ellen." Kit hesitated a moment while the carriage squeaked off down King Street. "I've worked hard so she can have better."

Eleven thousand pounds' worth, and Rose had no doubt that kind of money could win Ellen the sort of man Kit was envisioning. The Civil War had left many good families land-rich and cash-poor.

But Ellen was her friend, and she'd promised her support. "Thomas is actually quite nice. And, from what I can tell, he's a very astute businessman."

"He's a pawnbroker."

"He's educated. If you'd talk to him, you'd discover that."

"He's still a pawnbroker. There's no security in a life like that. My parents wed for love alone, then couldn't protect their family when times got hard. I can buy Ellen a man with land and the king's ear—"

"There's no security in any life," Rose interrupted to point out. "Look to your own projects for the proof—going along fine one day, ruined the next. Titled men can be ruined, too. It happens all the time."

Kit was silent a moment before he stopped walking and turned her to face him, his hands on her shoulders. "You said it's as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without. Have you changed your mind?"

His eyes searched hers, and frustration was evident in his voice. But he also sounded hopeful. Which was absurd. They would never be anything but friends.

"Of course not," she said quickly.

"Oh," he said. "I see."

"You see what?"

"You wouldn't settle for less, but Ellen and I, we're different. An educated pawnbroker is good enough for her, and as for me, I'm good enough for kissing, but nothing else."

He was confusing her—and worse, he was making her sound terrible. Although she couldn't imagine how Kit and Ellen had managed to become so close to her family so quickly, she liked them—and she didn't think herself any better than they.

Did she?

Kit's fingers tightened on her shoulders. "Rose?"

Her thoughts were in chaos. When she tried to twist away, he held her fast. His gaze commanded hers, looking gray in the darkness.

"Perhaps that was exhaustion speaking," he said. "I haven't slept in two days. Should I say I'm sorry?"

He didn't look sorry, and she didn't know. If he'd touched a nerve, maybe that said more about her than it did him.

"Why do you kiss me, Rose?" he demanded softly.

Realizing she definitely had more to think about than just the Duke of Bridgewater, she took a ragged breath. "You're very good at kissing."

The tension eased from his face, and his sudden grin flashed white in the night. "I like a woman who says what she thinks."

His hands slid from her shoulders down her arms, slowly…slowly. She held her breath until he locked his fingers with hers.

"I'm good at other things, too," he said.

When he drew on both her hands, she didn't have to sway forward. But she did, landing against his solid chest. A warm shiver rippled through her. "Show me what you're good at," she whispered.

"My forthright Rose." He searched her eyes for a moment, so intense she'd swear she saw glints of green even in the darkness. "I'll show you," he promised right before his mouth met hers.

Heat that had simmered all through supper burst into flame now. His kiss was wild and demanding, and she gave as good as she got. Somewhere in the back of her mind she despaired of ever finding this with anyone else, but as their tongues tangled, all thought fled, replaced by fiery sensation.

"You're a quick study," he murmured appreciatively, trailing his lips beneath her chin and backing her up to a bench as he went. They both sank down to it, Rose sprawled wantonly with Kit half on top of her. He unfastened her cloak and grazed the tops of her breasts, first with his hands, then his mouth. Her shiver had nothing to do with the cool night air. His touch was magic.

Laced tightly into her bodice, her breasts ached. Remembering how the ladies behind the curtain in the King's Drawing Room seemed to enjoy having men touch them, she reached to unfasten her stomacher.

"I want you to touch me," she whispered.

"Here?" He skimmed a finger inside her neckline.

She trembled. "Yes, there."

While she worked the tabs, he pressed little kisses to her cheeks, across her forehead, on the tip of her nose.

"Kit," she breathed.

"Let's take these off, too." He slipped the rubies and pearls from her lobes and whisked them into his pocket. "I don't remember you wearing earrings."

Finished with the stomacher, she attacked the laces beneath. "They were a gift from Gabriel."

"Gabriel?" His mouth moved to where the jewelry had been, suckling her soft flesh. "The angel?" he whispered in her ear.

"The duke. Bridgewater." She could melt, she thought. She could melt right here.

"The man has taste," he said dryly. "I'll give him that."

"I chose them."

"I should have known." He chuckled, a burst of warm air beneath her ear. She'd never dreamed the skin there was so sensitive.

Then her bodice was open, and he cupped a breast and rubbed a thumb over the peak. "Good God," she murmured, arching up.

"I told you I was good," he allowed. "But God?"

She was beyond finding humor in anything he said, beyond anything but reveling in these new sensations. Now she knew why the ladies at court liked this. Kit's caresses sent currents racing through her, made her pulse speed, incited a heaviness low in her belly. A warmth that turned into a searing heat when he replaced his hand with his mouth.

Her fingers clenched in his hair, holding his head captive. "More," she whispered.

"More?" Licking his way to her other breast, he lavished it with similar attention. She pressed her mouth to the top of his head and moved her hands to explore his back. Hard planes with ridges of muscles; the body of a working man.

She hadn't really touched Gabriel, but somehow she knew he'd be soft.

She shoved both hands under Kit's surcoat and pulled at his shirt, wrenching the bottom from his breeches. As her fingers worked beneath it to encounter bare flesh, he responded with a low groan. "Rose…"

"More." He was warm, so much warmer than she. Firm. Her palms burned against his skin.

"More?" he asked.

"More."

He lightly bit a nipple, at the same time reaching down to encircle one of her ankles with a hand.

What, she wondered dizzily, was so erotic about an ankle? And one covered by a stocking, no less? She didn't know, couldn't know, but his fingers around her leg seemed to shoot heat up higher, while the suckling on her breast drove her to the point of distraction.

She was melting inside. "A thing of beauty," she breathed aloud.

"Oh, yes." While his lips trailed up to kiss her mouth, his hand slid up too, a breath-stealing glide over silk. And higher, over her garter, his tongue tracing her lips while his hand skimmed warm on her thighs.

All her air rushed out in a shudder. "Good God."

And higher, until he cupped where her ache was suddenly centered.

The ache was more than an ache; it was a need, an all-consuming need so exquisite it bordered on unbearable. She felt herself damp beneath his hand, and she squirmed, wanting more. More.

More.

Wanting something inside her to ease that exquisite ache.

Might he slip a finger inside? She didn't know where such a scandalous idea had come from; surely men didn't do such a thing. Another part of their bodies was meant to fit there.

Words from I Sonetti flitted through her head: Such pleasure I feel with my yard in your hand, I shall explode…

She reached to the front of his breeches.

"Bloody hell," he said, sitting up and jerking his hand from beneath her skirts in the process. His eyes closed momentarily, then opened as he rushed to rethread her laces. "We must go back inside."

She sat up, too, disoriented and bereft. "Didn't you like that?"

"I liked it too much." He kissed her softly, apologetically. "You have no idea what you do to me, Rose."

She had an idea, because he did it to her, too.

But she knew better than to say that aloud.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rose and Kit returned to the house to find Chrystabel and Ellen laughing, a smudge of flour on Ellen's nose.

Kit stayed just long enough to down two servings of the apple fritters they'd prepared. Just long enough to lock gazes several times with Rose. Just long enough to surreptitiously touch her a few times beneath the table.

The same fingers that were grazing her body over her gown had been under there mere minutes earlier. She could hardly believe she'd allowed it—encouraged it, truth be told—but now, recalling those shared moments, she felt that heat simmering again and felt that urgent, exquisite ache.

The apple fritters were sweet and crispy, spiced with nutmeg, mace, and cinnamon. Yet Rose could hardly eat a bite. These were not common reactions to a friend.

But she didn't want anything more with Kit.

"It was delicious," he said at last, rising from the table. "Ellen, you can make apple fritters for me anytime. But I must leave. I'll need to head out to Windsor very early in the morning, and I must get some sleep."

"I know." Ellen's earlier gaiety disappeared as she and Rose walked him from the dining room to the door. "You'll be back soon?"

"Day after tomorrow." He stopped to kiss her on the forehead. "Be good, will you? In the meantime, I expect you to spend a lot of my money at the dressmaker's. I trust that will give you some measure of revenge."

"My earrings," Rose reminded him.

"Oh." He dug them out of his pocket and deliberately folded her fingers around them, holding her hand wrapped in both of his when he was finished. "I like your ears better without them."

Her whole body flushed with heat, remembering his mouth on her earringless ears. He gave her a smoldering look—a knowing look—before he dropped her hand.

She expected his sister to comment. But Ellen just gave him a wan smile as he headed out the door, then sighed when his carriage rolled out of the square.

Rose drew a deep breath and released it slowly, willing her racing heart to calm. "Is something amiss?" she asked Ellen.

"I hate it when he's nice. It almost makes me forget that I loathe him."

"You don't."

"Not really. I'm just…very angry with him right now. He shouldn't have the right to dictate my life."

"But he does."

"But he shouldn't. And it makes me sad to be at odds with him, because I know he cares underneath."

"Underneath? He cares every way that matters, Ellen—any fool could see it." Just like he cared for her, Rose…any fool could see that, too. And Rose feared she was denying it much the same as Ellen.

"Whose side are you on?" Ellen asked. "I thought we were friends. You promised to intervene on my behalf."

"I did. There in the square we talked of little but you and your situation." It wasn't quite a lie—they hadn't talked about much else. "He doesn't want to listen. But I'd lay odds he listens other times, your brother. He wants only what's best for you. What he thinks is best for you."

"I know." Looking very pale, Ellen sighed.

Rose remembered Kit's concern for his sister's state of mind. "Shall we translate another sonnet?" she asked in an attempt to cheer her.

Ellen perked up. "Have you made any progress?"

"Not really. Mum and I lived in close quarters at Windsor, and when we arrived here yesterday I was fitted for new gowns and then went to bed. I needed to catch up on my sleep. Unlike your brother, I'm afraid I'm only human."

And she'd avoided looking at those pictures and reading those words, because they gave rise to dangerous feelings. But whatever would lighten Ellen's mood, she was more than willing to do.

"Come upstairs," she invited.

Unlike Kit, Ellen showed little interest in the house itself. Instead, she skimmed a hand over a marquetry hall table. "Thomas had something like this," she said. And a Chinese vase. "And like this. He just sold it last week." And a silver lantern clock. "He has something like this now."

Mum called to them through an open door. "Good evening." She sniffed at a bottle and made a note on a little card. "Come in," she urged, choosing a vial and lowering a dropper into it.

"What's this?" Ellen asked as they stepped into the room.

"My mother makes perfume," Rose explained. "This is a laboratory of sorts." She waved at the racks of vials. "Those are her essential oils."

"Essential oils?"

"Distilled from flowers. In her perfumery at Trentingham, she has a fancy still that my brother-in-law built for her. That's where she makes the oils."

Squinting in the candlelight, Ellen peered at the rows of labels with their tiny, neat black lettering. "Are some of them made from herbs, too?"

"Oh, yes," Chrystabel said. "Many herbs make lovely top notes. Rosemary, for example, has a lavenderlike fragrance, and pennyroyal is minty—"

"Pennyroyal?" Ellen's head jerked up. "In perfume?"

"Not often, but sometimes." Chrystabel added two drops to her blend and swirled the bottle. "Do you know much about perfumes?"

"Nothing." Ellen's gaze swept the assorted vials again. "Except that I like them."

"Shall I make a blend for you, then?" Chrystabel set down the bottle and chose an empty one. Using a little silver funnel, she poured in alcohol and water from two pewter flagons, then turned back to Ellen. "Should we start with pennyroyal?"

"No," Ellen said quickly. "I…" She swallowed hard. "I don't actually care for mint."

Chrystabel nodded slowly. "You seem like a dreamer. A floral, then. Orange blossoms, and maybe some vanilla. Lilac, I think…" She went off into a dreamworld of her own as she concocted a mix that would fit Ellen perfectly.

Rose chose another empty bottle.

"I cannot believe how many oils she has," Ellen whispered to her, as though speaking aloud would break Chrystabel's spell.

Rose took up the little funnel and a flagon. "She works all spring, summer, and autumn, converting the plants to oils," she said, filling the bottle with alcohol and water. "Some oils she has to buy—as talented as my father is in his gardens, he cannot make everything grow in England."

Ellen's gaze continued sweeping over the labels. "But so many. They're not alphabetical?"

"Good God, no. Mum just knows where to lay her hands on whatever she wants." Rose searched for frankincense. "This is nothing, really. She has a whole little room at Trentingham where the walls are filled floor to ceiling with all her many supplies."

Ellen nodded distractedly.

"What do you think?" Chrystabel asked, presenting her with the bottle.

Ellen sniffed. "It's lovely!"

"A good scent can go a long way toward cheering one up."

So Mum had noticed Ellen's melancholy mood, too, Rose thought. She added a few drops of myrrh to her mix and swirled it gently while her mother jotted a few notes on a card.

"There," Chrystabel said, looking up. Smiling at Ellen, she took the bottle from her, corked it, and handed it back. "Now I'll be able to duplicate the scent should you wish for more later. Or we can alter the ingredients if you think you'd like something else."

"Oh, no, this is perfect." Ellen smiled, but Rose couldn't help noticing it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thank you very much."

"You're quite welcome, dear. I hope you'll enjoy it."

Rose corked her bottle, too. "We're going to my chamber, Mum."

"Good night, then." Smiling absently, Chrystabel turned back to the perfume she'd been creating earlier.

Rose's bedchamber at Trentingham was hung with crimson silk, but here in town she had jewel tones—bright ruby, deep sapphire, and rich emerald. "This is beautiful," Ellen said when they walked in.

"Kit showed us your blue chamber when he gave us a tour of the house. It's beautiful, too."

"I like it." Though Ellen smiled, the expression quickly faded. "I suppose it's as well, since I'll likely live there all my days."

Taking Ellen's bottle, Rose set both on her bedside table and fetched the book from where she'd hidden it beneath a pile of chemises. "Not all your days, surely."

"I suppose not. Just until Kit finds some hateful nobleman in need of money to marry me off to."

Rose sat on the bed, drawing Ellen down beside her. "He wouldn't wed you to anyone you hated."

"He's obsessed with raising our social status." Ellen shifted to face her. "He's convinced people judge him by that rather than his accomplishments."

"It's the way of the world. But he should be proud of those accomplishments—"

"Exactly what I tell him," Ellen interrupted. "He shouldn't care what people think. Do you know, I believe he doesn't look on the Deputy Surveyor post as an accomplishment so much as a chance to be knighted. Kit really believes that people will look at him differently if there's a Sir before his name."

Rose knew Ellen was waiting for her to disagree, but she couldn't. People would look at Kit differently. Especially if he managed to impress King Charles to the point that he eventually awarded him a more prestigious title.

She'd never thought about that possibility, but then she hadn't known the position of Deputy Surveyor carried with it a probability of knighthood. That and more was certainly within the king's power. If Kit were a member of the aristocracy—

"Oh," Ellen said suddenly, "I'm so tired of all of this." She reached to flip open the book.

Rose's gaze dropped. Then her eyes widened as she read the Italian.

"What?" Ellen turned to her, some color returning to her cheeks. "What does it say?"

"'Mettimi un dito—'" Rose started.

"In English."

"Oh. Yes." She blew out a breath. "Push a finger inside me…"

That was a normal part of lovemaking, then? She'd believed it a figment of her imagination, entirely scandalous. And her body reacted at the mere thought of it. She felt herself dampen all over again.

"What's next?" Ellen asked as though it were very normal indeed.

Rose blinked and refocused on the page. "…and then your yard, bit by bit…"

The words made her think of Kit. Kit, who had liked it too much when she'd touched him there. Her gaze strayed to the engraving, the picture of a man kneeling between a woman's spread thighs.

She forced her eyes back to the text. "'Alza ben questa gamba'…Raise my leg, and we shall play a new game…good God."

"Good God?"

She looked up. "It doesn't say that. I'm just…I'm sorry, but this is difficult. It worked much better for me when I could puzzle over it slowly and write it down."

"I don't mind waiting." Ellen, too, stared at the engraving above the sonnet, her muted words directed to the page.

"Have you…done that?" Rose asked after a moment.

Her friend burst into tears.

"Gemini. I'm so sorry." Rose turned to her, taking her hands, cursing herself for not thinking before talking—as usual. "What is it?"

"I…" Ellen searched her eyes, her own overflowing. "I just…" She seemed to swallow past a huge lump in her throat. "I just miss Thomas, is all," she whispered finally.

If this was love, Rose wasn't sure she wanted anything to do with it. Ellen looked more miserable than she'd thought possible. She'd never seen anyone so desperate—not even Lily when she feared Rand would have to marry someone else.

"You'll see Thomas soon," she soothed, squeezing Ellen's hands. "You live in Windsor, after all. Kit cannot keep you away forever. I imagine he just wanted to conduct his business there quickly and then get back to Whitehall where he's needed."

"But he's not needed at Whitehall—not anymore. The crisis has passed, and the project will go smoothly without him."

"Well, that's good, then. He's coming back day after tomorrow. You heard him say that, didn't you? If he isn't needed here in London, then surely he'll take you back to Windsor."

"I think not." With a great effort, Ellen choked back the last of her tears. "He told me today that Thomas will never see a penny of my dowry."

Rose didn't think Kit would follow through with that threat, but it wasn't her place to tell Ellen. "Is that what this is about?"

"No. Well, maybe." She bowed her head, looking up at Rose through damp lashes. "What if Thomas doesn't want me without the money? We've spent so much time dreaming of the day when—"

"Don't be a goose." Rose reached to lift Ellen's chin. "I know the look of love in a man's eyes, and I can assure you Thomas is besotted. He doesn't want you for your money, Ellen—you need to put that right out of your head."

Ellen looked like she wanted to believe her. "Do you think?"

"I know." Rose felt her age and then some. Ellen was so young. So vulnerable. Rose remembered Kit's concerns and her promise to watch over his sister. "Would you like to sleep in here instead of the other room? We can talk all night like my sisters and I used to when one of us was upset."

Tears leaked again as Ellen nodded. "You're so kind, Rose."

Nobody had ever described Rose as kind. Her own eyes felt watery as she rang for her maid to prepare them both for bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"Good morning, Ellen." Rose stretched beneath the quilt, then slowly rolled over. "Ellen?"

Ellen wasn't there.

Rose sat up and squinted at the clock on her mantel. Seeing it was only seven in the morning, she groaned. Breakfast wouldn't be served until nine.

Yawning, she absently lifted one of the bottles off her bedside table. The cork came free with a soft pop, and she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.

Frankincense and myrrh. Kit. Almost. Something was missing. That woodsy something. She'd have to locate and add that elusive ingredient before she gave the bottle to the duke.

Thinking she'd better find Ellen, Rose yawned again and slid from the bed. She tied a red wrapper over her white night rail, slipped her feet into a pair of quilted satin mules, and padded out of her chamber, taking the bottle with her.

Ellen wasn't in the room she'd been assigned, either. Through the open door of her mother's sitting room, Rose glimpsed two maids busy about their day's work, one opening the shutters while the other cleaned the fire grate.

"Have either of you seen Ellen Martyn?" she asked.

"Nay, my lady," they chorused in unison. "Perhaps she's still abed?" one of them guessed.

"No, she's not."

For one panicked moment, Rose wondered if Ellen had escaped and gone to Thomas after all, but then she shook herself and headed for the staircase. Just because the upstairs maids hadn't seen her didn't mean that Ellen wasn't here. She could easily be in the dining room having an early breakfast. Or perhaps in the large basement kitchen. Their cook would be long awake, baking the day's bread, and she wasn't the type to let anyone in the house go hungry.

There was no need to fret. In fact, Rose thought, pausing in front of the perfumery and looking at the bottle in her hand, maybe she could take the time to perfect this scent. Half guilty knowing her mother would be a much more solicitous hostess, she pushed down on the door's latch and shoved it open.

The bottle crashed to the planked wood floor. "Ellen!"

Tears welling in her eyes, Ellen held a dropper in one hand and a vial in the other. Looking away from Rose, she tilted her head back and deliberately emptied the last glistening drop into her mouth.

"Ellen!" Skidding on glass and perfume, Rose ran to her, not wanting to believe what she'd just seen. "Whatever are you doing?" She grabbed the vial from her hand. "Pennyroyal?" Her heart pounded. "Are you trying to kill yourself? Essential oils are poison, pennyroyal most of all!"

Ellen's skin looked as white as her night rail. Sweat beaded on her forehead. As her red-rimmed eyes met Rose's, the glass dropper fell from her slack fingers and shattered on the floor.

She doubled over. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"It's just as well, else I'd stick my finger down your throat and make you sick!" Rose ran for the chamber pot that sat beneath a sideboard and rushed back to plunk it on the worktable.

She held Ellen's head—and her own tongue—while spasms wracked the younger woman's body, purging her of the poison. Over and over, but it wasn't enough for Rose. When Ellen swallowed convulsively, holding back another spasm while she slumped against the table, Rose couldn't hold her tongue any longer.

"All of it," she demanded. Ellen's knees buckled, and Rose held her up by sheer force of will. "More! I want to see that there's nothing left in your stomach. Nothing, Ellen, you hear me? Else my finger will go down your throat. More!"

At long last, a series of dry heaves left Rose satisfied. She slung an arm around Ellen's shoulders and led her to a chair.

Still shuddering and frightfully pale, Ellen sank down. "I'm sorry," she murmured, a shaky hand to her mouth. Tears spilled and ran down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

Rose took the chair beside her, a hand to her still-racing heart. She thought she'd caught Ellen in time. She'd call her mother and a doctor to make sure, but first she had to catch her breath.

She'd never been so scared in her life.

"Good God, Ellen, I know you're unhappy, but surely things aren't bad enough to end it all."

The younger woman's eyes widened. "I wasn't trying to," she whispered. "I swear it. I didn't know pennyroyal was that dangerous."

Cautious relief sang through Rose's veins, but something still didn't fit. "Why, then?" Suddenly chilled, she hugged herself, running her hands up and down her arms. "Pennyroyal is a powerful herb. Did you know that pregnant women shouldn't eat or drink anything containing pennyroyal, for fear of bringing on their courses?"

Ellen clenched her hands together in her lap and stared at them. "How do you know that?"

"I've all kinds of foreign books to practice my languages. Many of them are herbals…"

Rose's voice trailed off as she stared at her friend's miserable, huddled form—and understanding dawned.

"You're with child, aren't you?" she breathed, not a question, but a statement. "You were trying to rid yourself of it."

Ellen's fingers clenched harder; her tears flowed faster. Words spilled out between sobs. "The midwife said to brew pennyroyal tea, but I didn't have any leaves, and then I saw your mother's oils…"

"Oh, Ellen!" Aghast, Rose slid from her chair to kneel at Ellen's feet. She grabbed her hands. "How could you?" The younger woman's tears fell warm on all their clasped fingers. Looking up, Rose searched her face. She hadn't been attempting suicide, thank heavens, but… "How could you even think of doing something so wrong?"

Ellen blinked and met her gaze, a sudden spark of anger making her eyes flash green. "There are worse wrongs," she returned vehemently. "How about bearing a child out of wedlock? Disappointing my brother? Or defying him to marry the man I love?"

She wrenched her hands from Rose's and dashed at her tears.

"Which is more wrong, Rose? A babe will leave me no choice but to go behind Kit's back—no choice, no choice at all! I tried to talk him into letting me wed Thomas—I tried! But I cannot try anymore, don't you see? Not with Thomas's child growing inside me. My options are gone. I can have another child, but I'll never have another brother. I need more time…"

Rose swallowed, trying to understand, trying to be a good friend.

Though she wasn't a woman to sigh over other people's babies, she couldn't imagine not wanting her own. She squeezed Ellen's fingers. "Don't you want Thomas's child?"

"Of course I do." Ellen's tears flowed even faster. "But—"

"You're going to have it," Rose said through gritted teeth. Ellen was her friend, and she'd promised Kit she'd watch over his sister. He wouldn't want Ellen to lose her baby—she was sure of it. "If I have to stay with you day and night, I'll be here to make certain you do nothing to harm your child."

If you haven't harmed it already.

A heavy silence descended as the words hung between them, unspoken.

Only time would tell. Until a day or so passed without Ellen's menses coming upon her, Rose would wonder whether she'd caught her in time.

But a little color had sneaked back into Ellen's cheeks. Though her face was wet with tears, her forehead was no longer slicked with sweat. Her body had stopped shuddering.

Rose saw reason to hope.

She got to her feet, bringing Ellen up with her, and wrapped her into a fierce hug. A hug that encompassed both the woman and the new life within her. "You won't have a child out of wedlock," she promised into Ellen's wavy dark hair. Drawing away, she offered her friend a shaky smile. "Now Kit will have to allow you to marry Thomas."

"He won't."

"He will. Once he hears you're with child—"

Ellen stepped back. "I cannot tell him that."

"What do you mean, Ellen? You must." Rose's gaze dropped to the other woman's middle. "He'll figure it out soon enough in any case, so you might as well tell him now."

"I couldn't. He'd kill me."

"He wouldn't!"

"He thinks I'm his virginal baby sister. Have you any idea how he'd look at me? He'd think it his failure, and—"

"You'd rather lose your child than confess to your big brother?"

"No!" Ellen had gone white again. Into the tense silence that followed, she released a long, shuddering breath. "I just…I cannot tell him," she whispered.

Rose didn't understand—couldn't understand—but she wanted to be a good friend. And she could tell Kit anything.

"Then I'll tell him for you," she said simply. "But first, we send a footman to fetch the doctor."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"Good afternoon, Mr. Martyn," the guard at Windsor Castle's gate greeted.

"Afternoon," Kit muttered back.

After all, there was nothing good about it.

He'd arrived at Harold Washburn's meager rooms on Peascod Street only to find them empty. The only neighbor he could locate informed him that Washburn had carted his belongings out days before.

Of course. As he walked from the Lower Ward to the Upper, Kit cursed himself for a fool. It was obvious enough that if the man had set fire to Whitehall, he'd left Windsor in the time since Kit had dismissed him. Kit had assumed Washburn would return home, but without employment, there was no longer anything to hold him here.

He could still be in London—or anywhere.

Though Kit itched to confront the bastard, he hadn't the time to mount a full-scale search, not while seeing his projects to successful completion. He would have to hope that the arson at Whitehall had satisfied the man's thirst for revenge—that he wouldn't try anything more.

When he finally reached Windsor's dining room, he breathed a sigh of relief. Here, at least, everything seemed to be going right. The ceiling was nearing completion. The scaffolding was coming down, and new plaster was going up. Over in a corner, men labored to put a fine finish on the last pieces of oak paneling. Pleasant aromas of fresh-cut wood and sawdust filled the air.

The scent of building. It never failed to invigorate him.

"Well done," he told his new foreman. They spread out the plans and went over them together, then discussed the final schedule.

"Seen Washburn lately?" Kit asked when they were finished.

Though he hadn't expected an affirmative answer, the foreman nodded. "Just yesterday, in fact. Been parading about town with some mighty fancy doxies."

Celebrating his successful revenge, Kit thought, seeing red. And spending the money he'd pocketed by purchasing inferior materials.

Through the anger, though, the new knowledge lifted his spirits. Apparently Washburn was here in Windsor, after all.

"Saw him not an hour ago," another man volunteered through nails held between his teeth. "At the Old King's Head on Church Street."

Better news yet. Kit thanked the men for a job well done, then hied himself off to Church Street, feeling more optimistic than he had in days.

As he strode through the castle grounds, his thoughts turned to Rose and what had happened last night in the square. Lord Almighty, she'd made him all but lose his head. He'd never been with a woman so forward, or so responsive.

Unfortunately, he wasn't at all sure she was as ready to surrender mentally as she was physically.

"Good afternoon, Richards," he said to the guard this time.

"Afternoon," the man returned with a gap-toothed smile.

Within sight of the castle gates, The Old King's Head was a typical inn—a few chambers above a darkly paneled taproom. It was known as the place a group of Parliamentarians met in 1648 to resolve that King Charles I "should be prosecuted for his life as a criminal person." One would think the current King Charles, the beheaded king's son, would avoid the street, but the opposite was true. His favorite mistress, the "pretty, witty Nell Gwyn," owned the house next door, where she stayed—and he paid nocturnal visits—whenever the court was lodged at Windsor.

But the king had moved to Hampton Court, so enchanting Nelly wasn't here now. Kit could only hope Washburn still was.

He pushed open the door and scanned the dim taproom. Few patrons sat at the long wooden tables this quiet afternoon, and the man Kit sought was nowhere to be seen.

"Can I get you something, milord?" A buxom blond serving maid sidled up to him, eyeing him appreciatively. "Mayhap an ale…or something else?"

Her expression made clear the "something else" involved herself, but Kit wasn't interested. "I'm looking for Harold Washburn."

"Ah, His High and Mighty." The girl rolled her pretty blue eyes. "He's staying above." She gestured up a staircase. "Shakespeare's chamber, no less."

It was said the Bard had lived here while writing The Merry Wives of Windsor. Kit wasn't sure he believed that, but he was sure the inn charged a pretty penny for the room purported to be the playwright's.

Washburn had apparently come up in the world. He must have embezzled even more money than Kit had feared. Money that would be coming straight out of Kit's pocket.

He saw red again as he took the stairs two at a time.

"Wait, milord!" the serving maid called, lifting her skirts to run after him. "You cannot just go up there!"

Try and stop me, he thought as he reached the top and began pounding on the first door. "Washburn! Are you in there?" When nobody answered, he tested the latch and found the room open and empty.

He strode to the next, rapping so hard he bruised his knuckles. It was a welcome pain, one that fueled his emotions higher. "Washburn!"

The serving maid caught up and tugged on his arm. "Milord, the proprietor—"

"A pox on the proprietor!" Shaking himself free, he opened the door. Finding this room vacant as well, he moved on, banging his fist against the next. "Washburn!"

A loud, startled squeal came from inside. A female squeal. And then Washburn's voice, a low hiss. "Shut your trap, you damnable wench."

For the costliest room in the house, Shakespeare's chamber sure had a thin door.

Kit tried the latch and found the door locked. "Washburn, open up!"

Again, the serving maid tugged on his sleeve. "Milord, you cannot—"

"I can, my dear. Watch me." His patience at an end, Kit raised a booted foot and rammed it into the door.

It gave incredibly easily, slamming back against the wall and making the cheap porcelain knickknacks dance on Shakespeare's marble mantel. Another squeal followed, snapping Kit's gaze to the gaudy purple velvet–draped bed, where a blowzy woman sat straight up, the counterpane held to her bosom.

An obviously naked bosom. And beside her, Washburn wore nothing but the evidence of a day-old beard. Sweat gleamed on his bald head. The tiny red veins on his oversized nose seemed to pulse. Huddled under the covers, he looked, if possible, even more horrified than the doxy. Under other circumstances, Kit might have burst out laughing.

But these weren't other circumstances.

"I swear," he gritted out, "by God and all that is holy, if you set fire to one more of my projects—"

"What fire?" Washburn squeaked, sounding more pathetic than the whore.

"In the Chapel Royal at Whitehall," Kit spat, moving closer. "Are you so sotted on women and drink that you've lost your half-witted memory?"

The man rose, taking the counterpane with him and baring the doxy in the process. She squealed again and slid off the mattress to cower on the far side of the bed.

The purple velvet clenched in one fist, Washburn brandished the other threateningly. "To the devil with you, Martyn. I've no knowledge of a fire at Whitehall, and I damn well didn't set it."

Something in the man's dark eyes gave Kit pause. "Where were you four days ago?"

"Here," Washburn snapped.

"And what fine, upstanding citizen can you find to vouch for that?"

The ex-foreman swung to glare at his woman. "Me," the doxy squeaked, peeking over the edge of the bed.

Kit snorted. "You think me maggot-brained to believe such as her?"

"How about me?" the serving maid said from behind him. "Will you believe me?"

Kit turned to her. "About what?" In his red-hot rage, he'd forgotten she was there.

"Him." Pointing at Washburn, she nervously licked her lips. "He's been here since last week. Hasn't left except to buy some gewgaws for his ladies. An hour here or there."

Kit stepped closer and lifted her chin so he could meet her big blue eyes. "Do you swear?" When she nodded fiercely, he turned back to Washburn. "You hired someone to do it for you, then."

"I'm not an arsonist, Martyn."

"No, just a liar and a thief." Kit's breath was still coming hard, but damn if he wasn't beginning to believe the bastard. The serving maid seemed too honest, and Washburn seemed too shocked.

Without another word, Kit turned on a heel and headed for the stairs, gripping the piece of brick in his pocket as he fought to regain his composure. Though Washburn might be innocent, he felt no need to apologize. Perhaps Shakespeare would have summoned fine words, but Kit couldn't—and to his mind, the man didn't deserve them anyway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The next day, Rose answered the door herself, all but dragging Kit into the town house without so much as a good morning. "I need to talk to you."

He grinned as she pulled him toward the drawing room. "Missed me, did you?"

"No," she said, although in truth she'd missed him entirely too much. She shut the door behind them and waved him toward a blue brocade chair. "Sit, please."

"Sit? Then you didn't drag me in here for a kiss?" Lowering himself, he steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the chair's arms, looking nauseatingly good in his simple dark blue suit. "It isn't like you not to be looking for a kiss."

She gazed at him, wondering how to break this to him gently while half wishing he were an ugly harebrained hayseed with no talent at all for kissing.

Of course she wanted a kiss.

"No, I'm not looking for a kiss." His sister was more important than kisses. "This is serious, Kit. You must let Ellen wed Thomas. She loves him, and—"

"I've told Ellen time and again that I won't see her wed to a pawnbroker." The good humor leaving his face, he unsteepled his fingers and crossed his arms instead. "I haven't changed my mind."

Something else had changed instead. But Rose hoped to persuade him without revealing Ellen's secret. That would not only be easier for Ellen, but also for him as well.

"Thomas isn't only a pawnbroker," she said carefully. "He's also a man—the man your sister loves. You're judging him the way you complain people judge you."

He raised a brow. "The way you judge me?"

"We're talking about Ellen." She wouldn't let him turn this around. "Ellen really and truly loves Thomas. Why should it matter what the man does for a living? He's a good man, Kit. Don't you want your sister to be happy?"

He remained quiet for a moment, just gazing at her. As the silence stretched, she thought maybe she'd succeeded in persuading him.

Until he finally spoke. "What happened," he asked slowly, "to your conviction that it's as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without?" He rose and slid off his surcoat, tossing it over the arm of the chair. "If those words no longer apply to Ellen, can I assume they no longer apply to you, too?"

She backed up. "No. Of course they still apply. But in Ellen's case—"

"Why should Ellen be different?" Kit advanced, taking perverse pleasure in watching Rose retreat. He'd caught her—twice—insisting Ellen should marry for love, and this time he wasn't going to let her get away with claiming it shouldn't work the same way for her.

"Ellen isn't different." She backed into a marquetry desk and placed her hands behind her for support. "But Ellen has already fallen in love." She lifted her chin. "She never had a chance to fall in love with a titled man first."

He brought his face to within an inch of hers. "Who will you fall in love with first, sweetheart?"

Though he was too close to see it, he heard her nervous swallow. "We're talking about Ellen."

"Not anymore." He bent his head, angled his mouth. Her warm, sweet breath teased his lips.

Her eyes closed, and a little mewing sound rose up from her throat. Blindly she raised her hands and rested them on his chest. They seemed to burn through the thin cambric of his shirt.

Then she pushed him away, her eyes popping open. "Kit! Listen to me. You must let Ellen wed Thomas—she's carrying his child."

He stumbled back, not from the force of her shove, but from the impact of her words.

His baby sister was having a baby?

Unable to wrap his mind around that fact, he fell back onto the chair.

"Good God," Rose said, putting her hands to her cheeks and looking entirely unRoselike. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to tell you like that. It must be a terrible shock."

"You could say that." He rubbed his face. "Why didn't she tell me?"

She sat in the chair next to his and angled to face him. "She said she couldn't. That she couldn't bear to see the look on your face. Your disappointment." She put a hand on his. "She loves you."

"She says she loves Whittingham."

"Him, too." Apprehension flooded her eyes. He watched her swallow hard. "Kit, I think you should know…"

"What?" he asked. Whatever it was couldn't be worse than what he'd already learned.

"Well, rather than disappoint you, she tried to rid herself of the child."

He couldn't have heard right. "She what?"

"She took pennyroyal, hoping to bring on her courses. I caught her in time, in the act, and made her bring it back up. Can't you see that this changes everything? What you wanted for your sister doesn't matter anymore. Her fate is out of your hands."

The second half of what she'd said had been lost on him, so appalled was he by the first. "Pennyroyal?" he echoed.

"A midwife told her pennyroyal tea can stimulate the menses. But she used one of my mother's essential oils. They're a hundred times or more stronger than the herbs—it was likely to take her life along with the child's."

His heart hammering, Kit came halfway off the chair.

She leapt from hers and pushed him back down, looking desperate. "Good God, I said it all wrong again." Her hands on his shoulders, her dark eyes held his captive. "The doctor said she's well, and she wasn't aware of the risks, Kit. I'm certain of it. She thought it would be just like the tea."

Did he know his sister at all? "Does she not trust me even a little?" That hurt. "That she would do this rather than disappoint me?"

"She wasn't thinking of it that way. She wasn't thinking at all."

"Even so, how could she? How could she kill her child?"

Rose winced. "Please don't judge her so harshly. She's hurting and confused. Women rid themselves of unwanted children all the time, for all sorts of reasons."

"Ellen has no good reason." His heart was finally slowing. Apparently the danger had passed. "How could she not know I would love her child? This is my sister and my niece or nephew."

"I know," she said softly.

Guilt was a vise squeezing his chest. He'd almost lost his sister, his only family. The one person he'd vowed to protect at all costs.

If it hadn't been for Rose…

She'd saved his sister. Because she was good, because she was caring, because there was a heroic person hiding inside this exasperating woman who insisted she wanted a duke.

His throat tightened, and something twisted around his heart—an unwelcome thrill laced with a flicker of fear. He reached to gather her onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her, and buried his nose in her rose-scented hair.

"Thank you," he whispered, afraid he'd just fallen in love.

Lust was one thing, love quite another. It scared him to death. He'd wanted her before, yes. Wanted her for her beauty, her refreshing forthright nature, her family's position in society, her intelligence, her sheer suitability as a wife. And, of course, because she'd made him hotter than the sun in August from the first time he'd laid eyes on her.

But suddenly he wanted her in an entirely different way. The want had turned into need.

He'd been determined to make her fall in love with him, but he hadn't expected to fall himself. What would he do now if she wouldn't agree to be his?

Feeling his throat tighten more, he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

"You must let them marry," she said quietly. "If you have even a glimmer of an idea what they feel for each other, you cannot deny them."

He had a glimmer, all right. A sudden new glimmer that was frightening as hell. And he loved his sister, and—already—her unborn child. Rose was right: everything had changed, and he hadn't the will left to deny Ellen and her baby loves of their own.

As long as he could make sure Thomas Whittingham loved them back.

He motioned to the marquetry desk. "Is there paper and quill in there?"

"Yes." Rose slanted him a look. "Why?"

"I wish to write a letter."

Her expression made clear she didn't consider that much of an answer.

"Trust me," he added. "And fetch Ellen, please."

Kit's sister looked pale, wan, and frightened when she walked in.

He silently handed her his hastily scribbled missive. As she scanned the single page, her eyes widened. A soft gasp escaped her lips.

"What is it?" Rose asked.

"A letter to Thomas." Ellen looked up at Kit. "You're…you're allowing our marriage?"

"Demanding it," Kit corrected. "On one condition."

She swallowed hard, clutching the paper against her middle. "What?"

His gaze flicked down, but there was no sign of her pregnancy. It was too early, he supposed. He might suspect her of fibbing to get her way, but he seriously doubted she'd have risked poisoning herself if she wasn't actually with child.

"Why?" he asked suddenly. "Why did you try to rid yourself of it?"

Her eyes filled. "I don't know. I think…I was confused." She brought her other hand to cover the first. "It seemed as though this child growing inside me had stolen my options—that I needed more time to persuade you, and I feared your wrath, and—" She stared at the floor. "It was wrong, wasn't it? Very, very wrong."

"Yes." Watching a teardrop fall to the polished wood, Kit stepped forward to wrap her in his arms. "I'm so glad you're all right."

"I'm sorry," she sniffed against his chest.

"Don't you know how much I love you?"

Her arms tightened around him as she raised her tearstained face. "I guess I forgot. I thought only about how angry you'd have been if you'd known."

"Had I known, Ellen, I might have been disappointed—I am disappointed—but I wouldn't have kept you from wedding your child's father. And I won't. What's done is done. I wanted more for you, but you've narrowed my options. Unless—"

"What?" She pulled away. "What is this condition?"

He met her gaze, hardening his heart against the tears. "You'll find out soon enough." He turned to Rose. "Can you send a rider to Windsor to deliver this letter to Whittingham? And an extra horse so they can both ride back. I left my carriage at Whitehall, and it's too slow in any case."

She looked between him and his sister. "Of course."

"Good," he said to her, and to Ellen, "I will see you wed today."

Both women stared at him incredulously. Rose spoke for the two. "They cannot marry today!"

"Tonight, then. However long it takes Whittingham to show up, we'll wait."

"Banns must be called—it will take weeks. Either that, or Thomas will have to obtain a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury."

"Have you never heard of a privileged church? There are two, I believe, directly outside the City walls. Places where a man and a woman can marry without posting banns, without a license. Without waiting."

"That doesn't sound legal," Rose said doubtfully.

"They claim they're outside the jurisdiction of the Bishop of London and can therefore make their own rules." He shrugged. "The marriages stand, and that's good enough for me. I wish I could remember at least one of their names…ah, yes. St. Trinity, in the Minories." He turned to his sister. "I was hoping to see you wed in a cathedral, but a privileged church will have to do."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Following a bit of wrangling, it was decided Kit would go ahead to St. Trinity and arrange matters while Rose and his sister waited for Whittingham. They would all meet Kit at the church.

It took an hour for him to reach St. Trinity—an hour during which he cursed himself ten times over for not watching more closely over his sister. For not protecting her better. For allowing her to maneuver him to the point where he had no choice.

But there was nothing left to do except make the best of it. If Whittingham could prove he truly loved Ellen, the man could have her. And Kit would make sure the two of them had a wonderful, carefree life together.

Or rather, his eleven thousand pounds would.

But he wouldn't tell them that now. Either of them. His sister had said over and over that she wanted to marry for love—and marry for love she would.

Kit arrived to find St. Trinity in surprisingly good repair for such an old building. The walls and columns were freshly painted, costly leaded glass filled the windows, and votive candles flickered around the sanctuary.

A privileged church was quite obviously a lucrative business.

He stood in the back, watching a wedding in progress. Several more couples seemed to be waiting their turns. One bride was well gone with child, another quietly weeping. A third wedding party included a man who didn't look much happier. If Kit didn't miss his guess, the bride's father was surreptitiously holding a pistol on the poor fellow.

The minute the current wedding concluded, Kit barged down the aisle.

The priest looked up and frowned. "You're not next."

"I'm not marrying at all. But my sister will be here later today, and I wish to make certain you'll stay to perform the ceremony no matter how late she arrives."

The man shook his balding head. "I've too many weddings this day already. She'll have to come tomorrow. Or go to St. James instead."

Ellen and her groom weren't going to St. James—they were coming here. "What is your customary charge?" Kit asked flatly.

The plump clergyman sized him up. "Six crowns."

Gasps from behind told Kit the quote was high, perhaps by double or more. "I'll pay you ten," he told the man. "And half of that now." He fished his pouch from his surcoat and began counting out coins. "I'll expect her to be wed the moment she appears."

"By all means, good sir," the priest said, licking his fleshy lips. When he took the gold and hefted its weight in a hand, a wide smile emerged, revealing large, uneven teeth. "Bring two witnesses, and—since you seem to value speed—a pistol," he added with a wink.

Despite himself, Kit laughed. "We've no need of a pistol—I'm the only party reluctant to this match."

Hours later, Kit was waiting on the church's steps when the Ashcrofts' carriage pulled up. His sister stepped to the cobblestones, followed by Rose, who was carrying a bunch of flowers. He wasn't surprised when Lady Trentingham emerged next, although he hadn't expressly invited her.

Finally, Whittingham stepped down, dressed in a green wool suit that was ten or more years out of fashion. His brown hair was tied back in a neat queue. Somehow he managed to look both pleased and scared spitless.

Kit was happy to see that. Perhaps the man cared, after all.

Ellen marched up the steps and dragged Kit inside the church. Her gaze swept the sanctuary before swinging to fasten on him. "What the devil have you planned here?" she whispered fiercely.

"Such language in a house of God," he chided. She'd changed into a gown that he imagined must belong to Rose, a confection of pale green satin with silver embroidery. It didn't suit Rose's high coloring at all, but it looked perfect on his sister. The hue brought out the green in her eyes—or maybe they looked green because she was angry.

Well, she was about to get angrier.

"I'm going to ask Whittingham if he'll take you without your dowry," he informed her in an even tone. "And if he hesitates as much as a moment—one moment, Ellen—the wedding is off."

"That's so unfair!" she burst out.

Heads turned. "Hush!" he cautioned.

She moderated her voice, but not her demeanor. "You'd have me raise this child alone?"

"Not alone. With me. Your child will never see an unhappy day if I can help it—you've nothing to fear. Should Whittingham love you, I wish you the best. But if not…well, then you'll be better off in my care than bound to a man who wanted you only for your money."

She crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes, and shut her mouth decisively. Remembering her words when he'd talked of withholding her dowry—I will never speak to you again—he figured she was following through on her threat.

That wouldn't last. A woman carrying a child couldn't afford to act like one.

"I've paid good money to see you wed quickly." He put a hand on her arm, then frowned when she shoved it off. "Let's adjourn outside and see this thing through."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Rose watched brother and sister emerge from St. Trinity, Kit looking determined, Ellen furious. She wondered what had been said during their short time inside.

Thomas stepped forward. "Ellen has informed me you're putting a condition on our marriage," he said, looking directly at Kit.

He was a direct sort of man. Rose had come to know him a little better on the ride from the town house to the church, and she believed he would make a good husband for her friend.

If only Kit would allow it.

"That's true," Kit said. "You must be willing to take my sister without her dowry."

Rose suspected Kit wanted to make sure the man was devoted, but Ellen released an angry huff. Yet Thomas, bless the man, didn't so much as blink. "I would take your sister if she came with a mound of debt. Ellen's dowry would be welcome—I won't lie—but I don't want your sister for money, sir. I want her because I love her."

It was such a pretty speech, Rose wanted to applaud.

But Kit just nodded, somehow contriving to appear pleased, relieved, disappointed, and resigned all at once. "Come along, then. Let's get this done."

Ellen let out a little squeal, then ran to Thomas and pressed her lips to his in a fervent kiss.

"After the wedding," Kit said, but not without a hint of good humor.

Regardless, Ellen chose to glare at him.

"Good luck, Ellen." Rose handed her the bouquet of flowers she'd arranged while they were waiting for Thomas. It wouldn't feel like a real wedding without flowers.

Though Ellen smiled, she looked apprehensive until Thomas had drawn her down the aisle to stand before the priest. Then she took his hand and released a heartfelt sigh.

Some other people began to protest, but Kit pressed a small pile of gold into the priest's plump hand—and that was that. The man wasted no time beginning the ceremony. He was the no-nonsense sort, with a booming voice, a big belly under his robe, and flushed, well-fed cheeks.

Standing in the small, old chapel, Rose shifted on her high-heeled shoes, wondering if she'd ever be a bride.

"Thomas Whittingham, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will." The confident words boomed off the plain, whitewashed walls, binding Thomas to Kit's sister.

But Rose wasn't listening to the ceremony. Instead, she focused on the bride and groom—their linked hands, their bodies ranged close, their eyes shining with a potent mixture of disbelief and happiness.

Smiling as though she'd arranged this wedding herself, Chrystabel leaned close and bumped against Rose's left side. "They're perfect together, aren't they?" she whispered.

Rose could only nod dumbly. Ellen and her pawnbroker were clearly in love…for Ellen, at least, it hadn't been as easy to fall in love with a titled man as a commoner.

The priest cleared his throat and looked back down at his Book of Common Prayer. "Ellen Martyn, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…"

Standing on Rose's right, Kit sighed. "Have I done the right thing?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed, wondering if she would do the right thing. For she feared that, like Ellen, she wasn't finding it easy to fall in love with a titled man. The Duke of Bridgewater was handsome and rich and kind, and she'd tried to make herself fall in love with him, to no avail. And yet, with Kit…

Her feelings didn't bear thinking about.

"…so long as ye both shall live?" the priest concluded expectantly.

"I will," Ellen pledged, sounding happier than Rose remembered ever feeling.

A few more words, a ring slid onto her finger—something hastily chosen from the pawnshop, no doubt—and Ellen was clearly and truly wed now, the new Mrs. Thomas Whittingham.

And Rose was more confused than ever.

When Thomas lowered his lips to meet Ellen's, Kit looked to Rose. Her breath caught in her chest. His eyes were full of promises…but they were promises she couldn't return.

She didn't breathe easily again until they were all heading back down the steps to her family's carriage.

"Where will you go tonight?" she asked Ellen.

"Home. To the pawnshop in Windsor." She smiled up at Thomas, then glanced at Kit and lifted her chin before turning back to Rose. "It will doubtless be late by the time we arrive, but I've no wish to stay in London."

"We're going home to Trentingham tomorrow," Chrystabel announced.

"Are we?" Rose asked, surprised. But right now the idea of home sounded wonderful.

"I miss your father. And Rowan. And I'm going to have your sisters and their husbands over for supper as soon as possible. In fact, I'll send notes to them before we leave. Perhaps they can join us tomorrow night." Without missing a beat, Chrystabel turned to Kit. "Will you join us as well? My husband is likely impatient to see his greenhouse take shape. You did promise to work up a design before you left Lily's wedding."

"I did, didn't I?" he said wryly. "But—"

"Rose has indicated you've got Whitehall under control. And you won't be far from Windsor. Or Hampton Court, for that matter."

Mum could be persuasive when she put her mind to it. Kit nodded. "I suppose since no red-and-white-liveried king's man has shown up with bad news, I can take a day to sketch a design."

"And one night to relax before jumping back into the fray."

"And one night," he agreed, his gaze straying to Rose.

Her skin heated all over.

It took a few more minutes for plans to be nailed down. Rose and Chrystabel would take Ellen and Thomas back to the town house to fetch Ellen's things. Kit would return to Whitehall, spend the balance of the day making certain everything there would proceed smoothly, then go on to Trentingham Manor in the morning.

Rose was settled in the carriage and halfway to St. James's Square before she realized that in all the time since before the wedding began, Ellen hadn't said one word to her brother.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Rose's family was almost more than Kit could take. They were loud. They were boisterous. And there were so damn many of them.

Rose's oldest sister, Violet, had brought along her husband, Ford, and their three children—two of whom were infant twins and prone to wailing—plus Ford's niece, ten-year-old Jewel.

Kit's friend Rand was there with his new wife, Rose's younger sister Lily. Lily, as usual, was surrounded by animals—a cat she'd brought, along with a sparrow and a squirrel that had followed her. Her mother had ordered the latter two outside during supper, but they were watching through a window.

And then, of course, there were Lord and Lady Trentingham. And their eleven-year-old son, Rowan.

With Rose and Kit—and not counting the creatures—that made eleven people around the table in Trentingham Manor's white-paneled dining room and two in cradles nearby. Kit was unwillingly reminded of his school days, eating in an enormous hammerbeam-ceilinged hall with shouts and conversation coming from all angles. He half expected a food fight to break out.

It seemed quite a racket to a man who was used to dining with only his sister.

Ellen. She'd passed her wedding night by now—not that it had been the proper wedding night he'd wanted for her—and he wondered how she was doing. Was she happy with her pawnbroker? They'd be happier, of course, when he gave them the money he'd saved for her dowry, but he thought he'd wait a little while for that. A week or two, at least. Let them get settled first—such a windfall was likely to be unsettling, indeed.

In the meantime, he hadn't wanted to be alone at his house in Windsor, imagining his baby sister and her new husband doing God knew what down the street. So Lady Trentingham's invitation had been welcome, even though he damn well knew he had better things to do.

But his projects seemed stabilized, and the day had gone well enough. Lord Trentingham had been happy with Kit's ideas for the greenhouse, and Kit had gone only half hoarse shouting all his explanations. He'd order the materials and hire a foreman when he returned to Windsor. Lord Trentingham was anxious to get his plants inside before winter, so Kit had promised him an accelerated schedule. The groundbreaking was planned for ten days hence.

"This all must be very disturbing," Rand said.

"Hmm?" Kit had been so deep in his thoughts he hadn't even noticed that sweets had been put on the table. "Are you talking to me?"

"Wake up, you dolt." Rand elbowed him in the ribs and laughed. "We've been talking about the problems you had at both Windsor and Whitehall."

"They're settled now," Kit said. His plate had been removed by one of Trentingham's footmen, and he hadn't noticed that, either. Someone set a smaller, clean plate in front of him.

"Are you sure?" Jewel's deep green eyes looked wide in her delicate, heart-shaped face.

She seemed as concerned as an adult might, so he answered her seriously. "I'm convinced Washburn didn't set the fire, so I don't expect him to try anything else."

"But how can you be sure?"

Seated to Kit's left, Rose passed him a platter of small currant cakes, her soft floral fragrance wafting to his nose along with the fruity scent of the baked goods. "The fire was probably not intended," she told Jewel.

"Exactly." He took three cakes and passed the plate to Rand. "The men aren't supposed to smoke pipes on the job, but I wasn't there to watch."

Lord Trentingham frowned. "Has Whitehall become overrun with mice?"

Kit blinked. "Pardon?"

"You said the men aren't supposed to poke mice?"

"Smoke pipes, darling." Lady Trentingham leaned to brush a few cake crumbs off her husband's cravat. "The men aren't supposed to smoke pipes."

"It could have been someone else." Taking six cakes for himself, Rowan sounded a bit gleeful at the prospect of uncovering intrigue. "Not this Washburn, but someone else."

"Let's hope not." Using one of the cakes to scoop sweet whipped cream from a dish, Kit worried the children might be right. "It was most probably accidental. These things happen."

"Bee stings do happen," Lord Trentingham put in. "Especially out in my gardens."

No one corrected him this time.

Jewel waved a currant cake. "Accidents at two of your buildings? Aren't you wondering if your other building might have a problem, too?"

Out of the mouths of babes. Kit sighed. "Perhaps I should go to Hampton Court and make certain everything there is progressing smoothly."

"Rose and I are going to Hampton Court," Lady Trentingham volunteered cheerfully.

Kit wasn't surprised.

Her husband had actually heard that. "Not too soon, I hope, Chrysanthemum."

"Well, we won't want to wait too long. The court is there, after all, and Rose will want to see the duke."

Rose's sisters turned to her in unison.

"The duke?" Violet asked, leaning down to swipe her son's spoon off the floor for at least the tenth time.

Lily fed a bit of cake to her cat under the table. "What duke?"

"The Duke of Bridgewater." Rose hid her face by raising her goblet to her lips—although Kit knew it was empty. "We'll talk about this later."

Not too much later, Rose found herself upstairs flanked by her sisters, the three of them lying crosswise on her oak four-poster bed, staring straight up.

"Tell us about the duke," Violet said to the underside of Rose's crimson velvet canopy.

"He's very generous and handsome and kind," Rose returned morosely. "He gave me these ruby and pearl earrings."

Her sisters both turned to look. Violet touched a finger to one of the delicate drops. "They're lovely."

"Goodness!" Lily exclaimed. "He sounds perfect. Exactly what you were looking for. Do you think he likes you?"

"Very much." Rose sighed. "I won't be surprised if at Hampton Court I receive my first proposal."

Violet came up on an elbow. "Then why do you sound so melancholy?"

When Rose turned her head to see Violet, her sister's warm brown eyes looked too concerned behind the lenses of her spectacles. She focused back up on the canopy. "I don't care for the way he kisses."

"Oh…" her sisters said together in a way that made it clear they considered this as important a problem as she did.

Rose wasn't sure whether she was glad or frustrated at that fact. Part of her wished they'd tell her to marry the duke and be done with it.

"Is his kiss…sloppy?" Lily asked.

"No."

"Rough?" Violet wondered.

"No."

"Then what?" they both chimed.

"I'm not sure. There's nothing wrong with his kisses. I just don't enjoy them. They don't make me feel anything." Rose crossed her feet where they hung off the end of the bed. She uncrossed them. Her voice dropped miserably. "For the longest time, I didn't like anyone's kisses. I thought something was wrong with me. Until…"

Now Lily came up on an elbow. "Until what?"

Rose felt hemmed in. She looked at her older sister, then her younger, then back to the canopy. "I've found one man whose kisses make me melt. But he's totally unsuitable."

"In what way?" Lily's voice was heartbreakingly sympathetic.

"In every way. He's a commoner. And he works for a living."

"Rand works," Lily said defensively. "Don't you think being a professor is a lot of hard work?"

"But Rand doesn't have to work. He works because he wants to. Good God, he's an earl, and someday he'll be a marquess."

"That wasn't always the case, and he never minded working. And it didn't bother me to think of marrying him when he did have to work. In fact, it didn't bother you, either, if I recall correctly. You were perfectly willing to chase Rand when he was only a professor."

"He was never only a professor." Rose didn't care for Lily's affronted tone, nor for the reminder of how foolishly she'd pursued her sister's husband. "Even before he became an earl, he was Lord Randal Nesbitt."

"There's nothing wrong with work," Lily insisted.

"Of course there isn't!" Frustrated, Rose pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. She rubbed her face as her sisters came up beside her. "It's only that I had a plan for my life, and this man isn't part of it."

"Is he poor?" Violet asked.

"No," she said, thankful she could say that at least, else she'd get the same kind of tirade from Violet that she'd just heard from Lily. Violet's husband, after all, had been poor as a churchmouse when they met.

"It's Kit, isn't it?" Lily suddenly guessed.

"No," Rose denied quickly, then sighed at Lily's perceptive gaze and added, "How did you know?"

"I've both eyes and ears in my head. You're surprisingly familiar with the man's projects, and you cannot deny you thought him handsome the day you met. And he was drawn to you. I was there, if you'll remember. And he is not totally unsuitable."

"I want to love the duke," Rose wailed.

"Sometimes," Violet said softly, "we cannot choose these things."

All three of them sighed in unison.

Lily reached to cover Rose's hands where she'd clenched them together in her lap. "At least Mum isn't trying to match you with Kit," she offered with forced cheerfulness.

"That's right," Violet said. The one thing they'd all agreed on, from the time they were small girls, was that they didn't want any part of Chrystabel's matchmaking schemes. "She's taking you to Hampton Court to spend more time with the duke."

"But she invited Kit here," Rose realized suddenly. "And to supper in London."

"True," Violet conceded. "But she probably just wanted to make sure he follows through with Father's greenhouse."

"Probably." That thought was a relief. The last thing Rose wanted was Mum trying to marry her off to Kit. Once Chrystabel got something like that in her head, the pressure would be tremendous. "She likes Kit's sister, too. Perhaps she felt sorry for Ellen and invited her to the town house to cheer her up. Kit would naturally have had to come along. And, oh!" she added, "I almost forgot. I've borrowed a book from Ellen that you two may find very interesting."

Just the thing to take her mind off these gloomy thoughts.

"A book?" Violet loved books.

"Not one to read—unless you read Italian." She hurried over to her trunk to fetch I Sonetti. "Mostly you'll want to see the engravings. The ladies at court found them fascinating."

"The ladies at court?" Lily reached for the book.

"You've never even been to court." Violet snatched it away.

"I vow and swear, neither of you ever grew up." Knowing she was no better, Rose laughed as she took it back. "Let me sit again between you."

She wedged her wine-skirted bottom onto the bed between Violet's lavender skirts and Lily's yellow ones. After settling the book on her lap, she slowly opened it.

"Goodness." Lily's eyes widened. She was newly wedded, after all. "May I borrow this?"

"No. It's not mine." Rose flipped a page, then another. "Now look at this. Is this even possible?"

Lily shrugged. "Maybe. I'm not sure."

"Oh, that works fine," Violet assured them, her gaze glued to the book as Rose turned to a new engraving. "But wait"—she put a hand over Rose's to hold it in place—"I cannot imagine how this one would work."

Both of Rose's married sisters had cheeks as red as her bedding. The three of them looked at each other and burst out laughing.

"Wait till you hear the words," Rose said with a grin.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The men had adjourned to Lady Trentingham's perfumery. Ford tinkered with the distillery he'd made for his mother-in-law, searching for a reported leak. Rand sat in a green brocade chair, sipping brandy.

Kit paced.

The contraption Ford was working on, and the large utilitarian table on which it sat, looked out of place in the otherwise elegant room. Kit ran a hand down the silk and linen brocatelle wall-coverings. "How is married life?" he asked Rand.

"Splendid," Rand said, looking nauseatingly relaxed.

Feeling decidedly unrelaxed, Kit gazed up at the black and gold cornice around the plastered ceiling. A fine display of workmanship. Something like it would look magnificent in the apartments he was building for the Duchess of Cleveland at Hampton Court, not to mention in his own house in Windsor.

"You should try it," Rand added.

"Marriage?" Kit looked down to his old friend. "If I have my way, I will."

"What?" Rand half bolted out of the chair.

"Sit," Kit said.

Frowning, Ford removed a lid and disconnected a copper tube. "Whom are you hoping to wed?"

"Your sister-in-law. Rose."

Ford looked up, astonished. "Rose?"

"Rose?" Rand echoed. He gulped a swallow of brandy. "I knew you found her attractive, but—"

"She saved my sister's life," Kit said flatly. "And she yearns to travel, as do I. Not only that, she can speak the language when we get there."

Ford looked at him through a large glass bulb that was part of the device. "When you get where?"

Kit examined the marble fireplace. "Rome, Florence, France…wherever."

"If all you want is a translator, you can hire a linguist." Rand set his goblet on a small inlaid table. "I've students who would jump at a chance to spend a summer—"

"I love her," Kit said simply. "She's fun and beautiful and bright, and…something in her calls to me."

Ford straightened and exchanged a look with Rand. "He said the L word."

Rand nodded. "So I heard."

Kit rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted success. Security. But now my sister's married a pawnbroker—what kind of security is a life like that? Yet she's happy. And just when success may be slipping away from me—when I need that Deputy Surveyor post, that knighthood—"

"Whoa," Ford said, looking lost. "Does any of that really matter?"

"I don't know anymore." Kit ran his fingers across a rack of little glass vials, all neatly labeled. LAVENDER, LILAC, MUSK. He plucked out the one that said ROSE. "All I know is I cannot stand the thought of failing to win her."

Ford replaced the copper tube with a little snap. "Try seduction. It worked for me."

"I am trying that. With her mother's blessing, no less."

Neither man looked surprised to hear that. "With Lily," Rand said, "it only took getting to know each other. Once we knew each other, we knew."

"I do know. And she knows, too—I'm sure of it. Only she won't admit it because she wants to marry a damned duke. My only ray of hope is that his grace is reportedly a lousy kisser."

The other men laughed. "That sounds promising," Rand observed. "Has she refused your proposal?"

"I haven't asked. What's the point?"

"You might be surprised by her answer."

"It's one thing to wish it." Kit's fingers tightened around the glass vial. "Another to go heart in hand and ask."

"True." Ford nodded solemnly. "You could be asking to have that heart crushed." His expression said he was a veteran of such a defeat.

Kit unstoppered the vial and breathed deeply of the oil. Rose. "Violet didn't say yes the first time you asked?"

"Hell, no. Nor the second, either. Or the third. Or the nineteenth."

As they all laughed again, feminine laughter drifted from upstairs. Rand smiled. "Our ladies are enjoying themselves."

"Where is everyone else?" Kit wondered suddenly.

"Jewel and Rowan are probably off somewhere planning a dastardly prank." Ford straightened, dusting off his hands. "And the younger children were put to bed."

"But Lord and Lady Trentingham—"

"Have gone to bed, too," Rand informed him with a waggle of his brows.

Kit glanced at the clock on the mantel. "Is it not a bit early?"

"They haven't seen each other in more than a week." Rand looked to Ford. "If you hadn't seen Violet in ten days, what would you be doing now?"

"Taking her to bed," Ford said with a decisive nod.

"But Lord and Lady Trentingham have grown children," Kit protested.

"So?" Ford shrugged as he replaced the distillery's lid and stepped back. "They're Ashcrofts."

"Warm blooded," Rand added.

"Hot blooded," Ford corrected with a grin. "Which is an excellent incentive to marry one."

Chrystabel stretched luxuriously beneath the rumpled counterpane in her bedchamber. "Ah, that was nice."

"Just nice?" Joseph asked, his voice filled with feigned hurt.

"Very well. It was spectacular."

"That's better." He tweaked the sensitive crest of one breast, smiling when she gave a delighted squeal. "This was the longest you've ever been gone from me."

"You leave me for several weeks every year when you go to Tremayne."

"That seems different somehow."

"Because you're the one leaving and busy." She knew he had to go, that Tremayne, a castle near the Welsh border, was as much his responsibility as Trentingham or his duty to Parliament. But that didn't mean she liked it. "Now that the girls are grown, perhaps I'll come along. And bring Rowan," she said, warming to the idea. "After all, he's now Lord Tremayne. He should learn the ins and outs of running the estate."

"An excellent plan, Chrysanthemum."

Joseph's eyes were closing, as was wont to happen after loving exertion. And, as usual, her own body felt alive, her brain wide awake. She'd never figured out what made them so different.

"I'll have to leave again, though," she said mournfully. "Soon."

He snuggled against her. "Hmm?"

"Rose is so close to making the right decision. Another few days at court ought to convince her there's no one there meant to share her life."

"Mmm." He threw a leg over hers, its weight warm and welcome.

"I'm quite disappointed, though, that she hasn't found a moment here to go off with Kit. It seems they both believe I invited him only to settle the details for your greenhouse. And the house is so quiet. Do you know, I think everyone's gone to bed. And it's not even midnight." She gave an expressive sigh, rubbing Joseph's smooth, warm back. "I believe I shall have to devise a way to get Rose and Kit out of their beds and into each other's arms, at least for a while. I imagine he'll be leaving in the morning for Hampton Court. Perhaps we'll wait a few days before following…give Rose some time to miss him. What do you think, darling?"

Her husband's answer was a soft snore. He was fast asleep.

Oh, well. She would lie here until she came up with a plan—she was quite used to plotting these things without him. Men were dear creatures, but the vast majority of them didn't seem to have much of an imagination.

A few minutes later she chuckled to herself. Ah, yes, that should work—and be quite amusing in the bargain. Carefully she wiggled free from her husband and slid out of bed. She slipped back into her discarded night rail and tied a wrapper over it against the chill.

Joseph would hardly miss her. When her mission was accomplished, she'd return and wake him his favorite way. The night was still young, and dear Joseph never minded being awakened—not by her, anyway.

A little ripple of anticipation warmed her body as she sneaked from the chamber into the dimly lit corridor.

The house was amazingly quiet. Rose's room was right beyond hers, so Chrystabel tiptoed to the door and tapped her fingernails against it—rat-a-tat-tat. Then she moved to the door of the room she'd assigned to Kit and did the same thing.

Nothing. Rose was a heavy sleeper, and Kit must be, too. She tapped on both their doors again, then a third time. Finally, the sound of a latch sent her scurrying back to her room. Suppressing a giddy giggle, she pulled the door shut behind her—but not quite all the way.

Her ear pressed to the slit of an opening, she heard someone pad into the corridor and knock loudly on another door.

"Rowan!" came a harsh whisper. Then louder, "Rowan, open up!"

It was Jewel's voice, not Rose's. Chrystabel sighed as she listened. Another door opened.

"What?" Rowan demanded rather ungraciously.

"I heard a noise."

"What kind of noise?" he said through a yawn.

"I'm not sure. Maybe a ghost."

That idea was greeted by a snort. "There are no ghosts at Trentingham."

"I heard something, Rowan! Listen, will you?"

A long spell passed where there was no sound. Of course, Chrystabel wasn't tapping on doors.

"It was nothing," Rowan said at last. "Go back to bed."

"I'm afraid of ghosts. I cannot sleep. Will you stay with me?"

"I cannot visit your chamber in the middle of the night. That wouldn't be proper." Even at the tender age of eleven, Rowan knew that.

"What if I hear it again?"

The boy's sigh would have done a grown man justice. "Are you hungry?"

Jewel seemed to consider that question a moment. "I guess I am."

"Maybe it was your stomach rumbling. Let's go downstairs and find something to eat."

Chrystabel waited until their footfalls had proceeded down the staircase before easing open her door. It seemed neither Rose nor Kit had awakened even with Rowan and Jewel talking outside their rooms. Something louder than those benign little taps would be necessary.

She scratched her fingernails down the front of Rose's door, a nice, satisfying scrape as she raked down the carved linenfold design. After repeating the motion, she moved to Kit's door and did it twice more.

Hearing a latch again, she darted back into her room.

"Just take a look, Rand! There must be something there. I cannot sleep with these noises!" It was Lily this time, Chrystabel realized with more than a little frustration. "Do you see anything?"

"Nothing. Would you like to come and look for yourself?"

"No," Lily said. "But those sounds cannot come from nowhere."

"Houses settle. You told me there have been no ghosts at Trentingham in the past, and there's no reason to believe one would suddenly arrive now. Damn, now that you've wakened me, I'm hungry. Shall we go downstairs and find something to eat?"

For a brand-new son-in-law, Rand certainly felt at home here, Chrystabel thought wryly. While she waited for them to start downstairs, she looked around her chamber for something that would make more noise.

Her silver comb ought to do it. She snatched it up and peeked out her door. All was clear.

Drawn sideways across the wooden linenfold grooves, the comb made quite a racket. It wasn't long at all before the click of another latch sent her to safety behind her own door.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," she heard Ford say.

She barely stifled a groan.

A long minute or two passed while she listened to footsteps pacing up and down the corridor. Ford, the scientific one, was a much more thorough ghost-hunter than either of his brothers-in-law. "All's clear," she finally heard him tell Violet. "I swear it. You hungry? Let's go downstairs and find something to eat."

Slumped against the door, Chrystabel pictured her oldest daughter slipping from her childhood bed and into a wrapper. Joseph snored peacefully behind her, and Rose apparently still slept in her room. Vexing girl must take after her father.

By the time Violet and Ford clattered down the steps—being none too quiet about it—Chrystabel had decided drastic measures were in order. Leaving the comb behind, she ventured once more into the corridor.

She paused by Rose's door, then pushed down on the latch and opened it a smidgen. "Whooooooooo," she called inside, a breathy, piercing whistle.

The fourth child of five, Chrystabel had learned young how to impersonate an otherworldly creature. How better to get back at her older sisters? She could hardly have used her fists.

"Whooooooooo," she called twice more for good measure, then hurried to Kit's room.

"Whooooooooo. Whooooooooo." She'd drawn breath for another exhalation when footsteps sounded in Rose's room down the corridor.

She barely made it back into the master chamber before her daughter's door slammed open. "What was that? Who's there?"

Unlike her sisters, Rose didn't sound scared. Her voice wasn't tentative and frightened. Aggravated would better describe it.

Rose's footfalls paced the corridor up and halfway back before Chrystabel heard another door opening. Kit's, thank the Lord. It had to be—his was the only occupied room left.

"What the hell is going on out here? I thought I heard a ghost."

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Rose said peevishly.

"Obviously," Kit drawled, "you have never torn down an old building."

"Obviously," Rose returned, "you have a lively imagination."

Kit only laughed. God strike her down, Chrystabel thought, if these two weren't perfect for each other.

No lightning bolts came down the chimney.

"Are you hungry?" Rose asked.

"I could eat."

There wasn't a male alive who couldn't find space for food, no matter how long since his belly was last filled. Chrystabel credited her daughter for knowing the way to a man's heart.

But as they made their way downstairs, her own heart sank. A jovial family midnight snack was not what she'd had in mind for Rose and Kit. And she had few, if any, chances left to arrange another meeting before her daughter wised up and figured out what was going on.

A lot of terms could be used to describe Rose, but slow-witted wasn't one of them. And Chrystabel knew well what would happen should her daughter discover that she and Kit were in league. The marriage would never occur.

She shut her door and made her way back to bed to wake her husband. If he knew what was good for him, he'd better not say he was hungry.

What she had in mind to ease her disappointment did not involve food.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

As Kit and Rose approached the kitchen, they heard laughter. Boisterous, rollicking laughter.

Kit peeked in the door to find nearly the entire Ashcroft family around a big, scarred wooden table. Pies, bread, and leftover dishes from supper littered the surface. Ale and conversation flowed.

Deciding he wasn't hungry, he shut the door quietly, muffling the laughter to a dull roar. "I've changed my mind. Let's go for a walk instead."

Rose's dark eyes looked huge in the light of the single candle she was carrying. "Outside? In my night rail in the dead of the night?"

"It's been unseasonably warm. I'll wait while you get your cloak."

"We've no shoes!" she protested, making Kit look down in surprise. Suddenly he could hardly fathom that he was here in Rose Ashcroft's home in bare feet.

Though her night rail and dressing gown concealed her body more effectively than the current fashions—court fashions most especially—there was something undeniably intimate about the ensemble. Something that made him belt his own robe more tightly.

"We can go upstairs and don shoes," he suggested.

"I think not."

For a moment, he thought she would open the kitchen door and join the impromptu party. It had been her idea to come down here, after all. Looking forward to some quiet time with her in this noisy house, he'd agreed—but perhaps her interest in food surpassed her interest in him.

Happily, in the end she didn't disappoint him. "I have another idea," she whispered, taking his arm to lead him away. "We can walk in my father's orangery."

"Your father grows oranges?"

"Not very successfully. That's why he's so keen to get that greenhouse."

The orangery was a long, narrow chamber that occupied the entire ground floor of the west wing. "It used to be called the Stone Gallery," Rose told him as they entered. There were candlesticks mounted on the walls at intervals, and she lit them as she walked. "I suppose that after you build the greenhouse we'll call it the Stone Gallery again."

Tall windows, dark now, lined the gallery along the west side and half of the east as well. The ceiling was intricately carved oak. Kit recognized it and the chamber as dating from Tudor times—a room the occupants would have used to take exercise in inclement weather. But now it was filled with a variety of trees and plants, all interspersed with statuary that looked like it had been brought from Italy.

"Would you like an orange?" Rose asked laughingly, pulling a small, rather shriveled example from a scraggly branch. "Don't worry—they don't taste as bad as they look."

He peeled it as they walked, the black and white marble floor cold beneath his bare feet. "It's quiet here," he said.

"Yes." She sounded amused at the observation. "It's not easy to find a quiet place at Trentingham, is it?"

"You've a large family. But I like it," he added, realizing suddenly that he did. "Even the noise. There's a lot of life here. Vitality."

He'd felt that lack of vitality since his parents' deaths. He'd been busy, yes—but there was a difference.

"It's real," he added, tossing the peel into an empty clay pot.

"Real?"

He divided the little orange and handed her half. "Charles's court, for example, is lively. But it's forced gaiety, don't you think? The liveliness here is real."

"Ah. Yes. I see," she said thoughtfully.

Popping the juicy, sweet fruit into his mouth, he hoped she also saw that court was a life she'd just as soon live without—because she'd have to if she married him. Even supposing he got his knighthood, he hadn't the time to flit from one place to another at the whim of his monarch. He had his lifework to pursue.

And no matter that it was fashionable, he had no intention of living a separate life from his wife.

He heard her swallow. "Are you not happy, Kit?"

She sounded like she cared. He hoped it was as more than a friend. More than like a brother, but better. "I'm happy right now," he said, licking his fingers.

"And Ellen is happy now."

"I don't want to think about Ellen."

"But you must." They'd reached the end of the gallery. She lit the last candle and set the one she'd carried on top of a headless statue. "I know you're angry with her, with what she did. But you cannot remain estranged, you cannot remain silent—"

"I'm not angry. Disappointed, yes, but not angry." He took her arm, turning her to stroll back the direction they'd come. "And I'm not the one who isn't talking."

"You cannot really mean to keep all that money—"

"Will you be quiet, Rose?" he asked and then turned her toward him to quiet her with a kiss.

She wound her arms around his neck and cooperated fully. She tasted of Rose and oranges, a flavor uniquely hers. A flavor he wanted to make his.

He backed her against one of the walls between two windows. Above their heads, a haughty Roman emperor gazed down from a terra-cotta medallion—a souvenir of earlier times. Kit only wanted to make new times with Rose. A new life, a happy life—a life full of the vitality he'd been missing.

He licked a bit of sweet stickiness from the corner of her mouth, then kissed that corner, then her chin. Bending his head, he tasted her long, slender throat, the pulse that beat in the hollow, that precious place where shoulder met neck. He parted the top of her dressing gown, baring the smooth, fragrant skin where her night rail had come untied at the collar.

That small triangle of flesh glowed in the dancing candlelight. Her eyes slid closed. "Kit," she breathed, and he couldn't tell whether the single word was a protest or an entreaty. But she didn't push him away, and he wouldn't stop tasting her voluntarily.

When she moved closer, he reached for the sash that secured her dressing gown and slowly drew one end until the bow came undone. The garment fell open, and then there was nothing between his hands and mouth and her body but the gossamer fabric of her night rail. No stomacher, no laces, no stays.

Only one thin barrier to the floral-scented softness that was Rose.

Kissing her, he teased her breasts through the delicate cloth, his pulse leaping when a little moan escaped her lips. His breath quickened as he felt the crests peak and harden beneath his fingers. He wanted to tear off her night rail and rip open his robe and bury himself inside her.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't scare her away, and he couldn't risk getting to the point where he mindlessly took her too far. He couldn't take her at all. Not until she was his, until she shared his name, until she wore his ring on her finger.

But Lord Almighty, he wanted her.

He lowered his head and suckled her through the filmy material. She arched, and his arms clenched tighter to support her. She smelled of roses and passion, a heady scent that almost had him breaking his promise to her mother and asking for more.

Then she was asking for more.

"More," she murmured as she had in the square. "More."

How could he resist such a sweet plea? Easing down the neckline of her night rail, he licked at a breast, nibbling greedily. She thrust herself closer to his mouth, responding to his attentions with an eagerness no other woman ever had.

That innate responsiveness, that unschooled sensuality, was one of the things he loved about her. One of the many, many things.

She pressed herself against his body until he feared he'd lose his mind. She worked her hands into the front of his robe, hesitating a moment when she realized he wore nothing beneath it.

"Gemini," she whispered. Warm and smooth, her fingers maneuvered their way around him. His muscles jumped in response to her brazen exploration. When her arms completely encircled him, her hands flat on his back, she moved closer, molding her curves to fit him. "You feel entirely too good."

"So do you, sweetheart," he murmured.

"Touch me," she said.

His breath lodged in his chest. "I don't think—"

"Please." She slid a hand from under his robe, grasped one of his, and guided it to that place he wanted to touch more than anything.

Through her night rail, he felt her heat. Searing heat.

"Touch me," she repeated, her voice a husky rasp.

It took a stronger man than Kit to refuse such a heartfelt request. He inched up the fabric, thinking he'd never get enough of this enchanting, forward creature. Steeling himself to maintain control, he slipped his hand beneath the hem and skimmed the warm smoothness of a bare thigh. Gritting his teeth, he teased circles on her delicate, silky skin.

"Touch me," Rose breathed. "Please touch me. Please."

And finally, finally, he did.

When Kit cupped her like he had in the square, Rose surged against his hand, quivering with need. She thought, for one fleeting instant, that it was madness asking for this. But oh, the madness was sweet.

"More," she begged. "More."

For a moment he kept still. She held her breath, waiting, waiting, waiting…

"More," she whispered again.

And he moved his hand.

A gentle slide of fingers, a tantalizing thrill. And again, tormenting, making her squirm against him. Again, and her dampness became an exquisite slickness. Again, and desire spiraled through her.

The heat built; her skin prickled.

Then he slipped a finger inside her, and her world tilted.

Sensation flooded her being, stealing her breath, making the blood surge through her veins and pound insistently in her ears. He drew out of her and plunged back in, again and again, playing her body until she teetered on the edge of awareness…until suddenly she shattered, shuddering both without and within with pleasure she'd never known.

"More," Kit murmured, borrowing her word, wanting more than anything to give her more than she'd ever dreamed. Nothing would make him happier than to make her happy day and night. He wanted her so badly, the need was a physical ache, a heaviness in his chest. "More," he whispered again.

And she gave him more, making his heart soar. He'd never seen anything as lovely as his Rose writing in ecstasy. A true thing of beauty.

As her tremors abated, he kissed her, taking her long, sweet languid sigh into his mouth. "A thing of beauty," she whispered, echoing his thoughts.

Has she refused your proposal? Rand had asked.

No, and Kit couldn't imagine her doing so now.

When her eyes fluttered open, looking dazed, he gave her a gentle smile. "I love you, Rose." Watching her lips curve in response to those words, he drew a shaky breath. "Will you marry me?"

"Marry you?" Her eyes filled with pain and confusion, the pleasure turning to panic. "No. I…no. Good God, what have I done?" She shoved her night rail down and closed her dressing gown, fumbling with the sash before giving up and hugging herself miserably. "I'm sorry. I must go."

She pushed past him and ran from the chamber, her bare footfalls pattering all down its long length. At the other end, he heard the door slam shut.

And then he was alone with the flickering candles and his tight throat and his pensive thoughts.

And his aching heart.

He'd known all along that she'd refuse him, so why was he so crushed and demoralized? And why had he taken things so far? Never mind that her mother had tacitly given permission, it had been wrong. He cursed himself roundly. He'd been weak. He wouldn't let it happen again.

Damn Lady Trentingham for encouraging him. He'd always known that, as matters stood, he wouldn't be considered good enough for an earl's daughter.

Not by the daughter herself, in any case.

And just his luck, he'd chosen the one woman in England whose parents let her choose her own husband.

The candlelight that had seemed so intimate earlier now seemed too bright, too revealing. He slowly moved to douse the many small flames. He burned to tell Rose of his pending knighthood, but with his project deadlines approaching and all the problems, he was no longer confident of his chances. And for all he knew, a knighthood might not be enough for her, anyway. The Deputy Surveyor post was only a first step—it could be years before he raised himself further.

By then it would be too late for him and Rose.

Too, too late.

Rose spent a restless, tormented night. When she awakened, the note she found slipped beneath her door did nothing to ease her distress. ROSE, it said in the neat, all-caps printing she'd seen on Kit's architectural renderings:

MUST CHECK PROGRESS AT HAMPTON COURT. PLEASE GIVE YOUR FAMILY MY THANKS AND ASSURE YOUR FATHER THAT THE GREENHOUSE WILL PROCEED ON SCHEDULE AS PLANNED. -K

There was nothing more. No "Dearest Rose." No "I love you, Kit," or even just "Love, Kit."

Did he hate her now? Had she lost his friendship along with her innocence?

True, she was still a virgin, but her entire body heated when she remembered the liberties she'd allowed Kit last night. A hot, tingling ache spread, centered in that place between her legs where he'd touched her. Where he'd made her feel things she'd never felt. Never even imagined.

She washed and slowly dressed without help, so lost in her thoughts she couldn't bear conversation with Harriet. I love you. She supposed she had no right to expect Kit to declare so in a letter when he'd said the words out loud and been met with her silence. And then gone so far as to propose and been met with a no.

Her first proposal.

The look on his face had nearly killed her. His words had taken her completely by surprise. She supposed, on reflection, that they shouldn't have…

But she'd been expecting her first proposal to come from a duke.

Confusion was a weight in her chest. Did she love Kit? In the heat of the moment, it had been on the tip of her tongue to echo those three words. But she hadn't, because she wasn't sure, and in any case it wouldn't matter.

He wasn't the right man for her.

He'd had no right to expect a different answer. She might have reached the advanced age of one-and-twenty, but she wasn't yet desperate enough to marry a commoner. She'd be a fool to do that when Bridgewater, a lofty peer of the realm, was likely to offer for her hand. She squared her shoulders as she headed down to the dining room for breakfast.

Happy as bees in a bed of flowers, her sisters and their families were already eating, having risen early to prepare for their journeys home. The elder Ashcrofts were conspicuously absent; after a homecoming, they often slept late. Rowan and Jewel chatted cheerfully, so focused on each other the rest of the room might as well have been empty.

Everyone in this house—everyone but Rose—was in love.

The conversation died as she scraped back a chair and plopped onto it. A footman offered a cup of chocolate, and she clenched it so hard her knuckles turned white.

"Where is Kit?" Lily asked.

Rose felt her jaw tightening. "What makes you think I should know?" she gritted out, suddenly visualizing herself biting her sister's head off. She gulped the hot liquid, scalding her tongue. "He left a note. It seems he's gone on to Hampton Court."

"Oh," Lily said.

"Did you hear a ghost last night?" Rowan asked.

Rose imagined biting his head off, too. "There's no such thing as ghosts."

"Rose is right," Ford put in.

He could live.

"I heard tapping," Rowan insisted.

"Me, too," Jewel said, gazing at him worshipfully.

That pixie-faced girl had fallen in love at six. Six! Off with her pixie head.

"We heard tapping and scratching," Rand said. "Lily and I both."

"And I heard a terrible scraping noise." Violet turned to Rose. "Did you not hear anything at all?"

A whoosh. But she'd never admit it. She didn't believe in ghosts.

Or marrying beneath her expectations, either.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The sun was setting upon Hampton Court's red brick when Rose and her mother arrived three days later. As they stood in one of Base Court's covered galleries waiting for a palace warden to open their lodging, a woman came out of the apartments next door.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, one hand to the pillowy bosom revealed in the low neckline of her orange brocade gown. Rose couldn't recall her name, but she remembered seeing her in the ladies' attiring room at Windsor. "Lady Rose! I'm so glad you've followed us. I hope we'll be seeing you at court this evening."

"Yes, you will," Rose said, pleased. Court was going to be so much more pleasant now that the women here liked her.

"And will you be bringing the translations?"

"Gemini!" With all the turmoil surrounding Ellen, she'd completely forgotten to work on any more of them. "I've done two," she hedged, not mentioning she didn't have them with her.

"Excellent," the lady said before walking off, the train on her fur-trimmed cloak dragging behind her.

"What translations?" Chrystabel asked.

"Some poetry. Italian. Nothing important."

"Oh, I see," Chrystabel said as though she didn't see at all. "Come along, then, let's ready ourselves."

Their lodging was again just a sitting room and one bedchamber, no fancier than the one they'd been assigned at Windsor Castle. But at least the rooms were larger. In no time at all, Chrystabel was settled at a creaky wooden dressing table with Anne working on her hair, while Harriet helped Rose into the new emerald gown she'd chosen to wear.

When a knock came at the door, Harriet went to answer and came back with a vase full of colorful fall flowers. "For you, Lady Rose."

Rose rushed to take them. "Lovely!" She rearranged the greenery more evenly and moved a yellow bloom from the right side to the left before reaching for the card. "They must be from the duke."

But they weren't.

For dear Lady Rose, the card said in a heavy, dark hand. I wished for red roses to match your lips, but alas, they are not in season. Please accept this small token of my affection with my hopes of spending some time in your company this evening. Yours, Lord Somerville.

"How did he know I was here?" she wondered.

"News travels swiftly at court," her mother said.

Harriet's pale green eyes looked wistful in her freckled face. "Oh," she said with a heartfelt sigh. "How I would love for a man to send me flowers."

She'd barely finished lacing the back of Rose's gown when another knock came at the door. This time she returned with a small wooden box. Inside was a dainty pearl bracelet.

"It goes well with my earrings," Rose said, wondering if she should wear the rubies tonight even though they didn't match her green dress. "How very thoughtful of Gabriel."

But the bracelet wasn't from him, either. The creamy sheet of vellum that had arrived with the box was lettered neatly in fine black ink. For Lady Rose, though pearls cannot match the luster in your eyes. Passionately, Baron Fortescue.

"Passionately?" Rose held out her wrist so Harriet could fasten the bracelet's clasp. "I barely remember the man."

"Oh," Harriet said, "how I would love for a man to give me jewelry."

A third knock on the door brought a platter of delicate sweetmeats and another note: No sugar can match the sweetness of your demeanor.

No one had ever called Rose sweet. "I vow and swear," she declared, popping a marzipan swan into her mouth, "I've never heard such ridiculous comparisons in my life."

Her mother moved to give her a turn at the dressing table. "They're just trying to impress you, dear."

"If any of them could kiss half decently, I would find that a lot more impressive."

"Oh," Harriet said, "how I would love for a man to kiss me."

By the time Rose was ready for court, she had two new bracelets, a sapphire stomacher brooch, and four bouquets of flowers in addition to the half-eaten platter of sweets.

None of it was from Gabriel.

Hampton Court had no keeps, no crenelated curtain wall, nothing like the huge central mound of earth at Windsor with its tall Round Tower. Instead, the palace was a virtual rabbit warren of buildings surrounding courtyards large and small.

Rose walked from Base Court through Clock Court with her mother, the pearls on her beautiful new gown gleaming in the light from torches set on the walls at intervals. They climbed the Great Stairs. As they were crossing the cavernous blue-ceilinged great hall on their way to the Presence Chamber, a lord walking the other direction stopped and doffed his plumed hat.

"I hear you have a copy of I Sonetti, my lady."

Rose couldn't remember having met him, and the man had a distinct gleam in his eye; one that made her uneasy. "I do," she told him cautiously.

"I should enjoy a private viewing."

"I think not," she said and swished past him.

"I Sonetti?" Chrystabel asked when they reached the other end of the chamber.

"The Sonnets. Italian poetry."

"Why should you not want to show it to the man?"

"I don't even know him!" Rose burst out, and then added in as calm a voice as possible, "Besides, I'm here to see the duke. If he has plans to make me his wife, I don't think he'd appreciate me sharing any book with another man privately."

The Presence Chamber was stunning, with great tapestries on the walls and a gilded ceiling. The king and queen sat under a canopy fashioned of cloth-of-gold. After the tedious ceremony of presentation, Chrystabel wandered off and Rose decided to look for Gabriel. But she'd barely scanned the chamber when Baron Fortescue appeared and made a bow. "My dear Lady Rose, I'm most honored to see you wearing my bracelet."

He was dressed in mulberry satin with bunched loops of aqua ribbons. Rose had always admired men of fashion, but it seemed to her that lately the fashions had turned rather frivolous. And she remembered Lord Fortescue better now, most specifically that he was, as Lily had put it, a sloppy kisser.

She didn't wish to hurt him, but she certainly didn't want to encourage him. "The bracelet matched my gown," she told him. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. I hear, dear lady, that you've learned the secrets of I Sonetti." He grinned, displaying buck teeth. "I'm hoping you'll be willing to share them."

Was that why he'd given her the bracelet? She was tempted to tear it off, but there was no reason, after all, to ruin such a pretty thing. "If I know any secrets," she told him archly, "I plan to share them with only my husband."

To her consternation, his grin widened. "I entertain fond hopes of being that man."

"You what?"

"Will you marry me, dear Rose?"

Good God, he was proposing! A month earlier she'd despaired of ever receiving a proposal, and now she'd had two in a week. But better she live all her days as a spinster than bind herself to Lord Fortescue and his sloppy kisses. "Please accept my apologies," she said, "but my heart belongs to another."

Though he sighed, he didn't look surprised. "Best wishes, then, my lady."

No sooner had Lord Fortescue taken his leave than Lord Somerville made his way over. He raised her hand and kissed it reverently. "I hope you received my flowers."

"They're beautiful, my lord. I thank you." If she remembered correctly, his kisses had been unexciting but not off-putting. And his suit was adorned with gold braid rather than ribbons. Perhaps he would ask her to dance. She had always dearly loved to dance.

"I hear you've a copy of I Sonetti," he said instead.

If she had his flowers here, she'd be tempted to dump them on his head. "I plan to share it with only my husband."

"Well, then, dear Lady Rose, I must ask you to do me the honor of becoming my wife."

Rose's first instinct was to scream in frustration, but in all honesty there was nothing wrong with the man except that she couldn't imagine marrying him. "It would truly be an honor," she assured him, "but I'm afraid my heart belongs to another."

"I see." He swept her a courtly bow. "Your servant, my lady. The duke is a lucky man."

In the next hour, Gabriel failed to appear and four more gentlemen proposed to Rose. Two of them were more than acceptable, men she knew she'd have jumped at the opportunity to wed a year ago. But suddenly she couldn't stomach the thought of marrying any of them.

And not all the men were after her hand in marriage. Some were simply interested in the book. Rose had warned off three of that type already when two more approached as a team. "We hear you have a copy of I Sonetti," one of them started, a lascivious gleam in his eye.

They both crowded close—so close Rose could tell one of them truly needed a bath. "We were wondering—" the second man began.

"Leave her alone," Nell Gwyn interrupted, shoving herself between them.

The first one turned on her. "Bloody hell, Nelly, we were only—"

"Hoping to share her, you beasts." Raising her dainty hands, she pushed on both their chests. "Go on. Be gone."

Rose blew out a breath as she watched them walk away.

"Is it true?" Nell asked the moment they were out of earshot.

"What?"

"That you've a copy of I Sonetti. It's all the buzz."

"Yes, it's true." Rose sighed. "But I cannot imagine why everyone finds it so blasted interesting."

"The ladies, they just want to see it, to hear the words. But the gentlemen…well, if you're not looking for a tumble or two, you'd best stay in company and be watchful."

From what Rose had seen, there was nothing gentlemanly about the base creatures. "Surely not all men are so single-minded."

"Some may approach you with flowery words, but they are men. Inflamed most easily."

"Then perhaps I should carry a bucket of water."

Nell laughed.

"Do you know," Rose said, "you are one of few at court who hasn't asked to see I Sonetti. Don't you want to view the engravings and read the scandalous translated words?"

"I've no need of such things," Nell assured her blithely.

"Most ladies seem to think they'd enjoy sharing the book with their men."

"Not I." Nell leaned closer. "Charles"—she dropped her voice to a confidential murmur—"is a very catholic lover."

Rose frowned. "I thought you were both Protestant."

Nell's lips curved into a fond half smile. "I mean that he's not very imaginative. His tastes run to the simple. However, he more than makes up for that with his prodigious appetite and enthusiasm."

Rose felt her eyes widening. "Oh," was all she could find to say.

"Besides, I've seen those pictures—one would have to be a contortionist to attempt half the poses."

Rose couldn't agree more. Despite her sisters' amused reactions, the engravings still made her a little nervous. In fact, this whole conversation made her nervous. "Will there be gaming tonight?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Of course. And tomorrow night, there will be a masked ball."

"Gemini! Whatever shall I wear?"

"Not everyone wears a costume. Just a mask will do, although I suspect you'll find some of the outfits amusing."

Rose's mind turned to the clothes she and Mum had brought and what she could possibly create from them. Maybe if she concealed her identity well enough, she'd have an evening free from being questioned about I Sonetti. She watched absently as a beautiful woman walked in and made her curtsy before the king.

Or rather, her bow.

Rose blinked. "Whoever is that?" she asked, staring. Though the tall woman was dressed in silks and satins, the sumptuous turquoise apparel wasn't a lady's. "It's a Cavalier's suit she wears! She must think the masked ball is today instead of tomorrow."

"I think not." Nell chuckled. "Have you never met Hortense Mancini, the Duchess Mazarin?"

"That's the duchess?" Rose had never seen a woman dressed like a man, but the effect was stunning. A jeweled sword dangled from her belt, and a dark little Moorish boy dressed to match trotted beside her, completing the bizarre picture.

"Are you not jealous of her?" Rose asked candidly, knowing the Duchess Mazarin was yet another of the king's mistresses.

Nell gave a good-natured shrug. "She has Charles's attention for the moment, but when all is said and done, he will always come searching for my bed. For I love him, and I don't believe the lovely Hortense has it in her to love anyone. She has a brilliant mind, but beneath it she's colder than the Thames in January."

Rose slanted a glance to Louise de Kéroualle, who was watching Hortense and glowering. "It seems the Duchess of Portsmouth doesn't share your lack of concern."

"She has something to fret about," Nell said with a saucy grin. Taking Rose by the arm, she started toward the Duchess Mazarin. "Louise is a passing fancy for Charles as well, and the coming of Hortense may well mean the end of her reign. Even a king can spread himself only so thin," she added with a laugh.

"Why does Charles like either of them?" Rose wondered aloud.

"He's a man," Nell told her with another shrug. "His head is turned by a pretty face. Louise is a beauty, and as for Hortense, you must agree she's gorgeous."

Drawing closer to the duchess's rare loveliness, Rose could only nod. Waist-length raven hair framed Hortense's perfect face. Her flawless Mediterranean skin set off large violet eyes that seemed to change color as she moved.

Nell lowered her voice. "Charles fancied himself in love with her years ago, while she was but fifteen and he still in exile on the Continent. He proposed to her twice. But she thought his prospects poor, and more importantly, so did her guardian, the Cardinal Mazarin. If either had foreseen that Charles would someday regain his crown, today she'd be a queen. Instead, she's forced to live off her keepers."

They drew up before the duchess just as she sent her little Moorish boy off to fetch refreshment. As the child trotted away obediently, Nell swept Hortense a theatrical curtsy. "Your grace, may I present Lady Rose Ashcroft, the Earl of Trentingham's daughter. Lady Rose, this is Hortense, the Duchess Mazarin."

"Lady Rose. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." The duchess's accent was melodious, an intriguing mixture of her native Italian and the many years she'd spent in France. "I've been told," she added, raising one arched black brow, "that you're in possession of a rare copy of I Sonetti."

"You've heard correctly," Rose admitted, unsurprised. Why should this stranger be the only soul at court who didn't know?

"Then you speak Italian?"

"Among other languages." After saying that without thinking, Rose glanced quickly around and was relieved to see that Gabriel still hadn't appeared.

"An intellectual!" Hortense exclaimed with such enthusiasm Rose half expected her to clap her hands. "You must come to my salon, then."

"Your salon?"

"A weekly gathering of great minds in my apartments at St. James's Palace. We discuss all manner of subjects. Philosophy, religion, history, music, art, ancient and modern literature…"

It sounded like something Violet would love, but Rose didn't share her sister's passion for scholarly debate. Not to mention she suspected the Duke of Bridgewater would find it a bore. Still, it wouldn't do to snub a duchess. "Perhaps someday I'll join you," she said.

"I'm looking forward to it," Hortense said as her little Moor returned with a cup of steaming coffee. "Why, thank you, Mustapha." She patted him on the head, prompting a smile. His teeth looked very large and white in his dark face as he reclaimed his post by her side.

As she sipped, Hortense's gaze strayed to Louise de Kéroualle. "Look at her," she said to Nell with a roll of her amazing eyes. "She's wearing black again."

Rose looked, too. Louise's gown was exquisite, but clearly meant to convey grief. "Why black?"

Nell snorted as only Nell could snort. "That hoity-toity French duchess sets up to be of superior quality. If you listen to her, everyone of rank in France is her cousin. The moment some grand lord or lady over there dies, she orders a new mourning gown."

"Who died?" Rose asked.

"Doubtless some minor prince." Nell set one of her small hands upon a curvy hip. "I wonder, I do, if Louise is of such high station, why is she such a whore? I was born to be a whore, so I hold that I've done quite well for myself. But she was reared to be a lady—don't you think she should blush in shame?"

Hortense laughed at that, and her laughter was no feminine tinkle. It did her outfit rather proud.

Rose glanced again at Louise. "Does the Duchess of Portsmouth have a black eye?"

Nell nodded. "An unfortunate accident, she calls it. But I overheard two ladies saying she'd done it deliberately, to make her pale skin darker like the Duchess Mazarin."

To judge from her braying laughter, the Duchess Mazarin thought that a fine jest.

"Lady Rose."

Rose turned to see the Duke of Bridgewater. "Your grace! I was wondering if you'd attend tonight."

"You look as though you've been having a fine time without me."

His tone implied he was less than thrilled to find her socializing with two of Charles's mistresses. And now that she thought on it, Rose was a bit scandalized herself. But the truth was she felt more comfortable with these women than she did with most of the people here at court.

Gabriel was the exception, though. Other than proving a tad more amorous than she'd prefer, he'd been the perfect gentleman. "I'm glad you came," she told him, meaning it.

He drew her a safe distance away. "Where are your earrings?"

She knew she should have worn them. "I adore them, your grace, but they didn't match my gown."

"Well, then, these should match whatever you choose to wear." He fished a tiny silk pouch from his pocket. "A token of my esteem, my lady."

Rose drew open the drawstring and poured a pair of diamond drops into her hand. The stones winked in the torchlight. "Your grace! They are beautiful!"

She should have known he would come up with something to outshine all those other men.

"I'm pleased that you like them," he said, moving close to fasten them on her ears. "Would you care to dance?"

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

"Rosslyn." Kit looked up from the sketch he was making of Rose and quickly flipped it over. "What brings you here tonight?"

The earl wandered the drawing room of Kit's building-in-progress, touching a panel here, eyeing the level there. "Just seeing how you're coming along." He squinted up at the half-painted ceiling. "You've pulled it off, Martyn, haven't you? I knew you could do it."

Kit glanced overhead at the fat, smiling cherubs the Duchess of Cleveland had requested, thinking, not for the first time, that they didn't really fit her. The king's longtime mistress was known to be anything but cherubic. "Something wrong up there?"

"Not at all. It's stunning, in fact." Rosslyn lowered his pale blue gaze to meet Kit's. "Mind if I look around?"

"As you wish."

Kit lit a second candle and handed it to the man, then followed closely behind. Not that he had anything to hide. But the last of his men had just left, and he always checked everything one final time before leaving himself.

During the past few days he'd been over every inch of the apartments time and again. Nothing seemed out of place. The materials were up to standard, and there was no sign of sabotage, fire or otherwise. Apart from some understandable grumbling when Kit kept them long hours, no one on the job seemed unhappy. No one had sighted Harold Washburn, either.

Apparently the man hadn't set the fire at Whitehall—or, at the very least, he'd heeded Kit's warning and was keeping clear now.

"Very nice." In the master bedchamber, Rosslyn nodded at a carved mantelpiece. "Gibbons's work, I presume?"

"Yes."

"You always have insisted on the best." His walking stick tapped as he continued his rambling inspection. "Winning the post of Deputy Surveyor would be best of all, wouldn't it?"

Kit followed the man into the dining room, watching the long tails of his lavender surcoat flap behind him. "It's only an interim goal. I won't be satisfied until the Surveyor General post is mine."

Rosslyn turned to face him. "I'll alert Mr. Wren that you're angling to take his place."

"Sir Christopher Wren," Kit reminded him. "But I doubt he'll find that a revelation."

The earl waved an elegant hand. "I was jesting. Can you not take a jest?"

In long years of schooling together, Kit couldn't remember Rosslyn—Lord Gaylord Craig at the time—jesting even once. "Sorry," he said. "I suppose I'm a bit serious these days."

"Understandable, my friend." Rosslyn smiled. "Well, I expect I had better get back to court. Excellent job here, Martyn." Still tapping, he retraced his steps to the entrance. "Excellent job, indeed."

As Rosslyn walked out, Kit was only half surprised to see Rose's mother walk in. "Lady Trentingham. I didn't know you'd come to Hampton Court."

"Good evening, Kit." She watched Rosslyn's retreating back, then turned to Kit in a swish of yellow skirts. "A friend of yours, is he?"

"An old schoolfellow. Now my rival for the post I'm seeking. He came to check out the competition."

"He doesn't seem to be working very hard to win the post. From what I've seen, he spends all his time at court."

Kit shrugged. "An earl doesn't have to prove himself the way a common man does." He could be bitter about that, but he'd long ago decided not to waste his time raging over life's inequities. Better to spend one's energies overcoming them. "How did you get in here?" he asked. "The only way is through the privy gardens."

He hadn't thought to ask the same of Rosslyn.

Her brown eyes lit with intrigue. "I had the most lovely conversation with the guard at the gate. It seems he is lonely and desirous of a wife. Since by all appearances he's a perfectly nice man, I promised to send Rose's maid Harriet over to meet him after I complete my business here. Lovely girl, Harriet."

"I'm sure she is." The privy garden was supposed to be private to the king. Kit wondered if he should alert Charles that his guard was so easily bribed. "And what is your business?"

"Oh, I just wanted to see how you were faring. My husband, naturally, is anxious for you to get back to work on his greenhouse."

"Naturally."

"So how are you faring?"

"Without my presence here the project has fallen slightly behind schedule, but not so far that the time cannot be made up." The bonuses he'd promised would ensure it. "Everything seems to be in order."

"Seems?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "This nagging voice in my head keeps insisting something is wrong." Something he was missing. No matter that his countless inspections proved otherwise, he couldn't shake the feeling that he should reject what was on the surface.

"Hmm. And with Rose?"

He would never get used to Lady Trentingham's abrupt changes of subject. "Rose?"

"You don't seem to be making much progress."

He felt his face reddening as he recalled their intimate moments in the orangery. He'd made progress, all right. On every front but persuading her to marry him. "I'm working on it."

"Such a shame your work has kept you so occupied."

"Yes. Well…" He might as well come out and say it. "Architecture is my life, Lady Trentingham. Though I hope to make Rose my life, too, she will always have to share my attention with my work."

"I wouldn't want to see her wed an idle fool…too much attention can be as detrimental as too little. But I hope you wouldn't ignore her, either."

"Never." In fact, he imagined that Rose, above anything, could well prove to distract him.

She nodded thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about my Rose. I do believe she's the most romantic of all my daughters."

"Romantic?"

"Indeed. Violet, you may not know, is quite pragmatic and logical. And Lily, bless her heart, is straightforward as they come. Love, for Lily, either is or isn't…though if a being is alive, she's likely to place it in the former category." She smiled, the soft smile of a loving mother. "But Rose…"

"You're saying a bit of romancing might be in order? Along with the…the…"

"Seduction, yes. It would certainly not be amiss."

"Yes. Well. I think I'm finished here for now." He tucked the sketch of Rose into the building's plans and began rolling them up together. "I believe I'll take this back to my rooms and go over everything once again. Can I walk you back to court first?"

"Not to court, but to my own apartments would be lovely. I must fetch Harriet and see that she meets the charming guard at the gate."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

As the evening wore on, Rose received a brooch in the shape of a bow set with precious gemstones, a locket filled with a hopeful suitor's hair, another bouquet of flowers, and two more proposals. Every unmarried man, it seemed, had proposed.

Except the duke.

There were a few new men attending court here at the palace, but they seemed ruder than those Rose had met at Windsor. One of them didn't even ask her to dance before maneuvering her behind the tall, exquisitely painted screen that set off one end of the Presence Chamber, serving the same purpose as the curtains in Windsor's drawing room.

Out of curiosity she'd allowed some of the men to kiss her, but none of their kisses had affected her anything like Kit's. More disturbingly, their hands seemed to wander boldly as they murmured about I Sonetti and asked if she'd share its secrets.

I Sonetti. Taking a cup of spiced wine from the refreshment table, Rose found herself wishing she were back at Trentingham giggling over the book with her sisters. Or, no—she wished she'd never seen the thing at all. It had brought her nothing but trouble…whoever would think she could earn a wild reputation by simply possessing a book? More than anything, she wished she could find a way to get back to Windsor and return the volume to Ellen.

All her life she'd yearned to come to court, but now that she was here she was finding it tedious beyond belief. It was a sad day when she found chatting with the king's mistresses more enjoyable than dancing with handsome men.

"My lady." Another man bowed before her. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of an introduction."

"Lady Rose Ashcroft," she said flatly, barely stifling a yawn. Her flirtatious nature seemed to have deserted her somewhere around the fourth or fifth kiss.

He swept her an even deeper bow. "The Earl of Featherstonehaugh. Would you honor me with a dance?"

He'd said the magic words. "It would be my pleasure." She hesitated to saddle herself with his too-long name and wished it were spelled Fanshaw—the way it was pronounced—but she'd long since given up searching for perfection. At least he was polite enough to ask for a dance. And he hadn't mentioned the blasted book. Perhaps, being a newcomer, he hadn't heard about it.

She downed the rest of her wine, handed her cup to a serving maid, then let him lead her onto the dance floor. The musicians were playing a lively country tune, and the accompanying dance was performed in two lines, not affording much chance for conversation. Instead, she sized up the earl as they progressed.

He was a certified fop. His wide, powdered periwig draped in curls down his fuchsia brocade-clad chest. Long rows of fancy solid gold buttons adorned both his coat and waistcoat, and the coat flapped open with the movements of the dance, flashing a blinding yellow satin lining. In addition, the abundance of white lace that spilled from his cravat and cuffs was enough to choke a horse.

His outfit, she decided, would look much better on the Duchess Mazarin.

But if he turned out to be a good kisser, perhaps she could teach him how to dress more to her liking. It would no doubt prove easier than teaching a good dresser how to kiss. Feeling a bit more cheerful, she gave him a wide smile as the dance ended.

Evidently he took her smile the wrong way, because the next thing she knew, she found herself propelled behind the screen. Heaving an internal sigh, she tilted her face up for his kiss. As long as he had her here, she might as well find out how he measured up in that department. No sense mentally ordering new clothes if the fellow left her cold.

But he surprised her by dropping to a cushioned stool and reaching to pull her onto his lap.

"What are you doing?" she cried.

One arm snaked over her shoulder. His fingers slipped inside her gown and clamped a tender breast while his other hand went around her waist and began pulling her skirts up in bunches. He tilted her head back and crushed his mouth down on hers, at the same time shoving one leg between her two and twisting to wrap the other around and over her knee.

"Let go!" She tore her mouth free and reached back to brace herself, to push herself away, but his body covered the stool and her hands found no purchase. "What the devil do you think you're doing?"

His fingers still working at her skirts, he surged against her until she could feel his arousal through his breeches and her clothes. "Position Ten," he grunted. "Haven't you been dying to try it?"

With an outraged gasp, she finally managed to twist off his lap and whirled to slap him on the face.

As her hand connected with his cheek, the priceless screen crashed to the floor, the musicians stopped playing, and Gabriel arrived like an avenging angel. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she spat, rubbing her palm where it hurt. "He, however, is a rutting lout!"

The duke nodded, then turned to Featherstonehaugh, murder in his eyes. "Choose your second," he grated through gritted teeth, his fingers working to untie the peace strings that prevented his sword from being drawn.

The entire court had gone quiet, frozen as though in a tableau. The Earl of Featherstonehaugh remained silent. All that could be heard was Gabriel's harsh breathing and the scraping sound of his rapier as he pulled it from its scabbard.

"Outside," he demanded. "Now."

And then everyone seemed to be moving.

Stunned, Rose just stood there a moment as it slowly sank in that the duke had challenged the earl to a duel.

Over her.

Ignoring all etiquette, Bridgewater didn't give the man till morning. Instead he dragged him from the building and into Clock Court. The courtiers followed en masse. Rose snapped from her trance and hurried after them, fearing for Gabriel's life.

She heard the clash of swords before she reached the courtyard, but the cheers and catcalls from the crowd of onlookers were even louder. The men's rapiers flashed in the torchlight. Her heart pounding, she wedged herself into the circle, wincing at each ringing bash.

It wasn't long, however, before her concern for Gabriel turned to terror on behalf of the poor earl.

The man obviously paid more attention to his wardrobe than his swordsmanship, because it rapidly became clear that the duke was but toying with him. A flick here, and a few of the man's precious buttons went missing from his coat. A swipe there, and half his lace cravat fluttered to the stones. Featherstonehaugh waved his own sword so ineffectively that Rose reckoned even she could do better.

Raging anger was evident in Gabriel's eyes, in his clenched jaw, in his carefully controlled movements. Panic clutched at Rose's throat. The rutting lout had acted abominably, but she had no wish to witness his death, most especially if it happened in defense of her.

"Gabriel!" she shouted, taking a step forward and then another when he paid her no attention. "Don't kill him! Gabriel, don't—"

"Hush," came a voice from the crowd. Warm arms went around her from behind, pulling her back into the circle as a familiar scent of frankincense and myrrh enveloped her.

"Don't distract him," Kit said quietly in her ear. "Even an expert can falter if his attention is elsewhere. You don't want to be responsible for the duke's death."

"I don't want to be responsible for the earl's murder, either!"

"Hush." One of his hands came up and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. "This cannot be more than a tiff. It won't come to that."

"But what if it does?" she wailed, trying to struggle free.

His arms tightened. "Just watch. The duke is all but finished."

And so he was. He'd run out of buttons to flick off the other man's coat, and although not a drop of blood had been spilled, the brocade itself was in shreds. In addition to being half naked, the earl was thoroughly humiliated.

Disgust marring his fine features, Gabriel knocked the sword from Featherstonehaugh's hand with an easy twist of his wrist. Then, while the earl was busy gasping, he reached out and nicked him under his chin—a cut so tiny only a single bead of red leaked out.

"First blood," he claimed as he shoved his rapier back into its scabbard. "You lose. Touch her again and your head will come off next time."

It was over. Kit's arms dropped from around Rose as babbling broke out among the assembled courtiers. She couldn't tell whether the chatter signaled approval or disappointment. Maybe it was a bit of both.

Louise de Kéroualle turned to her, her eyes wide and sparkling. "Nothing this exciting has happened in weeks!"

Rose suspected the duchess was happy to see everyone's attention focused on something other than her embarrassing black eye, which had made her the butt of much nasty teasing. But better everyone look to Louise for their entertainment. Now that the spectacle had ended, more than one gaze shifted Rose's way. Ladies whispered behind their fans. She couldn't fathom what they were saying, but she wanted no part of this.

She turned to Kit. "Take me away from here."

"Lady Rose!" Courtiers dispersed as Gabriel strode toward her. "I'd like a word with you, if you will."

Kit shrugged, swiped a roll of linen off the ground, and walked away.

Rose faced the duke. "Yes?"

"In private."

Still shaky, she let him take her arm and lead her from the courtyard, under Henry VIII's clock tower, and into Base Court. Her high heels wobbled on the cobblestone paths that crisscrossed the grass, but Gabriel seemed happy enough to steady her. In the galleries, a few lights flickered from apartments where courtiers had sought their lodgings, but the night was still young, and most everyone was returning to the Presence Chamber.

"My dear Rose," Gabriel started.

"A duel!" she interrupted loudly, the words echoing in the deserted courtyard. "I cannot believe you challenged that fool to a duel."

He hurried her into one of the galleries. The corridor was breezy, but the torches along the walls gave off heat as well as light. "I will never let anyone impugn your honor," he said gallantly.

"I appreciate your sentiments, your grace, but a duel!" The red tiles here were smoother than the cobblestones beneath her feet. She felt steadier, more in control. True, part of her had been secretly thrilled to see a man—a duke, no less!—leap to defend her honor. But a larger part had been terrified. "Not only is dueling barbaric, it's illegal."

As they walked past a diamond-paned window, the glass reflected his elegant shrug. "I don't see anyone rushing to arrest me. Featherstonehaugh deserved it."

"That may be, but I was taking care of him myself."

"You shouldn't have to take care of yourself." They heard the low murmur of people talking in an apartment, and he waited until they'd strolled past it. "Rose, I want to take care of you. I wish to make you my wife."

She stopped walking, the corridor suddenly silent without the rhythmic clicks of her heels. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

He turned to face her and crowded her against the brick wall. It felt rough and cool behind her back. "Yes," he said. "I'm not very good at this, am I? I'm better with actions than words."

He was a duke, and surely that was good enough. A duke, asking for her hand. He tilted his head and moved nearer, brushing her lips with his. His technique really wasn't that bad. He didn't smell of frankincense and myrrh, but he didn't smell unpleasant, either. And he was a duke.

"Rose, will you marry me?"

Of course she would. She wasn't brainless. She opened her mouth. This was what she'd been waiting for. "No."

She blinked and felt as surprised as Gabriel looked. "I'm sorry," she added quickly. Out of habit she almost added that her heart belonged to another, but surely that wasn't true. "I must go," she said instead.

Avoiding his stunned gaze, she sidestepped free and ran down the gallery toward her lodging. The heavy old door creaked when she opened it. She slammed it shut and leaned back against the thick wood, a hand to her trembling mouth.

How could she have refused him? Had she not been waiting for this proposal? Had she not come here to Hampton Court hoping to receive it? Had she not refused other perfectly suitable men because she wanted a duke?

How could she have turned down a duke—and a perfectly nice one, at that? One who had fought and risked his life for her? Never mind that he'd fenced circles around the earl—he couldn't have known the man was so incompetent when he issued the challenge.

There was nothing for it. She would have to seek him out and change her answer to yes.

But not tonight. She couldn't face him tonight. Furious at herself, she straightened and wandered toward the bedchamber. "Mum? Harriet?"

It was empty. "Harriet, where are you?"

No one was here. Not her mother, not her maid, not her mother's maid, either. She threw herself facedown on the bed.

The boned bodice of her gown poked into her, so after a moment she rolled over. But there were whalebone splints in the back, too, not to mention the bulky lacing that ran down her spine.

Where the devil was Harriet? Rose cursed the maid along with whatever fool was responsible for dictating court fashion. She'd claimed to be able to care for herself—well, she could slap an impudent courtier, all right, but she couldn't manage to undress herself when her blasted gown was laced down her back.

The apartment was too silent. She sat up and sighed. She didn't really want to undress—she'd been hoping to finally try gaming tonight.

But first she would take a walk—a calming walk, out in Hampton Court's immense public gardens—and steel herself to change her answer to Gabriel tomorrow.

She'd bet the Duchess of Bridgewater would never find herself without a maid.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Notebook, ruler, and rope in hand, Kit left his assigned lodging in Master Carpenter's Court and made his winding way through the palace.

Base Court smelled of cut grass, and it was quiet after the excitement of the duel earlier. Or at least it should have been quiet. As Kit approached the covered passage known as the Great Chamber, an odd pounding reached his ears. "Open up!" a woman shouted, clearly agitated.

That reminded him of Rose's agitation earlier this evening. He wondered what had possessed him to try to soothe her during the duel. After all, she'd flatly turned down his proposal, and given that she'd nearly gone out of her mind at seeing the duke put his life at risk, it was clear she seemed bent on marrying the lucky bastard.

Regardless of her mother's encouragement, Kit liked to think he was a man who knew when to give up.

Crossing in front of the Great Chamber, he looked to see who was making such a racket, then stopped and stared. As though he'd conjured her with his musings, there stood Rose, banging her fists on the huge oak doors that led to the bridge over Hampton Court's moat.

"Rose!" he called. Apparently he had yet to give up. "Wherever do you think you're going?"

She turned, her hands clenched at her sides. "To the gardens, if a guard will ever be pleased to let me out. I wish to take a peaceful, solitary walk."

He stepped deeper into the musty passageway. She looked beautiful in her anger, her eyes shining with a luster that matched the pearls on her fancy gown. "It's not wise to go out there alone at night," he warned. "The privy garden would be safer."

"I'm not allowed in the privy garden. Don't you know the meaning of the word privy?"

"I can get you inside. I'm on my way there now."

"To do what?" she asked, glancing at the assortment of items he carried.

"My project is there. The new apartments for the king's old mistress Barbara. I wish to check…everything," he finished with a sigh.

A trickle of water dripped from somewhere overhead. "Have you found something amiss?" she asked.

"Not yet. But I've a feeling in my bones that something's wrong. I intend to measure every square foot of the building." It was a fool's task, he feared, as well as a long, tedious one. But he wouldn't rest easy until he'd completed it. And he needed to do it when no one was watching, trying to distract him—or worse, covering anything up. "Come along. Their Majesties are at court, so the garden will afford you the solitude you're seeking."

She grabbed a lantern off the ground. "I shall help you measure."

In the torchlight that danced on the old brick walls, he gazed at her. "Why?"

Her dark eyes grew hooded. "I have nothing else to do. I've no wish to return to court until later, when the gaming is underway. And your task would go faster with help, would it not? I've been called selfish, but I like to think I would be there to help a friend."

He wondered about some of her brave speech, not least why she hesitated to return to court. But he focused on her last sentence. "Are we friends, Rose?"

"Yes," she said firmly, and then more uncertainly, "I hope so."

A part of him—the part that didn't know when to give up—still hoped for more than her friendship. But it would do for now. "Come on, then," he said. "Lead the way."

She raised the lantern and started across Base Court, teetering a little on the cobblestones in her fashionable high heels. Such a lady, his Rose.

"Does this feel like a cloister to you?" he found himself asking.

She glanced around as they walked. "Maybe. A little. Why?"

"I keep thinking Cardinal Wolsey built this place like an Italian cardinal's palace. Something about the feel of it, the layout. Henry the Eighth would have ruined it when he rebuilt, but underneath…"

They crossed Clock Court, Rose's measured steps matching the cadence of Henry's great astronomical timepiece. "Are there records of the construction?"

"None of which I'm aware." He sighed. "Someday I hope to see an actual cardinal's palace. To journey to Italy and stand in the middle of one and see if I'm right, if it feels the same as this."

He waited for her to say she'd like to come with him, but she didn't. Her skirts swished against the cobblestones, and as they passed the fountain with its paltry gurgle of water, hoots of revelers filtered down from the Presence Chamber.

"The court seems in high spirits following the duel," he remarked.

"I'm sure they are," she replied dryly. "Louise said it was the most exciting thing that's happened in weeks."

"Why aren't you with them?"

She clamped her lips and walked faster, entering Cloister Green Court.

And there she stopped. "Listen." The courtyard was bordered by the king's and queen's apartments on two of its four sides. "Do you hear Charles's dogs? How odd—he usually keeps them with him at court."

He suppressed a smile. "You're not hearing Charles's dogs."

"I am. Can't you hear them yipping?"

"It's not dogs you hear, Rose. It's people."

"People? Doing what?" Her eyes narrowed and then widened. "You cannot mean…"

Despite his efforts, a grin broke free. "Yes."

"It's a couple making love?" Trust her to say it out loud when he'd avoided being direct. In a complete reversal of mood, a little giggle escaped her lips. "Good God, do people really sound like that in bed?"

"Some people," he said, struggling to maintain his dignity. "Not everyone."

More giggles filled the courtyard, mad giggles, giggles that warmed his heart. "I-I'm n-never g-going to y-yip like that," she choked out as the yipping went on. "Gemini, would you listen to her? She sounds as though she's in pain!"

He thought he heard a little snort, but surely Rose wouldn't snort. "She's not in pain, I assure you," he said, giving in and laughing along with her.

He'd never in his life laughed so much as he had since he met Rose. It felt good. Lest he drop them, he set down his things and put his hands on her shoulders, and she felt good.

"With any other man," she chortled as the yipping built to a crescendo, "I'd have pretended I didn't hear that."

"You thought it was dogs," he reminded her. "You couldn't have pretended."

"Well, a courtier wouldn't have pointed out my mistake."

The yipping stopped while Kit just stared at her.

"I didn't intend that in a negative fashion," she said quickly in the sudden quiet. "I'm very glad we're friends."

Kit was glad, too, but he feared that was all they'd ever be.

After a spell of silence, she drew a deep, audible breath. "I feel small here," she whispered. "In the dark with the towering buildings all around looming over us."

He squeezed her shoulders. "I know what you mean."

"Look at all the different shaped chimneys silhouetted against the sky." She gazed up for a quiet moment, then lowered her eyes to meet his. "It must be wonderful to create something so monumental."

She knew. She knew how he felt. "I'm only creating one building," he reminded her.

"Still, it will be part of this whole." Her sigh sounded wistful, calmer than before their bout of laughter. "Show me what you're creating."

He scooped up his things and guided her out the back of the palace, nodding to the sleepy guard. Before them, lime trees stretched into the dark distance, and moonlight reflected off Charles's Long Water, a manmade canal inspired by one at Versailles. Kit drew Rose to the right, where at the corner of the palace another guarded gate marked the entrance to the privy gardens.

"Harriet!" Rose exclaimed. "Whatever are you doing here?"

In the torchlight from the gatehouse, her maid blushed. "Just passing the time, milady. Your mother introduced me to Walter." Harriet motioned to the guard. "You haven't need of me, have you?"

"I certainly do…not" Rose shook her head. "No, not right now."

When Kit pushed open the gate, Walter cleared his throat. "The garden is for the king's pleasure only, I'm afraid."

"I'm here to work," Kit said succinctly.

"At this hour?" The man looked between them. "With her? Pardon me, Mr. Martyn, but it doesn't seem as though—"

"She's volunteered to assist me." Kit raised his supplies.

"Ah, let them go," Harriet cajoled with much more familiarity than Kit expected from one so newly introduced. "Trust me, Walter, my mistress won't be dallying with the likes of him."

That attitude, unfortunately, Kit did expect. As he ushered Rose through the opened gate, the fragile closeness he'd felt in Cloister Green Court disappeared like sawdust in the wind.

"Trust my mother to find a suitor for my maid," Rose grumbled. "She thinks she can match every last soul with his or her perfect mate."

Kit shut the gate. "Do her introductions often result in marriages?"

"Usually, which is annoying as anything."

He hid a smile. "Not to the people involved, I'll wager."

"Well, she's not involving me." She hurried toward the new construction. "Show me what you're building."

He walked her through the new apartments, the main rooms and all the bedchambers for the Duchess of Cleveland and the five children she'd borne King Charles. Most of them were all but grown already, but the king had granted them titles, and he played a large part in their lives.

"The chambers are bare yet," he told Rose, "but they will be rich. Charles is sparing no expense."

"Isn't Barbara living in Paris now?"

"Yes, but he knows she'll be back."

"I understand he doesn't stay at Hampton Court often. Word has it he prefers Windsor and Whitehall."

"All the more reason to give her a home here," he said with a half smile. It was common knowledge that Charles was long finished with his old mistress, but he valued their offspring and would support her so long as she should live.

After the tour, Rose held the lantern for Kit while he measured and made notes.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Something off. Not to plan. I won't be able to tell here, but I'll take the notes back to my quarters and review every inch." Her sensuous rose scent was distracting. "What did you mean," he asked, "when you said earlier tonight that you didn't want to be responsible for the earl's death?"

Though he was busy measuring, he heard her tight swallow. "The duke wouldn't have been fighting the earl if not for me."

"You?" Jotting a note, he looked up. "The duel was over you?"

"Yes." Her face looked pale in the lamplight. "The earl took…liberties that were out of line."

"Liberties?"

"With my person. He was trying to…well, he was trying to act out an engraving in a book he'd heard I possess." Kit's face must have shown his confusion, because she rushed to clarify. "It's called I Sonetti Lussuriosi."

"I Sonetti? Weren't virtually all the copies burned by the Vatican? Where on earth did you find one?"

"It's Ellen's," she said, then clapped her hand over her mouth. "Don't tell her I told you."

"We're not talking, remember?" That must have been the book Ellen had brought that evening to Windsor, the one she'd asked Rose to translate. He should have known it was something licentious. Ellen had never been bookish, and yet she'd been engrossed. "Besides, I don't even want to think about my baby sister owning that book."

Despite everything, Rose grinned. "She's a married woman, Kit."

He looked away, stretching his rope to make another measurement. "I don't want to think about that, either." He counted the knots spaced at one-foot intervals, adding swiftly in his head. "Regardless, Featherstonehaugh had no right to maul you." The mere thought made him seethe. "Simply owning a book does not make one a loose woman."

"Exactly what I think!" She moved to help, holding one end of the rope up to a beam. "Yet the entire court seems to have jumped to that conclusion."

As he fed out the rope, he glanced over at her. "As your friend, I wonder if you're doing something else to give that impression."

She looked like she didn't want to believe that. "Men," she said, "will be men."

He cocked a brow.

"Well, I did ask a few men to kiss me."

"A few?"

"Only the unmarried ones," she said, managing to sound indignant.

Unreasoned jealousy surged through him. "All the unmarried ones?"

"There aren't that many. And good God, Kit, they were just kisses."

Rose was a sensual creature. He knew how easily she could be coaxed past kisses. Hell, even without inviting their attentions, he couldn't imagine the men here at court keeping their hands off her. They were lechers, one and all. "It's no wonder the duke had to come to your rescue."

"He didn't rescue me—I rescued myself quite well, thank you. I believe the earl has my handprint on his face to prove it." He'd finished measuring, so she dropped her end of the rope. "The duel is the result of a misplaced sense of possession. The duke wishes to marry me."

In the midst of writing another number, Kit froze. He was well aware that Rose was desirous of wedding Bridgewater, but he hadn't realized the damned duke returned her feelings. "He's asked you, then?"

"Yes. I refused him."

He released a pent-up breath. "You seem to make that a habit."

"I do, don't I?" she said with a sigh.

He wished he knew what that sigh meant.

"My, Harriet, you've been out here a long time."

The maid startled and pulled her lips from the guard's, smoothing down her skirt. "Please forgive me, Lady Trentingham."

Walter's face flamed red in the torchlight. "My lady—"

"I saw nothing." Chrystabel waved a hand. "I'm looking for Rose."

"Oh! Lady Rose is in the privy garden, working with Mr. Martyn." Harriet hurried to open the gate.

"Is she?" With a smile, Chrystabel reached out and shut it. "I'll just let her be, then. I imagine they're doing something important, and I wouldn't want to interrupt."

The news that Kit had managed to get Rose alone—tonight of all nights—lightened her heart. She'd heard about the duel from the duke himself, along with his complaint that Rose had dismissed his suit. After he'd drawn his sword for her, no less, he'd pointed out with an affronted sniff.

She'd silently sent up a cheer.

Things were looking up. "Thank you," she said, turning to leave.

"Lady Trentingham?"

She swiveled back. "Yes, Harriet?"

"I shall report to your lodging forthwith."

"Take your time, dear. I expect Rose will be busy for quite a while. And you and Walter have much to discuss."

The maid exchanged a puzzled look with the guard. "Discuss?"

"Will he leave the king's employ and take a post at Trentingham, or will you find a position here? A major decision, don't you think?"

Chrystabel imagined both their mouths falling open as she made her way back into the palace. But she was certain their relationship would come to that, soon if not this night.

Her matchmaking instincts were all but infallible.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

By the time Kit made the last measurement, Rose had long since slipped off her high heels. Carrying them, she followed him out of the building to find the sun was peeking over the horizon, gilding the privy garden in golden morning light.

"Parterre a l'anglais," she murmured, mentally comparing the area to her father's exquisitely planted gardens.

Kit shut the door behind them. "Parterre a what?"

"Literally it means 'English floor,' but you must imagine it said in a derisive French tone." She grinned at his quick smile, adding, "It refers to the English preference for smooth turf like this, rather than their own intricate figured parterres."

Hampton Court's privy garden was divided into simple, plain grass quarters, each with a single statue: Venus and Cleopatra in brass, and Adonis and Apollo in marble. In the center of it all sat Arethusa above a great black marble fountain with only a trickle of water.

"It is rather pathetic," Kit admitted. "I've heard the fountains in Italy gush water."

Rose shifted both her shoes to one hand. "I can see why Charles is putting his discarded mistress out here—I imagine he rarely visits this garden himself."

"I'd wager he does," he disagreed. "He needs places all his own, whether beautiful or not. The poor man cannot even dine or dress without people watching."

Rose had never thought of the king as poor, but she supposed Kit had a point. Court etiquette could be tedious, she thought through a yawn.

"It's morning," she suddenly realized. "We've been up all night."

"I'm used to it," Kit muttered.

"I'm not. Do you know, I've only stayed up all night once before, and I was with you then, too—the night we deciphered Rand's brother's diary. You're a bad influence," she accused with a weary smile.

"You can sleep today. God knows nothing happens at Hampton Court while the sun shines. For the court, anyway. My crew will be arriving any minute, though; we'd best leave before we're discovered."

He put a hand to her back, guiding her toward the gate, and Rose realized it was the first time he'd touched her since they'd laughed in Cloister Green Court. They'd passed the long hours of the night working and talking. He hadn't tried to kiss her even once, let alone found an excuse for a furtive caress.

Apparently he'd accepted her refusal of his proposal. Which was a good thing, she told herself firmly. She was grateful to retain his friendship, and it was easier this way, because it would be hard to keep saying no.

But she was unaccountably sad at the thought of never kissing him again.

Walter was no longer at the gate; an older guard nodded as they passed though. No sooner had they rounded the corner of the building than they heard masculine voices and the stomp of boots.

"The workmen." Kit grabbed her hand. "We cannot let them see us." With that, he began running along the perimeter of the palace, pulling her along with him.

She dropped one of her shoes. "Wait!"

"We'll return for it!" he said without slowing.

By the time they rounded another corner and skidded to a stop, they were both huffing and puffing. When he released her hand, she felt a loss. "Safe," he declared with a breathless laugh. "I don't think they saw us."

Her chest was heaving, and she noticed him noticing. "Whyever does it matter?"

His gaze returned to her face. "If one of them is sabotaging this project, I don't want him to know I'm investigating. They'll all be hard at work in a few minutes. Then we can sneak into the palace."

"Like spies," she said with a smile, wishing he was still touching her.

"Like spies." He grinned, glancing around the extensive public gardens. "In the meantime, I've been hankering to check out the maze."

"Not the maze," she said with a groan. "I despise mazes. I always get lost."

"If you know the left-hand rule, it's impossible to get lost."

"How is that?"

"I'll show you. We won't get lost." Apparently noting her skeptical expression, he took her hand again and began walking. "Besides, I reckon I can make it fun to get lost."

Something had changed in the quality of his voice, something that made bubbles start pinging in Rose's stomach. The grass felt cool and springy beneath her stockinged feet. "I missed the gaming again," she realized.

"I'm sorry," he said, not sounding at all sincere.

"I thought it would be fun if I could win enough for a new gown."

"At court?" He chuckled. "A gown is a mere pittance. Word has it the Duchess Mazarin lost ten thousand last week on a single bet."

"Ten thousand pounds?"

He nodded. "Pounds."

"That's my whole inheritance!" Perhaps it was just as well that she'd missed the gaming. "I've got better things to do with my money."

"You have big plans for it, then?"

"Unlike my dowry, it's mine. I won't belong to my husband."

He slanted her a glance. "I'm not in need of it. I cannot speak for the duke."

The thought startled her. The truth was, she had no idea whether the duke was in need of funds or not. He dressed richly and had given her diamond earrings, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. For all she knew, he could owe his tailor and jeweler a fortune.

"Well, he won't be getting it," she said.

"I admire your conviction. What do you plan to do with it?"

"Maybe I'll give it to Ellen," she said with a sly smile, "so she and Thomas can move their pawnshop to London."

"Be serious."

"Is this more of the getting-to-know-each-other game?"

They'd come to the entrance of the maze. "Tell me," he said softly.

Her sisters had both nurtured dreams since childhood: Violet wanted to publish a philosophy book, and Lily wished to build and staff a home for stray animals. But in truth, Rose had never made such high-minded plans. She'd only ever hoped to find love and be happy.

She'd just never dreamed that goal would prove so difficult.

"I want to travel," she said. "I wish to see the world."

"Travel can be fascinating, but it can also be tiring and tedious. Does the duke enjoy it?"

She had no idea. In fact, she realized now, she knew little of the duke at all. They'd never had a serious conversation, never shared a confidence, never discussed likes, dislikes, values—or much of anything at all.

But she'd spent hours talking to Kit, about anything and everything. They'd become friends before she ever kissed him. She knew he wanted to travel, to Italy and elsewhere.

"Let's go inside," she said. "I'd have you show me this left-hand rule."

The look he gave her made it clear he knew she was avoiding his question. But he took her remaining shoe and set it down with his own things, then led her inside the tall hedge maze.

"Put your left hand on the wall as we walk," he instructed. "And leave it there. Just follow that left wall without breaking contact, and I guarantee you'll find the center without getting lost. Go on," he urged when she hesitated. "I'll follow you."

Slanting him a wary glance, she did as he said, skimming her left hand along the leaves as she marched through the hornbeam hedges. When they reached a dead end, she turned on him. "It didn't work."

"Keep your hand on the wall," he repeated. "Follow it around."

"It's a dead end."

"I didn't say you'd never come to a dead end. I said you wouldn't get lost." He took her left hand, pressed a slow, warm kiss to the palm, then placed it back against the hedge. "Keep going."

She did, but not before releasing a long, shuddering breath. She could still feel his lips on her palm, even as she slid it along the leaves. Why had he done that?

Had he not given up on her?

The towering hedges made the path shady and intimate. At the second dead end, she turned to him again. "This cannot be the optimum route."

"Of course it isn't." He looked amused. "You'd have to know the pattern of the maze to take the optimum route. But this is a safe route. You won't wander the same way twice, and you'll find the center." He pressed a quick kiss to her lips, so fast and light she wondered if she might have imagined it. "Keep going."

At the third dead end she turned to him once more. "This is a waste of time."

"Of course it's a waste of time. It's a maze—there are few things more frivolous." Smiling, he trailed a finger down her cheek to her chin. A frisson of warmth followed. His thumb rubbed her bottom lip. "But there's nothing quite so delightful as wasting time with someone you care for, is there?"

He cared for her. What did that mean, exactly? Too tired to think straight, she held her breath as he leaned close and slowly brushed her mouth with his.

She definitely wasn't imagining this.

Giddy with exhaustion, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. He was right: there was nothing else quite so delightful. Forgetting that she didn't want him, she slid into the kiss, that wonderful heat building in her, making her head feel light and her stomach flutter with excitement.

"Keep going," he whispered when at last he drew back.

Dizzily she trailed a hand along the cool leaves, the trodden dirt path hard under her stockinged feet. At the next dead end, she felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her into his arms. His fingers cupped her face, and as he lowered his mouth to meet hers, his woodsy scent filled her head.

The morning was chilly, but he was so very warm and male. He nibbled here and licked there, coaxing her lips to part. As he deepened the kiss, she surrendered all too willingly, his tongue in her mouth sending more heat spiraling through her.

"Kit," she murmured.

"Hmm?" He kissed both sides of her mouth, where her dimples would be if she were smiling.

"I think…" She was so lightheaded, her thoughts refused to come together. Was it her exhaustion or his kisses? "Let's keep going."

She felt weak, so weak she could barely keep her hand to the hedges as she went along. Another dead end loomed ahead, and this time she turned to him before they even reached it.

He laughed low, his smile as intimate as a kiss. "I think you're enjoying this maze more than you anticipated." He reached out to tap her mouth, traced her lips, then trailed a finger down her chin, her throat, along the edge of her low décolletage. His gaze went a glittery green as his long finger found the valley between her breasts.

She shivered and went on her toes to press her mouth to his. It was a kiss to fall into, hungry and demanding. Her knees trembled, her throat tightened, and the heat down low grew into a burning ache. By the time he broke away, she was gasping for breath, and she couldn't have held her hand to the wall had her life depended on it.

He scooped her up in his arms, carried her a short distance to the center, and deposited her on a bench.

No one had ever carried her before—at least, not since she was a small child. It was so romantic. She'd felt safe and cherished held against him, and she was sorry the experience hadn't lasted longer.

But she was also sorry there hadn't been more dead ends.

Feeling boneless, she placed her hands on either side of herself for support. The maze's center was an oval, grassy space, a tiny hidden garden with two old trees and the bench between them, nothing more. A secret place that exuded an air of tranquility and the scents of greenery.

Kit stood looming over her. "Told you we'd find the center."

She leaned back on her palms, gazing up at him. "That always works?"

"Well, not necessarily quite so enjoyably," he said with a grin. "But yes, it always works. From a mathematical standpoint, it must."

She shook her head, then stopped when it made her feel woozy. "I was never all that good at mathematics."

"And I cannot speak anything but English." Stepping back, he leaned casually against one of the trees, looking wide awake and utterly handsome. "We all have our strengths, Rose. And our weaknesses. Don't underreckon yourself."

"You don't," she said, knowing it was true.

"I don't what?"

"Underreckon me."

"Of course I don't. I couldn't love a woman if I didn't admire her as well."

That single syllable, love, threw her. She was reeling under Kit's onslaught of seductive actions and words. He quite obviously hadn't given up.

And he admired her.

Did she admire Gabriel? She didn't know. He'd proven himself kind and solicitous and generous, but he'd also kept a pawnbroker's change.

She hadn't slept in more than a day. She was so tired and confused and dizzy. Her knees still shaky, she stood and walked to the other tree, putting the bench between herself and Kit.

She turned away, running her fingers down the trunk, smiling dazedly at the carvings made by others who had found their way to the center. "Look at all the initials," she said quietly. "Hundreds of them. Do you suppose all these people made it here using the left-hand rule?"

His low laugh sounded by her ear, surprising her. "No," he said from right behind her, his voice reawakening that heat in her middle. "I'm sure most of them were lost for hours, both on their way in and on their way back out."

She smiled, the only reaction she could manage at the moment. Not that it mattered, since she was facing away. "You're fooling."

"Maybe. You're tired."

"Definitely."

She felt his fingers on her face, warm and sure, slipping the diamond drop from an ear. Then his lips as he leaned close and drew her lobe into his mouth to suckle it gently. She let her head fall back against him, inhaling his scent, drawing it into her lungs as though it might sustain her.

Maybe it could.

"Romance," he muttered under his breath, pulling away.

Or at least she thought she'd heard him mutter. She straightened woozily and turned to face him. "What?"

"Nothing." He pulled his knife from his belt. "Who do you suppose made all these carvings?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

He moved around the tree, examining all the initials. "Do you think the king has left his mark?" He set his knife to the wood and began scratching. "Or his mistresses? Do you expect any two people have been here who fit together as perfect as we?"

She followed him around and stopped, swaying slightly as she stared. He'd engraved RA and CM, and now he was busy surrounding both with a heart.

Her own heart melted. "Kit," she whispered.

The knife dropped to the dirt as he gathered her into his arms, his mouth on hers tasting of heat and desire. Turning her, he backed her against the tree. He slid the second diamond drop from her ear and slipped it into his pocket, kissing her lobe and nipping it gently. And lower, following the line of her jaw to her throat, playing in that sensitive hollow that made her shiver.

Wanting to taste him as he was tasting her, she raised her hands to unknot his cravat. Slowly she drew it from his neck, placing her lips where it had been as it fluttered to the ground like a white flag of surrender.

A fitting symbol, because surrender she did.

His skin tasted of warmth tinged with salt and Kit, a heady flavor. Her toes curled into the turf. She slipped her hands beneath his surcoat and around his waist, leaning into him, molding her body to his. She wanted this, wanted him, wanted him there where she ached.

She raised her face for his kiss, and when he obliged her, it was a glorious sensation. But she wanted more. Her body was crying for more.

Blindly reaching behind for his hand, she tried to bring it between them, tried to show him what she wanted. She wanted to feel him, too. She wanted to learn the shape of a man, the shape of Kit. She wanted to give him some of the incredible pleasure he'd given her in the orangery.

But he pressed his hips hard against hers, blocking her attempt. "No," he whispered, twisting his hand to grasp her fingers instead. He gave her another light kiss. "Not if you won't have me."

Her senses were spinning, making it hard to absorb his words. "But last week—"

"I let this go too far then, but not again. I won't dishonor you. No."

"Yes…oh, yes…" Her voice went higher in her desperation. "Oh, please, Kit. I want to feel what you can do to me. I want to make you feel it, too."

He squeezed her hand and kissed her again, a sweet, lingering caress that left her mouth burning with desire. Then he let go of her and stepped back.

Looking resolute, he took a big breath and blew it out. "Until you change your mind, sweetheart, you're going to have to make do with kisses."

She looked away, feeling like she should say something but not knowing what.

She'd made a complete fool of herself.

He bent to pick up his knife.

"My earrings," she finally whispered tremulously.

He dug them out of his pocket and dropped them, one by one, into her outstretched palm. "Did the duke give you these, too?" His voice was husky and as shaky as hers.

She swallowed and nodded.

"I'm not giving up without a fight," he said low. "We're too good together. I want you."

God help her, she wanted him, too, and not just because his touch made her forget who she was and what she was after. He was the only man she'd ever met who appreciated her for more than her beauty—who valued her for her intelligence, who was awed by her talent with languages. She wanted Kit more than she'd imagined a woman could want a man.

But in the end, she said nothing, because a duke had offered for her hand. And risked his life defending her honor.

How could she accept an architect over a duke?

The diamonds felt hard in her fist. "I think we'd best go back."

He scooped his cravat off the ground and stuffed it into his pocket.

She straightened her gown. "How do we get out? The right-hand rule?"

His expression eased to the point where he almost cracked a smile. "How about the rule of knowing the way you came in?"

"How many times have you been in this maze?"

"Just the once. But it's a pattern. Geometry."

She nodded slowly. "You're good at geometry."

He met her gaze, his own steady. "If you ever give me a chance to show you, you'll find I'm good at a lot of things. Follow me."

He led her out without one misstep.

Without running into one dead end.

Without any more kisses.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Later that day, Kit was in the midst of a calculation when a knock interrupted.

"One minute," he called, pausing to scribble down a number.

He rose and stretched for a brief moment, then padded across his small lodging to open the door. "Lady Trentingham." He blinked.

How had she found him? The courtiers weren't lodged near Master Carpenter's Court.

"May I come in?"

"Of course," he said, suddenly aware of his state of half-dress: no shoes, no stockings, no coat, no cravat. Just breeches and a shirt, the latter unlaced at the neck and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He began turning them down.

"No need to do that for me," she assured him as she stepped inside. "I've seen a man's arms and feet before. And a chest." Her brown eyes danced with mischief. "Has Rose seen yours?"

"No!" he said quickly.

She gave a mournful shake of her head. "Then you're not doing a very good job. However do you expect her to be consumed by lust if you're always dressed to face a snowstorm?"

He couldn't believe the conversations he found himself in with Rose's mother. He waved her toward one of the two chairs that flanked the Spartan room's small table and took the other for himself. "I gave my word that Rose would remain chaste."

"I haven't forgotten." She sat, fluffing her skirts. "But a little temptation wouldn't be amiss. This is going to take more than kisses."

How did she know he'd scaled it back to kisses? And was she right? Had that been a mistake?

"Have you tried some romance?" she asked.

"I picked her up and carried her. And I carved our initials into a tree trunk. The mere act had me choking back laughter, but she loved it."

"Excellent. You must do some more of that."

He wasn't sure he could come up with anything more. "I'm a very straightforward kind of fellow, Lady Trentingham. I wasn't raised here at court. I'm not good at gallant gestures."

She glanced at the carefully drawn plans he'd spread on the table. "You seem creative enough to me. I'm sure if you put your mind to it, you'll do just fine."

Designing buildings wasn't creative—it was logical, mathematical. Certain requirements had to be met, certain loads had to be supported, certain shapes were inherently beautiful.

But he'd learned by now there was no arguing with Lady Trentingham. "I'll try," he told her.

"Excellent. The fact that Rose refused the duke's proposal after he dueled on her behalf—I take that as a very good sign."

"The duel…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I realize it's not my place to say this, my lady, but matters at court seem to be getting a bit out of hand. I think it might be best if you took Rose and left—as soon as possible."

"We're leaving tomorrow. Her friend Judith is marrying later this week, and she'd never forgive us if we missed her wedding."

"No, I mean you should leave today. Before…" Hoping Rose would forgive him, he plunged on. "Are you aware that your daughter is in possession of a book? A very—"

"I Sonetti?" she interrupted.

"She shared it with you?" He couldn't imagine a mother-daughter relationship like that, but then nothing about the Ashcroft family seemed normal.

Question Convention, he thought with an internal sigh.

Lady Trentingham's lips quirked. "Of course she didn't share it. But she's carried it from place to place for days. I'm not unobservant."

Somehow he didn't find that statement surprising. "Then you'll know why you must leave. Word has gone round that Rose has this book, and people—men—have decided she's…she's…"

"Wild? A wanton?"

"And worse," he snapped. He didn't want to think of Rose like that. And he knew it wasn't really true.

Her mother sighed. "I'm aware of that, too. It's unfortunate, and certainly not in my plans. But she's in no danger of being compromised—"

"I wouldn't be so certain."

"I'm watching her. If it makes you feel any better, keep in mind that those lecherous courtiers may be driving her straight into your arms."

Perhaps she had a point that, in the scheme of things, all those men with wandering hands might be doing him a favor. But that didn't mean he liked it. "Take her home," he begged. "As soon as I've convinced myself that everything is right here, I'll come straight to Trentingham. Without these unwelcome distractions, I'll be able to concentrate my efforts on making her find me irresistible."

"Excellent. But we'll leave tomorrow. Rose would never forgive me if she missed the masked ball. Even now, she's wearing her fingers to nubs sewing blooms on a gown."

"Blooms?"

"Her costume. She's going as a flower arrangement."

Despite his worry, he smiled. It was so Rose. "I thought she would be sleeping."

"She did, for a while. But then she raided the palace's gardens and set both our maids to work. The three of them are stitching madly."

He sighed, giving up. "What are you going as?"

"A mother. I'll watch her, Kit."

"You do that," he said.

But he would watch her, too.

Everything looked so beautiful!

The masked ball was held in the great hall rather than the Presence Chamber, and instead of candelabra and oil lamps, the huge room was lit by liveried yeomen holding tall, flaming torches. Overhead, the gold stars on the painted hammerbeam ceiling winked on their field of bright blue.

Dancers twirled in the blazing light. King Arthur was paired with a glittery-winged butterfly, and Robin Hood danced with Aphrodite. An angel and a devil seemed to be getting along well, and Zeus was kissing Anne Boleyn.

Decked out in a gown covered neckline to hemline with fresh flowers, Rose watched from a corner, drinking in the splendor and trying to puzzle out everyone's identity. All the faces were covered by full or half masks, but a few courtiers weren't difficult to spot.

Beneath Caesar's crown of laurel leaves, his half mask failed to cover King Charles's mustache, and as the tallest man in the room, the monarch's height would have given him away regardless.

The Duchess Mazarin had come as a shepherdess, and her servant Mustapha was her little black sheep. Apparently shepherdesses wore no stays of any sort, because Hortense's ample breasts jiggled against the thin fabric of her peasant blouse every time she laughed—which was often.

Rose was trying her best not to stare.

Other ladies were skimpily garbed as well. A tavern wench's nipples peeked from her low, frilled bodice. A blowzy doxy flitted about in dishabille. A Greek goddess's robes couldn't seem to stay fastened—

"Enjoying yourself?" someone asked, and Rose turned to see Nell Gwyn. Since she was the smallest woman in the chamber, her identity wasn't in doubt. Her half mask of black matched her lovely black gown. But it was, after all, just an ordinary black gown, much like the one she'd made fun of Louise de Kéroualle wearing yesterday.

Rose cocked her head. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"I'm in mourning," Nell said gaily, "for poor Louise's lost hopes."

Rose laughed and looked for Louise. There she was, as a haughty Cleopatra. But Caesar, surrounded as usual by spaniels and toying with the loose-breasted shepherdess, seemed distinctly uninterested.

Lost hopes, indeed.

"What a clever costume," Nell said. "I don't believe anyone has ever before come as a flower arrangement." She leaned closer to Rose. "You smell delicious."

Pleased, Rose smiled beneath her mask. "You know who I am?"

"I know who everyone is," Nell boasted. "Except him." She gestured toward a man standing before one of the massive gold- and silver-embroidered tapestries that covered the walls. "Handsome as sin, isn't he?"

Rose followed Nell's gaze, spotting a pirate. His breeches were tighter than the current fashion—skintight, as a matter of fact—hinting at long, muscular legs. His full white shirt was unlaced halfway down his chest, revealing bare skin sprinkled with crisp black hair.

"Handsome as sin, indeed." Rose wondered if he was a good kisser. "When do the masks come off?"

"Midnight," Nell said with a tinkling laugh, apparently divining Rose's thoughts. "But I've arranged a surprise first. It should be jolly fun. In the meantime"—she lifted her black skirts—"I'm going to meet that pirate."

As Rose watched her dance off, a medieval knight came up carrying a goblet full of warm, spiced wine. He bowed elaborately, his chain mail clanking. "My lady."

He'd taken no pains to disguise his voice, so she knew it was Gabriel. "My thanks, Sir Knight," she said, taking the cup and sipping gratefully.

Or gulping might be a better description.

Instead of a mask, he wore a polished helmet complete with a visor that concealed his face. How very appropriate, she thought, for him to dress as a knight in shining armor after yesterday's duel.

And he wasted no time in reminding her. "I would slay dragons for you, my dear Rose."

She sighed. "You recognize me?"

"But of course. I would know you anywhere." The visor creaked when he flipped it up, his blue eyes blazing with earnestness. "You're the damsel of my dreams…I hope you've reconsidered and decided to marry me."

He was so perfect. So gallant.

Was it terrible of her to be glad the helmet prevented a kiss?

She sipped more wine. "I'm thinking about it, Gabriel."

"I would have your answer soon. I would waste no time making you my wife."

Why couldn't she just say yes? She'd resolved to do so last night, hadn't she?

But she didn't know him. She only knew he was a duke. "Do you like to travel?" she asked.

"I visit my mother in Northumberland every year."

Oh, wouldn't that be exciting? "I meant overseas."

"I get seasick in the bath." He looked a little green at the mere thought. But then he mustered a bold face. "If you wish to travel, dear Rose, I will manage."

She couldn't expect more. "What's your favorite book?" she asked, wracking her brain for some of Kit's questions.

"I don't read," he said, looking bewildered.

"You cannot read?"

"Of course I can read. I simply find other pursuits more interesting."

"Oh." That wasn't too bad, then, was it? She wasn't much of a reader herself, save for newsheets and foreign books. Everyone had different tastes. "Tastes," she murmured. "Do you prefer sweet or savory?"

His good humor seemed stretched to the breaking point. "What is it with these questions?"

"Nothing," she muttered. "Never mind. Thank you for the wine."

She wandered away, leaving him staring after her. So he wasn't much for conversation. Not every man liked to talk, she told herself sternly. It wasn't a crime to keep one's thoughts to oneself.

She just wondered whether he had any.

Musing, she bumped into someone, crushing more than a few of her flowers. "Pardon me," the man said in an unnaturally deep voice. A disguised voice, she decided, looking up.

It was the pirate. Her heart skipped a beat. Handsome as sin, she remembered Nell saying.

And masculine as hell.

"It was my fault," she assured him with a flutter of her carefully darkened lashes. She hoped he could see them through the eyeholes of her mask. "I was daydreaming."

His own masked face was expressionless. "I hope they were sweet dreams."

Who was he? What courtier had come just today? She hadn't heard of any new arrivals, but she'd been busy catching up on her sleep and preparing her costume.

Her fingers itched to touch the bare triangle of chest displayed between the edges of his half-laced shirt. She sipped again instead, feeling the wine go straight to her head. "Will you kiss me?" she asked boldly.

Again, that expressionless reply. "I don't kiss strangers, my lady. And I'd advise you to follow the same rule."

Well! She wanted to rip that mask off his handsome face.

Then again, she had no idea whether he was actually handsome under that mask. Maybe he wasn't. In fact, maybe he was hideous. And if he didn't want to kiss her, perhaps that was because he knew he had dismal technique.

Feeling better, she stalked away.

But as she danced with Henry VIII, she felt the pirate watching her. And after she kissed a jester—not enjoying it at all—she saw him glare. Wherever she went, his gaze seemed to follow.

The only person keeping a closer eye on her was her mother. Dressed in a sea-green gown with a demi-mask to match, Chrystabel watched Rose the entire evening. Since Mum had all but ignored her so far at court, Rose found the sudden attentiveness disconcerting.

She danced with a monk and then with Thor, but she wasn't truly enjoying herself. When Merlin lifted his mask to kiss her and she discovered he was the Earl of Rosslyn—the married cur!—she almost decided to head back to her apartments.

But she wanted to see the unmasking. And Nelly's surprise.

She was dancing with a Viking when, outside in Clock Court, the great astronomical timepiece struck midnight. Nell sharply clapped her hands. "Yeomen," she shouted. "Now!"

As one, the flaming torches were extinguished, and the room plunged into darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Rose shrieked, and the Viking grabbed her by both arms. "Come here, my pretty."

He stank. Deprived of her vision, she realized many of the people in the great hall stank—all the flowers on her gown couldn't mask the stenches of stale sweat and too much perfume. Feeling lost, she held tight to the smelly Viking. Though she blinked and blinked, she couldn't see a thing. Her heart was threatening to pound right out of her chest.

She'd never liked the dark. "What is this?" she cried.

"It's naught but a bit of fun," he said in a voice anything but soothing. Dropping one of her arms, he scrabbled at her mask. Cool air hit her face, swiftly replaced by wet, rubbery lips.

Gagging, she twisted her head. "How dare you!" She wrenched from his grasp and stalked away—or tried to, but tripped instead.

She fell to her hands and knees, bouncing off a body on the floor. "Ah, the flower girl," a man murmured, his fingers grasping an ankle and working their way under her skirts. He gripped her calf and dragged her closer. "Come to me, sweet."

Mewling with disgust and fear, she scrambled away on all fours, losing a shoe when it came off in his hand. She kept moving, darting around boots and skirts as she frantically tried to feel her way to freedom. Laughter and exclamations rang through the air along with the sounds of courtiers milling, pausing for a kiss here and a grope there, exploring one another in the dark.

It seemed an enormous, terrifying maze of debauched humanity.

Someone stepped on her hand, and tears sprang to her eyes. She crawled faster, running headfirst into a pair of legs. Large hands reached down and hauled her up.

"What have we here?" a man drawled, sniffing appreciatively. "Oh, the flower lady. I believe you know the secrets of I Sonetti?"

With that, he clamped her ruthlessly, one big hand on the back of her head and the other against her spine, his lips bruising hers as they found their target in the dark. With no further ceremony, he thrust his tongue inside her mouth.

She pushed against him and kicked his shins, but he kept her clutched tight. Reaching blindly to his right side, her fingers closed on the hilt of his sword. She pulled with all her might, but the peace strings held fast. Tears trailing hot down her cheeks, she bit his tongue. Hard.

A metallic flavor flooded her mouth.

"God damn you!" he cried, shoving her away with both hands. Spitting blood, she turned and stumbled into someone soft and fragrant—a woman. The vixen squealed and clawed at her face. Rose careened away, bumped into someone else, and screamed.

Hands gripped her shoulders and held her steady. Just held her, not grasping. An anchor in the dark sea of terror.

"Hush," he said. "There's nothing to fear."

Kit. His voice, his hands. Feeling her knees buckle, she leaned against his shoulder, smelling frankincense and myrrh. Kit. Warm and yielding instead of cold and hard, but a knight in shining armor nonetheless.

"Hush," he repeated. "Keep still. It's nothing but a silly game. The court will tire of it soon enough, and the torches will be relit."

She clung to him, feeling calm begin stealing over her, restoring her world to balance. "Can you help me get out?"

"I'm afraid we'd but stumble over others." His arms came around her; his deep voice soothed. "You're safe here with me, I promise."

Darkness still enveloped her, but she wasn't quite so panicked. "All right," she whispered.

"We'll just wait." Moving closer, he laid his cheek against her hair. She slipped her arms around his waist, wondering vaguely how he'd got in here and managed to find her.

Like at the duel, he'd known just when to show up, just when she needed him.

They were buffeted by other bodies searching, laughing, groping in the blackness. When she mewed in protest, his arms tightened, molding her more securely against him, locking the two of them together.

He felt comforting; he felt right. She tilted her face up, waiting for him to lower his lips to meet hers.

And, of course, he did.

Kit. The pressure of his mouth, that sweet-spicy unique flavor, that woodsy, masculine scent. The last of her fear evaporated as she sank into the reassuring familiarity of his kiss.

She felt as well as heard him groan, his hands trailing lower and cupping her bottom to pull her closer still. Whatever flowers might remain on her gown were crushed mercilessly between them, but she cared not a whit. A frisson of excitement stole through her veins, robbing her of reason and breath.

Her senses spun with wine and so much more. Moans and groans, squeals and breathy sighs echoed all around her, but suddenly the sounds were arousing instead of threatening.

The kiss deepened, a dance of lips and teeth and tongues, a long, fast slide into madness. Her breasts ached inside her gown, and she pressed closer, but that wasn't enough. So she pulled back instead, taking his hands to guide them where she wanted them.

This time he seemed only too happy to oblige. He teased her breasts through the thin silk of her ruined gown, then reached into the low neckline of her bodice, pinching the sensitive crests gently as he claimed her mouth in another kiss.

That melting warmth spread in her middle, and a tingling ache built lower down. More bodies bumped them, but she barely noticed. The darkness offered privacy amidst this horde of writhing humanity, making bold Rose even bolder. Putting her hands flat to Kit's chest, she skimmed his lawn shirt until she found his flat nipples and teased them the way he was hers, thrilling when she felt them tighten.

She'd wanted this. It felt powerful, knowing she could give him the same pleasure he gave her. Molten heat sprinted through her veins. Emboldened further, she reached lower, holding her breath, waiting for him to protest as he had before. But he allowed her to touch him this time. Her fingers explored the front of his breeches, finding a long, hard ridge that made the ache between her legs intensify as she imagined him sliding inside her. She wanted him there, filling her as a woman was meant to be filled.

At the other end of the chamber, a single torch flared to life. They pulled apart, Rose swiftly yanking up on her bodice. All around them in the all-but-darkness, courtiers were engaged in various stages of lovemaking.

It sickened her, no matter that she'd been envisioning the very same thing. The whole court sickened her.

"Take me out of here," she said. One shoe off and one on, she began limping toward the door. Kit swept her up into his arms and wove his way through the crowd, stepping over bodies as he went.

At long last, they made it down the Great Stairs and into Clock Court. Torches bathed the courtyard in a hazy yellow glow. He strode to the fountain in the center before setting her on her feet.

Her gown was in tatters from the knees down, the few remaining blooms torn and limp. Her face burned in one spot; she touched it and came away with a trace of blood on her fingertip. Her hair tumbled madly over her shoulders, half or more unpinned.

Thank God it was only Kit here to see her.

Still shaky—from lust or fear or some combination—she splashed water on her face before she looked up and blinked. "Good God, you were the pirate."

His expression slowly transformed from concern to something darker. "You didn't know? And yet you kissed me, touched me…" He looked thoroughly disgusted. "I can hardly blame all those men for taking advantage, though I wish to wring all their lecherous necks. Lord Almighty, Rose, you touched me like a true wanton, and you didn't even know—"

"I'm not wanton!" The last of her fear was swept away by indignation—and maybe a touch of guilt for her actions here at court. "I'm not!"

Kit felt outrage like he never had before. He could hardly credit that he still wanted her—and yet he did, which fueled his anger all the more. "You could have fooled me," he spat.

"What were you doing in the great hall?" she demanded, by all appearances equally outraged. "You're not a member of the court!"

"And that's why you won't have me, isn't it?"

"No! To hell with the court. I never want to come back here again. Everything here got completely out of hand."

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The fountain trickled in the background while he silently repeated her words.

I never want to come back here again.

Perhaps there was hope for him, after all.

Quite suddenly he felt bone tired. "I don't want to fight," he said.

She sighed. "I don't want to fight, either."

"Rose, you must be more careful around men."

"I would never allow—"

"You're a passionate woman, but for your own good, you must curb—"

"I'm not passionate," she interrupted. "Only with you. I knew it was you, Kit. I've never kissed anyone else like that. Anyone but you. Ever."

He stared, wondering whether to be pleased or angry at that impassioned revelation. Anger won. "How can you fib with such a straight face? You expect me to believe that after you admitted you didn't realize I was the pirate?"

"I didn't recognize you as the pirate during the masked ball," she returned hotly, "because it never occurred to me you would be there." She shifted her weight back and forth, popping up and down on her single high-heeled shoe. "And you're a blasted hypocrite, do you know that? You kissed me when you didn't know who I was."

"Bloody hell," Kit shot back, "do you take me for a fool? A sightless nitwit would have recognized you at twenty paces. You smell like a damned garden. But you could be wearing sackcloth instead of flowers and I'd know you, Rose. Instantaneously. Don't you know that?"

Her dark eyes flashed. "Like I knew you the moment you caught me in the dark? The moment I touched you, even blind as a bat? I just never connected you with the pirate."

Understanding hit Kit like a brick dropped from a half-built wall.

I knew you. I just never connected you with the pirate.

She was beautiful in her fury, her cheeks flushed, her agitated breath making her chest heave in a way that drew his gaze. No one could lie that convincingly.

Damnation, had he ever been such a nithing blockhead?

"I'm sorry," he said. "I twisted your words in my mind, jumped to an erroneous conclusion. You're right."

"Of course I'm right."

He cracked a smile. "You're so graceful at accepting apologies."

Her anger seemed to flee as quickly as it had flared. "It's a good thing, since I still don't want to fight." She answered his smile with one of her own, her gaze raking his costumed form. "You make a very fetching pirate."

"Do I, now?"

Though he'd said it in all good humor, her voice dropped to a whisper. "You appeared like magic, and I was so grateful to have you there. You swept away my fear with a single touch of your lips…"

Unable to help himself, he touched those lips to hers again. A silent apology that swiftly turned to more, much more—

"Rose?" her mother's voice drifted down the Great Stairs. "Rose!"

Reluctantly Kit drew away. "We're out here, Lady Trentingham."

Her high heels clicked on the cobblestones as she made her way over to them, carrying Rose's missing shoe. "I feared for you, dear. I know how you hate the dark." She kissed her daughter on both cheeks, then drew back and touched the one with the shallow scratch. "What happened here?"

"A woman with claws like a wildcat." Rose's hand went to the injury. "Does it look terribly bad?"

"A little powder and you'll never know it's there," her mother assured her.

Rose sighed. "I cannot imagine what Nell was thinking when she ordered the torches doused."

Lady Trentingham cocked her head. "Did you not know Nell is famous for practical jokes? Why, recently she left King Charles at a brothel—"

"Without any clothes or money," her daughter finished for her. "I heard about that. Remind me never to introduce her to Jewel and Rowan. If she makes these pranks a habit, the three of them together could prove deadly."

"You're all right, though?" Lady Trentingham tried to smooth Rose's hair, but her efforts made little difference. "You're not truly hurt?"

"Kit rescued me," Rose said.

"Did he?" Lady Trentingham shared a furtive glance with him, that one brief look conveying a mixture of emotions: gratitude, congratulations, and a silent admission that she'd been wrong. "I think we should leave," she told Rose quietly.

"Yes," Rose agreed. "There's Judith's wedding, of course…but I believe I'd want to leave anyway."

Lady Trentingham looked back to the great hall. "Then shall we make our good-byes?"

"Please, Mum, just give King Charles my apologies. I'd rather go straight to our rooms."

Kit was glad Rose didn't want to go back to the ball. "I'll walk you to your lodging," he said, taking her arm.

While her mother ascended the staircase, Rose leaned to put on her shoe. "I look like something one of Lily's cats dragged in, don't I?"

"No." His mouth quirked in a half grin. "Worse."

She winced as she straightened. "Well, thank you for being honest."

"I'll love you no matter what you look like. Always. Would the duke feel that way as well?"

She had no clue what the duke felt, as evidenced by the way she changed the subject. "Did you check all the measurements?"

He began walking her toward her apartments. "Some. Not all. There are hundreds."

"Have you found anything wrong?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure yet. The set of drawings I keep with me doesn't seem to match the plans I left here, and I'm not certain which is correct or which reflects the actual measurements we took last night."

He couldn't imagine how that had happened. Most builders worked from a single set of plans, but he preferred to err on the side of caution and always made a careful duplicate. Had he been not-so-careful? The discrepancy was more than disturbing, but he'd set aside the problem for the evening when he decided watching over Rose was more important. And he didn't want to think about it again now.

Before she could ask more questions, he stopped beneath the clock tower and turned to face her. "I'll let you know if I find anything conclusive," he said, raising a hand to her lips.

Her eyes went soft when he traced her mouth with the pad of a finger. She swayed toward him involuntarily, and he took advantage, drawing her close for a long, languid kiss.

It was a kiss his tired soul could melt into, but he wouldn't allow that, even though she threw herself into the caress. She was still distant, distracted. Though with him in body, her mind had yet to cross the crucial barrier that would truly make her his.

"Come along," he murmured when they parted, their lips clinging for one last moment. "It's been quite a night."

Just as they reached Base Court, a shooting star streaked across the sky.

"Look," she breathed, closing her eyes to make a wish.

He wished, too, then turned and took her face in both hands. "What did you ask for?"

"I cannot tell you, or it won't come true."

"Fair enough." It made him smile to think she believed such fancies. "Shall I tell you what I wished for instead?"

"I think I know," she whispered and left it at that.

It wasn't the answer he wanted, but for now it would have to do.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Hampton Court was quiet in the middle of the night, Kit's building dark now except for the circle of light thrown by his lantern. Scents of fresh-cut wood and hardening mortar assaulted his nose, and his footsteps echoed in the empty rooms as he wandered them for the last time.

Tomorrow the building was coming down.

Two more days spent poring over the numbers had confirmed his suspicions: the building was flawed. He'd double-checked his calculations, remeasured, triple-checked again. The conclusion was always the same. If left standing, the structure would eventually collapse.

Oh, it wouldn't fall today or tomorrow—not even this year. In fact, it could be ten or twenty or fifty years before the inherent weakness resulted in disaster. It would certainly remain standing until long after he was appointed Deputy Surveyor, most likely so long after that he doubted he'd ever be blamed.

But when the collapse occurred, the consequences could very well be deadly.

Was his design at fault? Or had someone tampered with the plans? Since the two copies he had didn't match, he couldn't be sure. The fact that they were different lent credence to the theory that Harold Washburn—or someone else—had sabotaged this project.

But it didn't matter. It was Kit's project, Kit's responsibility.

There was nothing for it. Although it meant he would miss his deadline and any chance at the appointment and knighthood, he'd had no choice but to order the structure torn down and rebuilt from scratch. He couldn't live with himself knowing there were potential deaths looming ahead—not even when he suspected those at risk had yet to be born.

All he had left now was a journey to Windsor and the difficult task of explaining his failing to Wren. Then—while his dreams were torn down along with this building—he would go to Trentingham as promised. Once there, he would finalize the plans for Lord Trentingham's greenhouse…and tell Lady Trentingham why he was no longer worthy of marrying her daughter.

He grabbed an exquisite carved panel—that, at least, could be salvaged—and exited the building without looking back.

He'd long ago learned there was no point in that.

"Oh, Judith," Lily breathed, staring at the gown the maid had just laid on her friend's bed. Palest blue, Judith's wedding dress had a wide neckline and golden ribbons crisscrossing the stomacher. The underskirt was cloth-of-gold. "It's so beautiful."

A happy sigh escaped Judith's freshly painted lips. "I always dreamed of wearing blue for my wedding."

"Me, too," Violet said.

Lily grinned. "Me three."

Rose's sisters had both worn blue, and they were both happily married. Rose brushed her fingers over the gown's shimmering fabric, ordering herself not to be jealous. After all, she'd received so many proposals she'd lost count, and she'd probably have more if she hadn't rebuffed so many men.

It had been her choice to refuse them.

Besides, she would never wear a gown like this. It might be lovely, but it was entirely too pale and insipid. When Rose finally chose to marry, she intended to do so in red.

Judith wandered across her feminine mauve room to her dressing table. "Shall I wear patches?" she wondered.

Rose turned to her pretty, plump friend. "Just one. A heart. But we must powder your face first." She handed Judith's patch box to Lily so she could find a suitable shape, then dipped a fluffy brush into a packet of Princess's Powder. "Are you nervous?"

"Of course not," Judith said, but her smile was trembly. She held out a wine cup for Violet to refill. "Why should I be nervous? Grenville is a good man."

Rose dusted Judith's cheeks. "Of course he's good. He's titled and has money." And if he wasn't exactly handsome, she added to herself, at least he wasn't pockmarked or ugly. A woman could look at him without wincing.

If she'd gained nothing else from court, she'd learned it wasn't easy to find perfection. Perhaps compromise wasn't such a bad thing.

"No, I mean Edmund is ever so good." Judith peered at herself in the mirror. "He adores children, though his first wife couldn't give him any. He makes certain all the orphans on his estate find families and homes. No one, young or old, is ever allowed to go hungry, and—"

"That's just being decent," Rose interrupted.

Violet set down the wine bottle with a little clunk. "But decency is important. And rare."

Still riffling through the patch box with a fingertip, Lily nodded. "I'd choose decency over money and a title any day of the week. You have to live with the man you wed."

"Husbands and wives don't have to live with each other." Rose fluffed more powder on her friend's face. "At court, it seems hardly any of them do."

Violet stared at her, her brown eyes looking huge through her spectacles. "But those are marriages made for alliance, not love. That's not what you want, is it?"

"Of course not," she said, still fluffing.

"Stop!" Judith laughed, brushing at her dressing gown. White powder flew everywhere. Particles coated the surface of her dark wood dressing table and floated in a sunbeam that came through the window. "Edmund won't be able to find me under all this powder."

"Sorry." Rose dusted more on her own cheeks, though her scratch was all but healed. "Is Grenville nervous?"

"He doesn't seem to be. But then, he's been married before. He's not worrying about tonight."

Violet touched her hand. "Are you worried, Judith?"

"A little." Looking away, Judith grabbed her goblet and took another swallow of wine. A big one.

"I think you're a lot worried," Lily said, prying the goblet from Judith's fingers. She'd downed half a bottle already, and there were still hours left before her wedding. "You don't want to be slurring your vows."

"The marriage bed is nothing to fear," Violet told her.

"Are you sure?" Judith asked.

"Of course she's sure." Rose nervously tweaked the bouquet of flowers she'd made for Judith to carry. "All brides fret about it, but they all survive, don't they?"

"Are you fretting?" Violet asked her.

"Why should I fret? I'm not getting married."

"But if you were?" Lily pressed.

Rose thought of I Sonetti and all those awkward positions. "No, I'm not fretting," she said, telling herself it wasn't quite a lie.

She wasn't fretting yet.

"Mama told me it would hurt," Judith whispered.

Having read Aristotle's Master-piece, Rose nodded knowingly. "But only for a moment."

That part she didn't find worrisome. The Master-piece described it as "a little pain," and she believed that was true.

But she wished she'd never seen that blasted Italian book.

CHAPTER FORTY

"Based on the upper floor's loads," Kit said, "I was concerned that with any additional loading the building would eventually collapse. As it stood, it was near the maximum tolerance of the span. I cannot believe I miscalculated something so basic."

"Neither can I," Wren said pointedly, pacing his office in Windsor Castle. Then his eyes narrowed as he stopped and turned to Kit. "Are you saying someone else miscalculated? Purposefully lengthened the span? Altered your plans?"

"I won't say that." Kit met the older man's gaze. "The project is my responsibility. The error is mine, and I'll absorb the costs of rebuilding."

When he first started out, a problem of this magnitude might have landed him in debtor's prison. Thankfully, he could easily afford it now.

Wren nodded as he walked him to the door. "This won't go past this room. I expect Charles will be pleased with the final results, even though you'll miss the deadline. You'll doubtless see more commissions, and your reputation won't suffer."

That was some consolation. Thanks to Wren's confidentiality, Kit's career wasn't endangered.

Just his dreams. His knighthood. His chances of winning the woman he loved.

"Thank you," he told Wren as he opened the door. "Though the project won't come in on time, it will be done right."

"From you, I expect no less." Wren watched him step outside. "I'm sorry about the appointment."

"I wish Rosslyn well with it," Kit said and closed the door behind him.

So that was that.

He took a deep breath and headed to Windsor's Upper Ward to check the progress on the new dining room. Following a complete inspection, he felt a little better. Everything seemed to be proceeding well and on schedule. He had high hopes that the successful, timely completion of this beautiful chamber would help ensure more commissions from the Crown.

Somewhere in town, a clock struck noon, reminding him he'd best get on his way to Trentingham if he wanted to arrive at a decent hour. But he didn't want to rush to Trentingham—not today. He felt drained. The interview with Wren had sucked the life right out of him.

Tomorrow morning would be better, he decided, heading out of the castle. He was in no hurry to confess his failure to Rose's family, and that greenhouse was hardly an emergency. The groundbreaking wasn't scheduled until tomorrow, anyway.

He looked forward to a long, hot bath, followed by a good night's sleep. Here in Windsor, in his own house, he'd doubtless rest easier than he had in weeks. Especially since he no longer had to worry about his projects. Or, he thought dejectedly, about whether he'd win the appointment he'd been working toward all of his adult life.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Martyn," the old guard called as he passed through the castle gate.

"Afternoon, Richards," Kit returned.

The next thing he knew he was standing in front of a pawnshop.

His brother-in-law's pawnshop, to be precise. Kit still had the damnedest time thinking of Ellen as married. But something inside him knew he had to come to grips with that—the same something that had sent him here without conscious decision.

He hoped she fared well. And there was only one way to find out. He drew a deep breath and opened the door. At the jingle of the bell, Thomas emerged from the back.

"Mr. Martyn," he said, clearly surprised. And apprehensive, Kit thought.

Well, in a sense, he couldn't blame the man. But they were kin now, for better or worse, so he'd best set the fellow at ease. "Call me Kit," he said. "Please."

"Kit." The younger man nodded.

"I've come to see my sister."

If anything, Thomas's eyes grew more hooded. "She's upstairs. I'll fetch her."

"No. I'll go up."

"I'm sorry, sir—I mean, Kit. But I'm not sure she wants to talk to you."

That hurt. Kit had hoped Ellen would be over her snit long before now. She'd won their battle, after all. She'd fought to live over a pawnshop, and live here she did.

He wanted to see the place, see how she was living. Whether she and her baby were healthy. Whether she and her pawnbroker were happy. They'd be happy after he gave them her dowry, of course, but he hoped they were happy now without it. That his sister hadn't made a mistake marrying for love.

Before he turned over all that money, he needed to see Ellen's happiness with his own eyes. He was not taking no for an answer.

"I'll go up," he repeated. "You can show me the way or I'll find it myself."

"Very well." Thomas handed a key to the young man behind the counter, then Kit followed him through a storage room and up a narrow staircase.

When Thomas opened the door, Kit sniffed appreciatively. "Smells like apples."

"The only thing your sister knows how to cook is apple fritters," Thomas said with a wry quirk of his lips. "I've been eating them till they're coming out of my ears."

Kit looked at him sharply, but the words had been said in good humor. It seemed the man loved Ellen whether she could cook or not.

The living quarters were nicer than he'd expected. The main room was small and the floor was bare wood, but it was polished and everything was clean. There was plenty of fine furniture and, in Kit's opinion, entirely too many knickknacks—all of which he suspected came from the shop. He guessed that some of the best merchandise found its way upstairs. A hidden benefit to this business.

And Ellen doubtless loved all the knickknacks. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised to find she'd dragged most of them up here herself. His heart lifted to think she was probably very happy here, indeed.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"In the bedchamber. She naps often these days."

A subtle reminder of his sister's condition. Kit nodded. "Will you wake her or shall I?"

He saw the other man draw a steadying breath. "Wait here." Thomas opened a door and slid into the room beyond, closing it firmly behind him.

Kit paced while he waited, peeking into another chamber to find a kitchen with a small fireplace and a scrubbed table for eating.

That seemed to be it—just the main room, kitchen, and bedchamber. He wondered where the babe would sleep, though he knew full well that entire families lived in single-room homes—why, this place would be a palace to the common cottager. Hell, he and Ellen had lived like that until the Great Plague had claimed their parents.

But when he built the new shop for his sister in London, he would design it with much larger living quarters attached. A proper house.

The bedchamber door opened and shut again, startling him. "She won't see you," Thomas said.

"Pardon?"

"Ellen doesn't wish to speak with you, Mr. Martyn."

Fuming, Kit didn't bother correcting Thomas's use of his name again. "She doesn't have a choice."

He crossed the room—in all of three strides—and threw open the bedchamber door. "Ellen."

She lay on a huge four-poster bed—much too big for the room—with her back to him.

"Ellen." He sighed. "I don't wish to play games."

She rolled over and stared at him with those eyes that were so like his. Her pretty mouth was thinned into a straight, forbidding line.

She said nothing.

"It's a nice home," he conceded, feeling like an idiot talking to himself. "I hope you're happy here."

Nothing.

A heavy silence hung for a moment before Kit's frustration gave way to anger. "This is about the money, isn't it?"

Not a word. Not even a blink. It was as though she stared right through him, as though he weren't even there.

His heart fisted in his chest as the anger turned to hurt. He swallowed hard. "When you're ready to talk, Ellen, you know where to find me."

Without another word, he turned and left. He'd be damned if he'd give Ellen a fortune when she wouldn't speak to him. Never mind that he hadn't planned to withhold it past the first week or two as a test—he wouldn't buy his sister's love.

Every penny of that dowry had been saved out of his love for her, but apparently she couldn't see that.

Thomas followed him down the stairs and all the way to the entrance. "She'll come around, sir. I'm sure of it."

Kit opened the door but stopped short of stepping outside. "How is she?" he asked toward the street.

"She's well. We're happy together, sir."

"Kit."

"Kit. I know how lucky I am to have married your sister. I'm going to take care of her."

"See that you do," Kit said, then slowly turned. He measured the man a long moment before he decided he trusted him.

Or maybe that he had no choice.

"Tell her I love her," he said quietly, then pushed out into the cool October air, the bell jingling too merrily as the door shut behind him.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Standing in the old village church, Rose shifted on her high-heeled shoes, watching another wedding.

The third one this year.

"Edmund Richard Henry, Viscount Grenville, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will." The confident words boomed through the ancient stone sanctuary, binding Lord Grenville to Judith.

But Rose wasn't listening to the ceremony. Instead she was noticing how joyful the bride looked. Judith clutched the flowers Rose had arranged for her, a smile curving her lips, her body ranged close to Lord Grenville's. A good man, Judith had described him. Decent.

Rose's mother sighed happily, delighted that this introduction had worked well enough to culminate in marriage. The Big Book of Weddings Arranged by Chrystabel was getting thicker. She leaned close, bumping against Rose's left side. "They're perfect together, aren't they?" she whispered.

Rose could only nod dumbly, wondering if she'd ever find anyone perfect. These two were so clearly in love, Rose knew they belonged together. But she imagined herself standing in Judith's place and the Duke of Bridgewater standing in Grenville's…and she knew she wouldn't be as happy.

Was Gabriel decent? She didn't know. In truth, she didn't know him at all. And she'd tried, hadn't she? He was handsome and kind and generous, but he didn't seem a man who cared to be known.

And he'd kept money that belonged to someone else.

The priest cleared his throat and looked back down at his Book of Common Prayer. "Lady Judith Carrington, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…"

Standing on Rose's right, Violet leaned closer to Ford and wrapped an arm about his waist. Ford was decent, too, Rose thought, watching him squeeze her sister around the shoulders. His first love used to be science, but when he found Violet—and responsibilities—he hadn't hesitated to put them first.

Sun streamed through the stained glass windows, glinting off Violet's spectacles. "Oh, isn't this romantic?" she sighed.

"It is," Rose whispered to no one in particular, remembering Ellen's wedding, which hadn't been romantic at all. Yet Ellen had been just as thrilled to marry her love as Judith was today. Ellen's dowry could have bought her a titled man, but she'd wed a pawnbroker instead. Her Thomas was decent. He'd wanted Ellen even though she hadn't come with the money they'd expected.

Lily's husband, Rand, was decent as well. He'd worked hard to become an Oxford professor, but he'd been willing to give that up when other duties were thrust upon him. After falling hard for Lily, he'd even agreed to marry another woman in order to save a man's life.

Thank God that hadn't been necessary.

Lily poked Rose from behind. "Your wedding will be next," she whispered.

Rose hoped so. But first she'd have to find a man who would make her as happy as her sisters and Ellen and Judith. A decent man, a man she could admire.

Gabriel wasn't that man. She'd tried her best to fall in love with him, but it hadn't happened. She would have to keep looking. She couldn't face court again soon, but she would ask Mum to take her to the queen's birthday celebration at Whitehall next month.

"…so long as ye both shall live?" the priest concluded expectantly.

"I will," Judith pledged, her voice clear and true. So clear and true that no one in the church had any doubt she meant that pledge with all her heart.

A few more words, a new sapphire ring slid onto Judith's finger, and she was clearly and truly wed now, the new Lady Grenville.

And watching that, Rose knew she wouldn't wed until she found a love as decent and true.

When Lord Grenville lowered his lips to meet Judith's, Rose smiled through a sudden film of tears. She wasn't sure whether they were happy or sad tears…perhaps they were a little of both.

Many hours later, Chrystabel sighed happily as she closed her bedchamber door. "Another wedding."

Her husband wrapped her in his arms. "Another wedding night." He kissed her thoroughly before his hands went to detach the stomacher that covered her laces. "Will we be celebrating Rose's wedding soon?"

"I wish I knew." The familiar fire burning in her already, she hurried to help him out of his surcoat and the long waistcoat underneath, then tugged at the knot in his cravat. "I'm fairly certain she won't be accepting Bridgewater, but that doesn't mean she'll end up with Kit."

Having managed to unlace her gown, Joseph slipped it off her shoulders and down to pool at her feet. "You sound worried, my love," he murmured against her throat. He placed damp little kisses beneath her chin while his hands skimmed her diaphanous chemise, working the hem up ever higher.

"Our Rose is stubborn," she breathed, her blood racing while her practiced fingers unlaced his breeches. She pulled away long enough to tug his shirt off over his head, sighing as she ran her palms down his chest, hard and muscled from countless hours spent in his gardens.

He whisked off her chemise and stepped out of his breeches, and they fell together onto their bed, blissfully skin to skin. She wiggled closer, and he smoothed a hand over one bare hip. A heated tremor rippled through her as he met her mouth for a long, hot kiss.

She would never tire of this—never. Of course, she and Joseph were only forty-five and forty-six, not yet old and gray, but she planned on lying with him until her bones creaked—and then some.

Drawing back, he skimmed one long brown curl off her face. "What will you do next to push Rose and Kit together?"

"Nothing." The fire on the hearth threw his face into shadows and radiated heat onto their naked skin. She traced his beloved mouth with a finger. "I've done what I can. The rest is up to them. But with any luck, we'll have another wedding night before too very long."

"Ah, Chrysanthemum." He claimed her lips once again while his hands went to work below, making her head spin with delight. "You know we've no need of a wedding to have a wedding night."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Judith's wedding celebration had lasted through the wee hours, and Rose had stayed till the end. The sun was high in the sky by the time she awakened the next day, hearing strange noises beneath her window.

Bangs and scrapes and shouts.

Construction.

Kit.

She rang for her maid. "Hurry," she said when Harriet arrived. "The purple gown—no, the burgundy brocade." The maid pulled it from the wardrobe and helped her wiggle into it. "Hurry."

"I'm going as fast as I can, milady." She laced Rose up the back.

"Tighter." Rose wanted to look her best.

Harriet pushed her onto a chair and began combing through her tangled curls. "Whyever are you in such a rush?"

Rose gulped down some chocolate and nibbled on some bread. "I'd forgotten that today is the groundbreaking."

"I see." The maid twisted up the back of her hair. "I expect you're more interested in the builder than the building, hmm?"

Rose didn't care for the sound of that hmm. "Mr. Martyn is just a friend. After the lunacy of court life, I simply crave a sane conversation." Kit had always been easy to talk to.

Harriet met her gaze in the mirror. "Hmm," she said again.

"How is your love life?" Rose asked to distract her.

The maid's freckled face lit with a smile as she chose a burgundy ribbon. "Walter has said he will visit. I believe he will ask for my hand."

It was on the tip of Rose's tongue to protest, to tell Harriet she had no business getting married when she needed her. But she was feeling expansive this morning. "Where will you live?" she asked instead.

"We haven't yet decided. And I don't really care. Does it matter, so long as you're together with the one you love?"

Rose's ebullient mood plunged. Even Harriet was in love.

Love, love, love. All around her, people were in love. In that way, it had been easier to be at court. At least there she wasn't constantly reminded just how lacking she was in love. At court, lust ruled the day—no one else at court seemed to be in love, either.

Except maybe Nell Gwyn. And Charles's poor, longsuffering queen.

"Are you finished?" she asked.

"One moment." Harriet tied the ribbon and stepped back. "You look lovely, milady."

"Thank you." Rose darkened her lashes with the burnt end of a cork and slicked on some lip gloss from a little pot. She considered a patch or two, but hadn't the patience. In no time at all, she was downstairs, out the door, and hurrying through her father's gardens.

On impulse she paused to pluck a few colorful blooms, gathering them into a makeshift bouquet. Still arranging them, she rounded the corner of the house.

And there was Kit.

Was there anything quite so masculine as a man in charge, giving orders? The greenhouse site looked chaotic, but somehow, at the same time, Kit seemed to have everything under control.

The air smelled of newly turned earth and freshly cut wood. Kit's raven hair glinted in the sunshine, and a metal T-square flashed as he used it to point here and direct someone there. He'd spread plans on an improvised table balanced across two sawhorses, and he kept looking down at them and back up.

She positioned herself in front of the table, so the next time he looked up, he'd see her.

"Rose," he said briskly, then looked back down.

"Kit?"

"Hmm?"

She shifted uneasily, stepping closer. "Aren't you going to ask me if I want a kiss?" she said, trying to tease one of those glorious smiles from him.

"No." He waved at a man pushing a wheelbarrow full of bricks. "Over there," he directed, pointing with the T-square. Once again, he consulted his plans. "And you've no need to worry," he added toward the neatly inked lines. "I'm not going to ask you to marry me again, either."

She should be relieved, but she wasn't. Something was wrong. She held out the bouquet. "I brought these for you."

"What for?"

"I'm hoping to celebrate you winning the Deputy Surveyor post."

He finally met her gaze. "I lost it."

"Oh, Kit." The flowers fell to the ground as she moved around the table to lay a hand on his arm. "Tell me."

"There was a problem at Hampton Court." He glanced down at her fingers, then scanned the bustle of construction and sighed, setting down the T-square. "Wait here a moment."

Rose watched him cross the site, looking confident as ever as he consulted with a short, hook-nosed man. Kit gestured with his competent, callused hands, and she wondered when she'd come to prefer them over the smooth, elegant hands of the aristocracy. He ran one of them through his dark hair, and she wondered when she'd come to prefer bold coloring over the pale English ideal.

When he returned, he led her around the house toward the gardens. "It was structural," he admitted flatly. Their shoes crunched on the gravel path. "I ordered the building torn down. It was destined to eventually collapse."

"You could have been killed!" She put her hand to her racing heart, staring at his profile as they walked, imagining her life without him and suddenly realizing it would seem empty.

When had their friendship come to mean that much to her?

But the gaze he turned on her was sad, not alarmed. "I was never personally in danger." He stopped beneath the huge tree her father called his twenty-guinea oak. "I'll still build it," he said with a half-hearted shrug that didn't fool her. He was more upset than he was willing to admit. "But I'll do it right. And there's no rush anymore, since I've no chance to make Charles's tight deadline."

"And that's why you lost the appointment?"

He didn't have to answer. His hand slipped into his pocket to grip that little piece of his first building—that tiny symbol of his past success—and in the dappled light beneath the tree, his expression said it all.

Her heart broke for him. "I know how much you wanted that post."

"I wanted the knighthood that went with it. I was hoping…" He sighed. "Never mind." Looking more defeated than she'd ever seen him, he dropped to sit on the grass, his back against the massive trunk. "It was my fault," he said resolutely, and then almost in a whisper, "but it may not have been my mistake."

She sat across from him, carefully settling her skirts. "What do you mean?"

"Do you remember me mentioning the set of plans at Hampton Court didn't match the ones I kept with me? It could have been my error reproducing them, but—"

"Someone could have made changes," she finished for him. "Harold Washburn?"

"Perhaps." He slipped the chunk of brick back into his pocket. "But I should have been there, checking, double-checking—"

"You had too many projects. You couldn't be everywhere at once."

"Which just goes to show that Charles was right to test me, because the Deputy Surveyor of the King's Works would have many more projects at a time than I've had these past weeks." He pulled a long green blade from the ground and chewed the end, looking pensive. "But I've been…distracted. It could have been my error. And in any case, it was my project. My responsibility. Which was why I had to tear it down even though the problem would likely have stayed hidden for years—"

"Years?" She blinked. "Are you saying you could have finished the project and accepted the post—"

"I couldn't." At her frown, he tossed the green blade to the lawn. "Can't you see, Rose? When the building collapsed—however far in the future—people might have died. It could have been the mother of Charles's children—or his children themselves. And even if it didn't happen until I was long gone—not only from the project, but from God's green earth—I couldn't have lived with myself knowing the possibility existed. Better to lose a post than my honor, my integrity, my very soul."

And suddenly it came clear. Kit—her dear friend, her almost lover—was the most decent man she knew.

How could she not have seen it? How could she have chased after a title when a better man was waiting right here for her? A man who put others' safety before his own cherished goals? A man who made her heart quicken with a mere glance and her knees melt with a single kiss?

A man—perhaps the only man—she could honestly talk to about anything.

"Will you marry me?" she asked.

A thundercloud swept over his face. "That is damned cruel." He scrambled to his feet. "Do you know, Rose, I'm usually amused by the way you tend to say whatever comes into your head." Clearly disgusted, he began to walk away. "But that was just plain cruel."

Jumping up to run after him, she grabbed his hand and jerked him to a halt. "I meant it, Kit."

"What?" He swung to her, glaring.

"You're the best man I know. I want to be your wife."

He focused hard on her, searching for the truth, perhaps finding it but unable to believe. It seemed he was also unable to talk. He opened his mouth, but a long moment passed before any words came out.

"I'll never be Deputy Surveyor," he finally said slowly. "I'll never be a knight, let alone a baron, or a viscount, or an earl—"

"You'll be Kit Martyn, the man I love."

His eyes cleared. The tension drained from his face. He took a step closer, and her heart raced.

"No more kissing other men?"

She might have been offended if he wasn't suddenly looking at her in that way that made her stomach dance. "None of them were any good at it, anyway," she said flippantly.

He threw back his head and laughed. "Do you promise to always speak your mind? I do so love that."

"Will you kiss me, already?"

The next thing she knew she was in his arms, his lips locked on hers.

And nothing had ever felt so glorious.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

They stumbled together toward the summerhouse, more Rose's idea than Kit's. "Privacy," she murmured against his mouth, her lips nibbling his with a skill that threatened to drive him insane.

He might have been the first man she'd enjoyed kissing, but she'd taken to it quickly.

"This isn't a good idea," he mumbled although he kept going. "If we step through one of those doors"—there were four entrances to the round building—"you're unlikely to come out an innocent."

She stopped, her hands linked behind his neck. "Are you telling me you cannot control yourself?"

"I'm afraid that's true. I am but a man."

"Thank God," she said enthusiastically, making him laugh.

Making him want to kiss her all over again.

When his mouth crushed down on hers, she tasted of triumph. The kiss sang through his veins. They approached the redbrick summerhouse, moving crablike along the path until they bumped up against an arched oak door.

Kit reached blindly for the latch. "Are you sure?"

"Please." She fumbled with the knot in his cravat—and Rose was not a fumbler. "You cannot make me wait any longer."

Though he burned for her, he felt more than a little ambivalent. He'd given his word to Lady Trentingham. "Your mother will be furious."

"Mum will never know." Having managed to untie the lace-edged fabric, she kissed the little hollow beneath his Adam's apple, making his heart thump oddly in his chest. "Besides, she gave birth to Violet barely six months after her wedding day." Her words vibrated against his throat. "She doesn't believe in waiting for marriage."

"Oh, I think she does. She said—"

"What?" She straightened, alarm widening her eyes. "You've talked to her about this?"

Kit silently cursed himself for a fool. Her mother had warned him not to tell. "Nothing. Just something I overheard her saying, at court, I believe, that made me think—"

"We're betrothed now. Everything is different."

"I have yet to talk to your fath—"

"It's my own decision, remember?" Reaching around him to open the door, she eagerly pushed him inside and slammed it behind them. "Kiss me, Kit."

It wasn't a request he could deny.

The summerhouse was cool and dim, her mouth warm and welcoming. Her intoxicating scent seemed to wrap around him, filling his head, making his throat close almost painfully. His hands found the lacing down the back of her gown, and as he loosened it, baring the silky skin beneath, it hit him with the force of a hammer striking a nail.

Rose was going to be his…for all time.

Despondency had held him in thrall these past days, but now it simply melted away as his heart took flight. The loss of the Deputy Surveyor post seemed insignificant next to the joy of winning Rose. Perhaps he'd never be a titled man, but love, it suddenly seemed, was much more important.

Devil take it if his sister hadn't been right all along.

Kit's hands smoothed warm down Rose's bared back, and she closed her eyes and leaned into him. His kiss was almost desperately tender, and she felt it in her skin, a tight tingling, in her stomach, a melting sweetness, in her heart, an erratic rhythm that sent her blood racing through her veins.

This was right—so right she couldn't imagine what had taken her so long to realize he was meant to be hers. She should have known that from the first time they'd touched, from that first startling kiss, from the way he made her feel things no other man ever had.

He pushed her gown off one shoulder, his lips searing a path on the newly bared skin. Her knees weakened, and she threaded her fingers into his hair. "Kit," she murmured, "I love you."

His head shot up and his eyes bore into hers, that look he had that made her wonder if he could see right into her. She felt the answering flutter in her stomach, the gathering heat lower down.

And her mother opened the door.

Rose whirled around, hiding her bare back, jerking her gown back onto her shoulder. "Mum. I've asked Kit to marry me."

"Oh my," Chrystabel breathed, apparently not noticing her state of undress. Her eyes grew suspiciously shiny. "You're supposed to let the man propose."

"Question Convention," Kit quoted with a shrug. He moved closer, trailing a finger down Rose's spine where her mother couldn't see it.

It took all she had not to squirm with delight. "He did ask me first, but I was stupid and refused him. After the wedding, we're taking a trip to Italy."

Kit's hand stilled. "We are?"

"And France. Everywhere there are beautiful buildings. I have my inheritance—"

"I can afford to travel. Especially now," he added dryly, "without the Deputy Surveyor post to tie me."

She breezed over that. "But first, we'll go to the queen's birthday celebration at Whitehall. I wish to show the courtiers the sort of man it takes to win me."

He laughed, a joyous sound that rippled right through her. "She's planning my life," he told her mother.

"Get used to it," Mum said.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

"Six months," Chrystabel said. "You're my last daughter. This is my last chance to throw a wedding that will be talked about for years."

Rose shook her head. "Two weeks. Violet and Lily only had to wait two weeks for their weddings."

Her mother made a big show of sighing. "Three months."

"I want to be married before the queen's birthday," Rose insisted. "One month."

"Don't I get a say in this?" Kit asked. "I vote for tomorrow."

One month it was, and Rose felt victorious.

But her mouth dropped open at what Chrystabel said next. "Kit, I know you'll be working here occasionally over the next weeks, but I think it would be best for you to go home to Windsor in the evenings. There will be no eight-month babies, understand?"

"Mum!" Rose exclaimed.

Kit just slowly turned red.

Rose recovered first. "Kit would never even think of compromising me."

"Oh, yes?" Her mother lifted her chin. "Then perhaps the two of you aren't meant for each other."

With that, she turned on her elegant high heels and left. "Five minutes," she called over her shoulder. "I'm sending for your sisters and their families—we'll have a celebration supper."

"Five minutes," Rose said the moment her mother was out of earshot. "Hurry."

"We cannot finish this in five minutes. Not if I'm to be able to face myself in the mirror afterward." Kit took her by the shoulders and turned her around to refasten her gown. "Your first time should be slow and special."

"Are you sure?" Rose asked.

"I'm sure." Laughing, he tied the laces and pressed a warm kiss to the back of her neck. "Come along, before I try anyway," he added, taking her hand to pull her out of the summerhouse.

Holding his hand wasn't enough. Now that she'd decided he would be hers, she wanted to touch him all over. "She cannot keep us apart for a whole month."

"Of course she cannot," he assured her. "And I don't think she's really going to try."

But a week later, after Kit had spent three more days working at Trentingham and Chrystabel had managed to make sure he and Rose weren't alone together for more than ten minutes, Rose had her horse saddled and rode over to visit Violet.

"Before we were betrothed," Violet told her, setting aside a fat philosophy book, "Mum left me alone with Ford constantly. Of course," she added, "that was probably because she was sure he'd never want me that way at all."

Rose had been pacing her sister's pale turquoise drawing room. "Violet!" She stopped and turned to face her.

Her sister's eyes looked earnest behind their spectacles. "You know it was so. Mum was certain he was wrong for me, and I wasn't interested in men or marriage, anyway."

"But after. After you became betrothed—"

"Those two weeks between our betrothal and marriage, we never managed to find ourselves alone. It was very strange."

Ten days later, Kit had completed the greenhouse—but he and Rose still hadn't found time together for much more than a kiss. When he said only half-jestingly that he was loath to return until their wedding day—still two weeks away—Rose took Harriet, a carriage, and a coachman, and drove to Oxford to visit Lily.

"Mum did the exact same thing to me and Rand!" Lily exclaimed. Swiveling on her petit point stool, she turned away from the beautiful inlaid Flemish harpsichord Rand had surprised her with after their wedding. "I couldn't understand it. Before we became betrothed, she left us alone all the time. But after—"

"Exactly!" Rose sat in one of the drawing room's brand-new lemon yellow chairs.

"It was torture."

"Sheer torture, I agree."

Lily's cat rubbed against her skirts, and she leaned to pick it up. "Is Kit becoming bad-tempered?"

Rose nodded morosely. "Mum said she doesn't want any eight-month babies."

"Ridiculous." Lily rhythmically stroked the cat's striped fur. "Besides, at this point it would be more than eight-and-a-half. No one would dare even comment. Unless…" She eyed Rose speculatively. "You're not already with child, are you?"

"Of course not! Kit and I have never—"

"Never?" Lily's blue eyes widened in patent disbelief. "Never?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you." Rose's fingers gripped the chair's gilt armrests. "We haven't had any time alone together since the minute we became betrothed!"

"But before—"

"Before? What kind of woman do you think I am?" she huffed, knowing quite well what kind of woman she was. The kind that would have crawled all over Kit given half a chance—before their betrothal, he'd been the one to display all the self-control. And after…

Her mouth dropped open as she stared at her sister.

Sweet Lily. Deceptively sweet Lily. "Don't tell me you and Rand—before you were married—"

"Of course we did," Lily scoffed. "We couldn't keep our hands off each other. And Violet and Ford—"

"Violet, too?"

"Violet didn't even wait until she was betrothed."

"What?" Did Rose not know her sisters at all?

Lily nodded, still calmly stroking the cat. "Ford seduced her into marrying him."

"No." Not serious, bookish Violet.

"Oh, yes. He and Rand planned the whole thing one night when they were drunk."

"That sounds like Ford and Rand," Rose conceded. "But I cannot believe both you and Violet…good God, I'm the one who's supposed to be forward, and the two of you…gemini, this is so unfair!"

"And I imagine you're all worried about the first time, too."

"No," Rose said quickly. She wasn't. At least, not of that piddly one-time pain she knew her sister was referring to.

"I don't believe you. No one should have to go through their wedding day worrying about their wedding night. It's supposed to be a special day, and how could you possibly enjoy it? I felt so sorry for poor Judith."

They were both silent a moment. "I hope she's happy," Rose finally said.

"I'm certain she is. And I'm certain her wedding night went splendidly, too. But you are not going to have to worry about yours."

"I'm not so sure," Rose said miserably. "Mum is so vigilant, you'd think I was the Crown Jewels and she'd been hired to guard me."

Lily's cat leapt out of her arms to join a sparrow and a squirrel that seemed to be chatting on the windowsill. She and Rand had moved to Oxford from his father's estate only last week, just in time for Michaelmas Term to begin, but her animal friends had found her already.

"We'll just have to get you two away from Mum," Lily mused, watching the squirrel feed the bird a bit of nut.

"We've tried."

"Not with my help." She absently rubbed an old scar on the back of her hand, then brightened and focused on Rose. "I know! We'll tell Mum that the three of us girls want one more sleeping party before you're married. And we'll tell her it's going to be here. She'll never come this far just to check on us for one night."

Rose shook her head. "Kit is too honest for his own good—I'm not sure I'd be able to talk him into such a deception."

"Kit won't even be involved. Instead of sleeping here, the three of us will meet at Violet's and then go to Windsor and surprise him." Lily grinned, obviously pleased with her plan. "He'll put us up, won't he? Has he room?"

"At his house?" Rose had never realized Lily had such a devious mind—and she'd never appreciated her sister more. "Good God, yes—he could billet an army. Wait till you see it."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

One evening a week later, with only eight days left before the wedding, Kit was summoned by his butler to find Rose and her sisters on his doorstep.

For a moment he couldn't find words. But that didn't matter, because it was only a moment before Rose launched herself at him and kissed him enthusiastically.

Laughing, he set her back. "What are you doing here?"

"We've come to have a sleeping party," she informed him gaily. "With you."

"With me?"

The shock must have shown on his face, because Lily giggled. "Not all three of us," she clarified. "Violet and I will share a chamber; Rose assured us you have one to spare. Mum thinks we're all at my house."

"Does Rand know about this?"

"Of course," Lily assured him. "He thought it was a capital idea."

"Mum tried to keep them apart after they were betrothed, too," Rose put in. "May we come in?"

"I'm sorry." Surprise seemed to have robbed him of manners. "Yes, please do come in."

"This place is stunning," Violet said in an awed tone as they stepped inside.

"Goodness, yes, Kit." Lily turned in a circle, taking in the tall entry with its stone walls, white ceiling, and black-and-white floor. "I thought the house you built for Rand was special, but this…" She peeked into the drawing room. "May we have a tour?"

By the time the tour ended, Kit too thought the visit was a capital idea. His cook prepared a lovely venison pasty for supper, but he and Rose couldn't get through it fast enough. He felt a mite awkward showing her sisters to a chamber and then leaving them there rather early—but not awkward enough to spend the evening twiddling his thumbs while they played music and sang or did whatever else ladies usually did to pass the hours.

Besides, he didn't own a harpsichord.

In any case, the guilt evaporated the minute he got Rose to his own chamber and into his arms for a proper kiss.

He'd kissed her many times, but this kiss was different, the result of depravation heightened by a sense of the forbidden. He explored her mouth hungrily, her unmistakable response making something twist in his gut.

When he finally pulled away, she gave him an uncharacteristically shaky smile. "How is Ellen?"

He turned her around and started unlacing the back of her gown. "Fine, according to her husband."

"Her husband?"

"She still won't talk to me. I've stopped by six, seven times—but she stares right through me." As the laces came undone, he kissed his way down her slender back. "I don't fancy being invisible," he murmured against her skin, smiling to himself when he felt her shiver.

"She's coming to our wedding, though, isn't she?"

"According to Thomas, no." Rose looked delectable with the gown open down her graceful spine. Tempting beyond words. "But let's not talk about my sister, shall we?" He dropped to his knees and pressed a kiss to the small of her back. "We've much better things to think about."

She turned, sinking her fingers into his hair as she looked down on him. "I'll go talk to her tomorrow morning before I leave."

The dress hung from her shoulders, poised to drop. "Hmm?"

"Ellen. She's my friend as well as your sister. I want her at our wedding."

He sighed and got to his feet. "This isn't really about Ellen, is it? You're anxious. That's why you keep talking."

He saw her swallow hard. "I've never done this before."

"But you want to, don't you?"

"Good God, yes. But…Lily said everyone is anxious the first time."

He winced. He'd never bedded a virgin, and now he knew why. "If it hurts, I'll stop," he promised.

"Will you?"

"You have only to say the word." With a little luck and a lot of skill, he hoped to have her so out of her mind with pleasure that words at that moment would be impossible.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Her gown's wide neckline slid off one creamy shoulder, and he bent his head to kiss her there.

"Kit?"

"Hmm?"

"About Ellen…"

He straightened, supposing he'd get nowhere until she'd finished this fruitless conversation. "What about her?"

"I know her attitude must pain you, especially after she didn't come to you when she found herself with child. I cannot imagine why she's acting like this, why she refuses to talk to you when you're the easiest man to talk to. But I don't like to see you hurt."

Hurt was such a simple, innocuous-sounding word. Devastated better described the way he felt. But he didn't want to discuss this now. Not with Rose half undressed and about to fall into his arms.

She sighed. "If you'd just give her the dowry you saved—"

"No." He led her over to sit on his red-draped half-tester bed. "I'm not going to give her eleven thousand pounds when she won't even deign to speak to me."

"Clearly her behavior doesn't warrant it, but for you, Kit, and for me. Because we want her at our wedding. What if she promised to speak to you afterward—"

"No," he forced out through clenched teeth. He wasn't going to bribe his sister, either.

Rose's half-exposed breasts rose and fell with another sigh. "I'll go talk to her in the morning. I've got the perfect excuse, since I need to return her book."

"Her book?" His gaze snapped up to her face. "You mean the book?"

"I Sonetti, yes. I'm telling you, I can hardly wait to rid myself of the blasted thing."

"Where is it? I want to see it."

She'd brought a small valise, which one of Kit's maids had set in the corner of the chamber. Rose dug out the volume and handed it to him, looking more hesitant than he'd ever seen her.

In his estimation, Rose wasn't a hesitant sort of woman. Or a prude, either. Curious, he opened the cover. He'd already heard the book contained nude pictures, so he wasn't surprised to see an engraving of a couple making love. "I cannot read this," he said.

"It's Italian. Translated, it doesn't sound much like a sonnet." She sat beside him, hitching her dress back onto her shoulder. "Turn the page."

He did, shrugged, then turned a few more and stared. "Lord Almighty. Are these people acrobats? My poor back wouldn't last ten seconds in that position." Amazed that the whole court was abuzz and dying to view these secret poses, he flipped another page, then eyed Rose speculatively. "Do you bend like that? Hell, sweetheart, I hate to disappoint you, but I don't."

She swallowed hard. "You're not going to want to try these, then?"

He could only laugh. "I'm afraid I'd end up in bed for a month. And I don't mean passing a pleasant time."

"Thank God," she said, and turned to launch herself at him again.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The book fell from Kit's hands to the floor. "What's this?" he asked, still laughing.

Rose couldn't remember ever being quite so relieved. She kissed his eyes and his cheeks and his chin. "I'm just so happy to find that you share Charles's preference for catholic lovemaking."

He drew back a little, looking puzzled. "Charles?"

"King Charles."

Kit's brow didn't clear. "While it's true I've heard rumors that he's secretly Catholic, they've never been proven. And I'm a member of the Church of England."

Now it was her turn to laugh. "Nell told me Charles was catholic in his lovemaking, not that he's a secret Catholic. She explained that he's enthusiastic but not imaginative."

"Ah. Poor Nell."

"Pardon?"

"I can assure you, sweetheart, one needn't be a gymnast to be imaginative."

The look in his eyes made the bottom drop out of her stomach.

The emotion must have shown on her face. "Nothing frightening, I promise," he added quickly.

But she wasn't frightened. Kit's laughing reaction to the engravings had cured her of that. Now she was just intrigued. Very, very intrigued.

And eager. She began peeling off her loosened gown.

He stopped her hands with his own. "Let me have the pleasure of that." And those hands went to work undressing her.

Leaving her sitting on the bed, he knelt at her feet and pulled off her shoes. He reached under her skirts to pluck off her garters one by one. Rolling down her stockings was a production all itself, a sensuous slide of silk. His fingertips smoothed her calves, making her wish they'd move up higher.

"You make an excellent ladies' maid," she said shakily.

A faint smile was his only response. Taking her hands, he stood and brought her up with him. In no time at all, her gown was a memory, her chemise gone along with it.

He stepped back, his gaze roaming her hungrily. "You're exquisite," he said in a tone so husky it squeezed her heart.

She knew she had a pretty face, and men had often ogled her clothed body. But no one had ever seen her nude. Part of her wanted to fold her arms across her breasts, turn away, grab the red counterpane off the bed and cover herself.

But a larger part loved the way he was looking at her. She reveled in it. The appreciation in his eyes made her feel powerful.

She didn't cross her arms, instead striking a pose with one hand on a cocked hip. "I'm not too slim?" she asked teasingly, fishing for compliments.

Though the court ideal was quite a bit plumper, Kit seemed to like her the way she was. "You curve in all the right places."

His gaze kept skimming her body, making the bubbles dance in her stomach, the ache begin down lower. "Or too tall?"

"Hell, no, sweetheart. I don't get a crick in my neck kissing you." He stepped closer and gathered her into his arms, demonstrating by lowering his lips just a little to meet hers. While his mouth plundered recklessly, his hands wandered her back, raising goose bumps in their wake. "You're the perfect height," he murmured, his hands moving down, warm on her bare bottom, pressing their bodies together where the ache was building. "We fit."

They did. Already the ache was becoming insistent, nearly intolerable. Wanting him closer, she broke from the embrace. "You're wearing too many clothes."

He laughed and shrugged out of his surcoat.

"More," she said, moving closer to the fire, hoping the burnished light would look pleasing on her skin.

Apparently it did. The green in his eyes deepened as he stripped off his long waistcoat and let it drop to the floor. "Your breasts are beautiful," he said.

Just hearing the words, she felt them tighten. "Your shirt," she ordered, presenting him with her back as she bent to stir the fire.

She heard his sharp intake of breath, and he couldn't get out of the shirt fast enough. By the time she straightened and turned, he had his shoes and stockings off as well.

Gemini, he looked magnificent. Firelight danced over the planes of his face and flashed gold and red on his body. She moved closer and laid her palms on his chest, closing her eyes as her hands learned the feel of a man. Taut skin over bone and muscle, the springy softness of dark hair. She smoothed her hands down, down, until they rested against the waistband of his breeches.

"This, too," she said.

"Not yet." He swung her around, backing her toward the bed and finally pushing her onto it. She laughed as she landed on her back.

He rested a knee on the mattress and raised one of her feet. "You're beautiful here," he said, his expression one of concentration. His fingers slid between her toes, his thumb massaged her instep.

She arched her foot in response. "You're beautiful, too."

The concentration turned to amusement. "Am I?"

"Oh, yes."

He smiled, sliding his hands slowly up her leg, paying special attention to her knee. "You're beautiful here," he said, flexing it and straightening it. He raised her leg higher and kissed her behind it, sending a shiver rippling through her.

She'd never imagined the back of her knee was so sensitive. A hot stab of lust speared her right between her legs.

He watched her face as his hands moved up higher, higher, dancing on her thigh, a gentle, swirling torment. He was close, so close to where she wanted him. She wanted not only his hands, but all of him. Most especially that part of him that was meant to slide into a woman.

"Kit," she murmured. "Can you—"

"No." He set her leg on the bed and switched to the other, starting again with her foot by pressing a warm kiss to the sole. "Just relax."

She decided to take his advice and relax to the inevitable, enjoying the little bursts of pleasure he created as he slowly worked his way up, leaving no part of her limb untouched. "You're beautiful here," he said, tracing the curve of her calf. And teasing the inside of her thigh. "You're beautiful here, too."

A bead of sweat rolled down his chest, glistening in the firelight. She wanted to lick it off. The ache was becoming an insistent pulse. She wanted to feel him inside her.

She wasn't relaxed at all.

"Kit, please."

"Please what, sweetheart?" He was concentrating again, his eyes closed, his fingers working their way up, closer to where she wanted him.

"Please can you take off your—"

"No," he said, moving suddenly to silence her with a kiss.

His weight on her felt exciting, but he gave all his attention to her mouth. His woodsy scent filled her head. Her hands smoothed his back, his sides, wherever she could reach.

"You are very imaginative," she admitted weakly when he finally relinquished her lips.

His response was another lazy smile as he retreated back toward her feet.

"If you kiss my knee again," she warned, "I'm going to scream."

"I'd like to hear that," he shot back with a grin, gripping both her ankles.

He looked too blasted good looming over her. She held her breath as he skimmed his hands straight up, spreading her legs as he went. "You're beautiful here," he said softly, his heated gaze fixed between them.

Her breath burst out in a rush. Never had she thought to have anyone look at her there. Or at least not until she'd seen Position Seven in I Sonetti.

It was unbearably exciting.

He looked closer.

"Kit," she breathed, her entire body tingling.

He looked closer still. "Beautiful," he repeated.

"Kit, take off your—"

"No," he said and closed the distance, pressing his lips to her in the most intimate kiss imaginable.

Her hips shot off the bed. "Kit!"

"Hmm?"

The single, drawn-out syllable was a hum that drove her wild, sending her past the point where she was capable of protesting any longer. Then the tip of his tongue touched her, warm and slick. It was unbelievable—who did this? what made him think of such a thing?—and unbelievably erotic.

And all she could do was feel.

He licked her, slowly, his tongue swirling in a place so sensitive she wondered that she didn't just fly to pieces. He lingered there, suckling gently, then licked and suckled her again, and again, and again—until she did fly to pieces, shuddering beneath him while he held her hips tight.

After she remembered how to breathe, after her heart stopped galloping, after the pieces had painstakingly rearranged themselves, she still wanted him.

More than ever.

Slowly he raised his head, licking her off his lips, a sight that made her heart stutter in her chest, made a new flash of heat skitter through her. He crawled up her body and settled beside her, then gave her a gentle kiss. "How's that for imaginative?" he asked softly.

Imaginative, indeed. She released a ragged breath. "I translated sixteen scandalous sonnets, and not one of them mentioned that. There weren't any pictures of that, either."

His grin would have done the devil proud.

She swallowed hard, her eyes traveling down to the unmistakable bulge at the front of his breeches. "I want to see you."

"Pardon?"

"You've seen me." In more detail than she'd ever imagined. "Now I want to see you."

This time, she wasn't taking no for an answer. Her hands went to his laces. Under her busy fingers, the bulge seemed to grow, and her excitement grew along with it. After he helped her push the breeches down and off, she stared, fascinated.

She reached to touch him, and her heart hitched when he moved against her palm. She wrapped her fingers around him, thrilling at his sharply indrawn breath and the pulse she felt filling her hand.

The ache down low in her body intensifying again, she moved her hand experimentally. Amazingly, he seemed to grow more. As she watched, a single glossy drop of fluid emerged.

Curious, she collected it with a fingertip and raised it to her mouth, licking it off.

His eyes widened. "How do I taste?" he asked in a thick whisper, his breath coming short to match hers.

"Creamy. A little salty. Good." She skimmed her tongue across her lips, loving his reaction. "I want to taste you more, the way you did me."

"You want to kill me, you mean," he said with a strangled laugh. "Not tonight." And with that he rolled on top of her, fitting himself within the cradle of her thighs.

Just that quickly, the heat inside her flared fully to life. She raised her knees instinctively, wrapping her legs around him. Poised there where she craved him, he just kissed her for a long while, kissed her until she could barely think straight for wanting him. Until she seemed nothing but a mass of need.

"Now, Kit," she begged.

"This might hurt," he whispered regretfully.

"I don't care," she said, and she didn't.

He nodded and drew a deep breath, and at long last she felt him there, felt an incredible urgency as he entered her ever so slowly, felt herself stretching to accommodate him. "Faster," she whispered, and he pushed farther, but not far enough.

Not fast enough.

Not enough.

Gritting her teeth, she shoved her hips against him and took him inside with a gasp.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, misunderstanding.

"No. It doesn't hurt." The pain had been so fleeting, so insignificant compared to the marvelous feeling of him filling her. The gasp had been a sound of wonder. "A thing of beauty," she whispered incredulously.

And then he moved within her, and the beauty became more beautiful still.

It made her complete.

She moved with him, lost in a world of their making, the sensations building until she wasn't sure where she ended and he started. Time slowed and stretched, or maybe it sped; she couldn't be sure. He kissed her desperately, reality blurring until two became one, until she arched against him as waves of pleasure overtook her, her heart soaring when she heard him groan and felt the warm flood of his release.

While she slowly came to her senses, he rained little kisses on her face.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too." His eyes still closed, he rolled off her and arranged her against his side. "But remind me never to make love to you in your parents' house."

"What?" She wiggled closer. "Why?"

"You screamed," he informed her, his tone a mix of pride and amusement. "I told you I'd like to hear that, so I thank you for obliging me."

"I did not scream."

"You did." He idly skimmed her bare hip, making her feel as though she might melt. "And a beautiful scream it was, too."

Would he lie to her? Kit, the man who'd sacrificed his dream for the sake of honesty? If she were to be honest with herself, there'd been a moment when she'd been so out of her mind with pleasure, the house could have burned around her and she wouldn't have noticed.

She supposed that, right then, she might have screamed.

"Well, at least I didn't yip," she said and kissed him before he could laugh.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The next morning, after a leisurely bath for two in Kit's enormous tub—which Rose decided she could get used to—followed by breakfast with her sisters, he walked her up the hill to the pawnshop.

The night shouldn't have changed anything, but somehow it had. She'd loved Kit desperately before she'd shared his bed, but now she felt a new closeness. And she also sensed a sadness buried within him, a sadness that spilled over onto herself. She wanted more than ever for him to make things right with his sister.

"I'll wait out here," he said when they arrived.

"I want you two to talk."

"I'll be here if she's willing."

Bent over a tray full of rings, Ellen looked up when the bell jingled. "Rose!" She came hurrying out from behind the counter.

Rose hugged her tight, then set her away. "You look good." Beneath her simple peach dress, Ellen's stomach barely looked rounded. "How are you feeling?"

"I haven't puked in at least half an hour."

"Oh."

"It's not that bad." Ellen grinned. "I make up for it at night; I vow and swear, I've never been so hungry."

Violet had never felt sick when carrying her children; Rose could only hope it would be the same for her. Her hand went to her own abdomen as she suddenly realized she could already be with child. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about that.

Quickly she held out the book, relieved to be handing it over. "Here. Take it. And here are the translations." She pulled a few sheets of folded paper from her drawstring purse.

"Oh, thank you!" Ellen opened them and looked at the last one. Her eyes widened as she read a stanza. "I didn't know this was quite so…" She slanted a glance to where her husband sat in a corner industriously going over paperwork, then back down to the translated words. "'With my legs around your neck,'" she quoted under her breath, "'somehow you've got your yard buried inside my…' Mercy me. I'm not certain Thomas is ready for this."

Ellen didn't look ready for it, either. "Everyone at court found it entirely too intriguing," Rose told her. "But Kit just laughed."

Ellen refolded the pages and tucked them into the book. "I hope you two will be happy," she said formally.

"You are coming to our wedding?"

"No." She gazed down at the tray of rings on the counter. "No, I'm not."

"Ellen, if you don't attend, then someday you'll be very sorry. You cannot refuse to speak to your brother forever."

Ellen slid a garnet ring onto her finger, then pulled it off. "I cannot imagine that he cares."

Rose waited until she looked up. "You know he does."

"Then he should give me my dowry. He has no right to withhold it just because I didn't marry a man of his choosing."

At this point, Rose suspected Kit would hand over everything he owned if his sister would just stop this nonsense. Neither he nor Ellen would budge first. She wanted to knock their two heads together.

But Ellen was just plain wrong. "He has every right. He earned that money."

"I earned it, too," Ellen shot back, her eyes as green as Kit's when he was upset. "I suffered for that money every bit as much he did. More. My parents were dead, and my big brother left me with a little old lady. True, she gave me nice clothes and made sure I learned to read and write. But she also expected me to wait on her hand and foot. Whenever Kit bothered to visit, I used to beg him to take me with him, away from there, anywhere…" Her voice dropped, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. "He promised me that someday I'd live a better life, and I figure it's my due."

Kit considered Lady St. Vincent his savior, but there were two sides to every story. To Ellen, apparently the baroness had been a prison guard. Still, Rose couldn't see where Kit had had much of a choice.

"What do you expect he could have done, Ellen? How could he have cared for you? Supported you? He was sixteen with no skills, but a grand opportunity. If he'd stayed with you in the village of Hawkridge, what do you imagine he'd be doing today? Do you think he'd be an architect? Do you reckon he'd have managed to save eleven thousand pounds for his beloved little sister? And he certainly couldn't have brought you to school, and later to Oxford—"

"I know," Ellen ground out miserably. Her jaw was tight, her cheeks pink. "He had no choice; I know it. But that didn't make it easy for me."

Rose laid a hand on her arm. "Of course it didn't."

"I earned that money. I mean to have it. He could dictate my life when I was a child, but not anymore."

"How on earth do you expect Kit to understand how you're feeling if you don't talk to him? This is childish, Ellen. You're a married woman, an expectant mother. Try to see his side. And you must come to our wedding. If not for Kit, do it for me."

Tears welled in Ellen's eyes. "I cannot. If he doesn't love me enough to give me my dowry even though I defied him, I cannot."

Rose's gaze strayed out the window to where Kit was pacing across the street, clearly as miserable as his sister. She wished he would just give Ellen the money and end this painful stalemate, but unlike his sister, she could see his side, too.

Her heart went out to him. "I'm sorry, Ellen, but I cannot beg you anymore, either. I pray you change your mind," she said and went outside to join him.

Kit whirled when he saw her. "How is she?" he immediately asked.

"Healthy, save for some expected sickness in the mornings. And the babe is well, too. But she still doesn't want to see you."

His jaw tensed as took her hand to start the walk back down the hill to his house, where Violet and Lily were waiting to return home.

She squeezed his fingers. "Do you know, I believe Ellen's pregnancy may be affecting her thinking and her feelings."

"Whatever would make you believe that?"

"It's common enough for increasing women to be weepy and such." He didn't look convinced. "In any case, Ellen is young. Surely when her child is born she will grow up quickly. In the meantime," she added carefully, "if you want her at our wedding, you only have to give her—"

"I cannot," he interrupted. "I won't buy my sister's love."

Rose held her tongue as they walked, listening to the sounds of horses clopping past, children playing chase, and a woman in one of the tall houses scolding her poor sod of a husband.

After a while, Kit sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Thank you for trying."

"There's no need for thanks," she said softly.

She hadn't tried hard enough. Someway, somehow, she would come up with a plan to get these two to make up.

Kit had witnessed his sister's wedding, and Ellen would be there for his.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

"Rowan, wake up!" Back at Trentingham three days later, Rose shook her brother's bony eleven-year-old shoulder. "Wake up!"

He stretched and yawned, opened his eyes, then promptly closed them. "It's still night."

"But it's almost morning. And I need you to do me a favor."

He rolled over, presenting her with his back. "What?"

"I want you to pretend to be ill." She tousled his wavy black hair. "It could be fun."

"Fun?"

"Mum will take care of you." She sat on his blue-draped oak bed. "She'll bring you treats and sit and play cards."

"No, she won't." With a groan, he turned to face her. "She's taking you to London today, remember? To fetch your wedding gown. Being ill alone is no fun at all."

"She'd never leave you ill. You're her precious baby." When he grimaced, she rushed on. "I'll pay you."

He sat up. "How much?"

"A shilling."

He made a rude noise.

"Very well, then, a crown."

"Maybe." At last Rowan looked interested—but skeptical, too. Rose's brother was no half-wit. "I still think Mum will want to go with you to London…" His green eyes narrowed. "You don't want her to go with you, do you? Why don't you want her to go with you?"

"Never mind why. Will you do this for me or not? A crown, Rowan. A nice, shiny—"

"She won't let you go alone."

"I'll take Violet, then. And Lily, too, if Mum insists—she's at Hawkridge at the moment, and it's right on the way. Will you do it?" He still looked hesitant, blast him. "Think of it as a practical joke," she added, grasping at straws.

"A practical joke?" He perked up. He'd loved practical jokes ever since his little friend Jewel, Ford's niece, had played one on him four years ago. In fact, they hadn't been friends at all until the girl had humiliated him with that prank. Rose had never been able to figure that out.

But she wasn't averse to using it to her advantage. "Yes, a practical joke. Jewel will be so jealous when you tell her all about it at my wedding."

"What will I have to do?"

"Hardly anything." She moved aside, revealing the items she'd arranged on his bedside table. "I brought powder to make your face pale—"

"Makeup?"

"Just a little. You can run around the room till you're all hot and sweaty. Then jump back into bed, I'll fluff a little powder on, and we'll put a hot cloth on your forehead." She gestured to the bowl of steaming water she'd brought with her.

"I can moan a lot," he suggested with a grin.

"Excellent. I'll hide everything beneath your bed. Then when Mum comes in you'll be all hot and feverish and moaning and groaning…she won't want to leave you, I'm sure."

His eyes brightened with the thrill of conspiracy. "Can I puke?"

She winced, but nodded. It was a brilliant if disgusting idea. "Can you make yourself puke?"

"For two crowns," he said. "Bring me some food."

In Madame Beaumont's London shop, Rose twirled in the red satin gown.

"It's gorgeous," Lily breathed. "Whoever would have imagined red for a wedding?"

"Perfect," Madame Beaumont said in her fashionable French accent—never mind the seventeen years she'd lived here since the Restoration. She waved one arm in an expansive fashionable French gesture. "Absolument parfait."

The gown had a low, scooped neckline and full three-quarter sleeves from which a froth of fine white Brussels lace spilled to Rose's wrists. The underskirt and stomacher were both embroidered with thousands of seed pearls in scrolled designs, and the overskirt had love-knots all over it—small satin bows, loosely sewn so they could be torn off by the guests after the ceremony and taken home as favors.

"I can imagine red," Violet said in her practical way, "but what I cannot imagine is Mum allowing you to retrieve this gown without her."

Rose turned so Madame could detach the stomacher. "Rowan was very ill. She'd seen the gown already for three fittings. And it's not as though I had to come alone. I have you two." She glanced over her shoulder and smiled.

Violet snorted. "This is the second time within a week you've dragged me out overnight. Ford is going to be very relieved when you're finally married."

"Rand, too," Lily put in. "He had to travel back to Oxford all by himself."

"Good God, he's a grown man." Rose carefully stepped out of the gown. "You two cannot fool me. I know you're having the time of your lives on these adventures."

Now both her sisters snorted.

Minutes later, a footman carried the boxed gown to the Trentingham carriage. "The Strand," Rose told the driver.

"If you wish to visit the shops," Lily said, scooping up her cat as she climbed in, "the Royal Exchange would be better."

Rose pulled a scrap of paper from her purse to check the name and direction. "I wish to visit Abrahamson & Company, the Strand near Charing Cross."

When the door shut behind them, Violet snatched the paper out of her hand. "Goldsmiths? You want to buy some jewelry?"

"No. Mr. Abrahamson has my money."

"I knew that name was familiar." Lily stroked her cat. "He's the man Father sent a letter to when I needed my inheritance."

"Oh, that's right." Violet focused on Rose. "Why do you want money?"

"It's my money. Does it matter?"

Violet and Lily shared a look but dropped the subject until a while later, when Rose came out of the goldsmith's shop with a bag so heavy she could barely support its weight. She climbed back into the carriage and dropped it to the floorboards with a thud, dropping herself onto the bench seat with a "Whew."

"How much money is that?" Lily asked.

Rose ignored the question, instead looking to the footman. "Windsor," she ordered.

"Windsor?" Violet's jaw dropped open. "You told Mum we would stay at the town house tonight. I heard you with my own ears."

"Well, I wasn't about to tell her I'm spending the night with Kit." She hadn't planned to from the outset, but when the combination of Rowan's deception and collecting her sisters resulted in a late start that would make an overnight stay necessary, it had occurred to her that she could spend that night with Kit.

An unexpected bonus, and one to which she was very much looking forward.

"Windsor," she repeated, settling back as the footman closed the door. It would be a lengthy ride, but toward Trentingham, after all, so her sisters had no real reason to protest. They'd arrive at their respective homes earlier tomorrow than if they'd stayed the night in London.

Lily toed the heavy bag with one red-heeled shoe. "How much money?"

There was no point in lying. "A thousand pounds. Do you know, I had no idea how heavy—"

"A thousand pounds?" Violet's eyes widened behind her spectacles. "Egad. Whatever will you do with all that money?"

"I'm giving it to Ellen. Kit's sister."

"What?" both her sisters burst out. The cat jumped from Lily's lap and cowered under a bench seat.

"I'd planned to give Ellen all ten thousand, but the goldsmith convinced me it would be too much to carry." Rose rolled her shoulders, still feeling the strain. "So I'm giving her just the thousand with a note from Mr. Abrahamson promising the rest is forthcoming."

Violet slumped against the coach wall. "You're giving Ellen Martyn ten thousand pounds."

"Ellen Whittingham. And I'm telling her it's from Kit. At least I hope she'll believe it's from Kit. He had promised her eleven—"

"Are you out of your mind?" Lily interrupted.

"Yes," Violet snapped at the same time Rose said, "No."

"It's Ellen who's lost her mind," she continued and proceeded to tell her sisters the long, sad story. "Can't you see?" she concluded. "I think her pregnancy must be affecting her brain."

Violet shook her head. "I never felt better than when I was carrying my children."

"Not everyone is so lucky. When Mum's maid Anne was last with child, she was always at sixes and sevens. Practically useless, but as soon as—"

"Have you considered," Lily broke in, "that Ellen might simply be a spoiled brat?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. But Kit is perplexed and hurt, and I believe if she'd been like this always, he'd be exasperated and angry instead. And Ellen is really nice. Mum quite likes her."

Violet took off her spectacles and polished them on her skirts. "And you believe Kit is totally blameless in this?"

"Of course he isn't. In his own way he's as stubborn as his sister. But I cannot blame him for the way he feels, and I cannot stand to see him so unhappy. It's like a dark cloud hanging over my wedding. The only way to solve this is to give Ellen my inheritance and make her think the money came from Kit. Then she'll talk to him and everyone will be happy."

Lily scooped up the cat again. "But you'll have given up your inheritance!"

"Don't be a goose. Kit will replace it. If Ellen would only speak to him again, he'd be happy enough to hand over her dowry."

"Has he said so?"

"Not in so many words. But I know him," she added, lifting her chin.

"You cannot know him." The poor cat let out a pathetic meow as Lily clutched it tighter. "You haven't lived with him for even a single day. Goodness, I've been married to Rand nearly two months now, and he surprises me all the time."

Violet slid her spectacles back on. "I've been living with Ford for four years, and sometimes I still wonder—"

"I know Kit," Rose repeated. "No matter that he hasn't said so, there's no chance he meant to keep that money from his sister forever. Why should it matter whether the ten thousand pounds was mine or his to begin with? It will be ours soon enough either way."

"It matters," Lily argued. "Unlike a dowry that becomes your husband's upon marriage, according to Grandpapa's will that money is yours to control. Not many women have the advantage of their own funds. By handing it over to Ellen, you're giving that up. You and Kit may have the same amount of money combined, but none of it will be under your control."

"I don't care. This is more important to me." Rose forced herself to calm. Her sisters were only trying to help. "Kit and Ellen aren't speaking, and both of them are miserable. And they're the only family either of them has…can you imagine one of us missing the other's wedding?"

Her sisters seemed to consider that a moment, then Violet tried another tack. "Have you told Mum and Father what you're doing?"

Rose remained quiet.

"Of course she hasn't," Lily said. "They would never in a million years agree."

"I've no need of their permission. I'm twenty-one. The money is legally mine."

"But you knew you would have had an argument, didn't you?" Lily's blue eyes lit with sudden understanding. "That's why we're here with you instead of Mum, isn't it? I'd wager Rowan isn't even ill. How can you live with yourself, scheming behind your own mother's back?"

Rose's lips thinned. "You weren't averse to scheming last week to get me to Windsor," she pointed out. "I'd rather scheme than have my sister-in-law refuse to attend our wedding. If that happens, Kit may never forgive her."

"Has it occurred to you," Violet asked with concern, "that Kit might never forgive you for meddling in his affairs?"

It hadn't, and Rose was taken aback for a moment.

But only a moment. "Kit's not like that," she said.

"You don't know him—"

"I do." This discussion was going nowhere, and Rose was finished with it. "What is it with all this traffic?" she asked, glaring out the window. "At this rate, my wedding day will arrive before we even get out of London."

"Excellent attempt at changing the subject—" Violet started.

"No," Lily interrupted. "Something is going on."

The carriage hadn't budged in the last ten minutes. Since they weren't going anywhere anyway, they all climbed out.

"William and Mary," Rose breathed. "Their wedding! I'd completely forgotten that today is the fourth of November."

William of Orange and King Charles's niece, Mary, rode in an open carriage down the Strand on their way to St. James's Palace. Caught in the crush, Rose and her sisters were swept into the swarm of citizens lining the streets, waving and cheering as William and Mary approached.

"Everyone seems so happy to see them wed," Lily remarked, holding onto her cat for dear life.

"She's a Protestant," Rose said. "Charles is no fool. He has no legitimate heirs, and he knows the people don't want to see his Catholic brother James on the throne. He's wise to marry James's daughter to a Protestant prince like William of Orange."

"When did you become so wise?" Violet asked.

Rose lifted her chin. "Just because I don't bury my nose in books about the past doesn't mean I'm ignorant of the present. This marriage made for much court gossip. Besides"—she shrugged and cracked a droll smile—"I vow and swear, there was little to do at court in the daytime besides read newsheets."

The happy roar swelled as the bride and groom drew closer. But Mary didn't look happy at all. In fact, as she rode by in the royal carriage, wearing a magnificent blue and gold gown and waving to the people, she looked ready to burst into tears.

"How old is she?" Lily asked.

"Fifteen. And William is twenty-seven." Twenty-seven and short with stooped shoulders, bad teeth, and a large, beaked nose. Rose wouldn't want to marry him, either. Her heart went out to poor Mary.

In contrast, how lucky she was to be marrying a man she truly loved. She could hardly wait for her own wedding just five days away. And she knew Kit felt the same.

Of course, that was assuming he wouldn't be angry she'd forced matters with Ellen. Violet's question kept rattling in her brain. Has it occurred to you that Kit might never forgive you for meddling in his affairs?

But with the wedding so close, she couldn't allow this brother–sister standoff to continue. Not when there was a way to fix it. Standing by meekly was simply not in her nature.

Kit wouldn't be angry; he'd be grateful. She knew him well enough to know that.

Didn't she?

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

With all the excitement and delay caused by the royal wedding, night was falling by the time Rose and her sisters reached Windsor and the carriage jerked to a stop in front of the pawnshop.

Rose roused herself from a doze and climbed down, then turned back when nobody seemed to be following her. Shivering in the cold night air, she stuck her head through the open doorway of the vehicle. "Aren't you two going to come with me?"

Her sisters looked at each other. "I think not," Lily said for them both.

"We don't choose to be part of this insanity," Violet elaborated.

"Oh, do hush up," Rose said. Obviously they didn't appreciate her roping them into her plot, but she couldn't have simply gallivanted about England alone. This was the sort of thing sisters were for, wasn't it?

And she'd done some thinking on the way here to Windsor.

She clutched her cloak tighter around herself. "Do you know," she told Violet, "I seem to remember you meddling in Ford's affairs. For heaven's sake, you patented and sold his invention without his knowledge; you secretly bought that book, thereby giving him your money—giving him your inheritance, Violet, hmm?—without him knowing—"

"It's not comparable," Lily cut in. "She gave the money to Ford, the man she was planning to marry. You're giving yours to Ellen."

Rose turned on her. "And you gave up control of your own money, too, to Rand's father. Quite willingly, if I remember right."

"That's not comparable, either. It was the only way I could marry Rand."

"I see. Speaking of Rand…wasn't Rand the one who came to Violet with the plan to secretly save Ford's estate? It seems to me he's not averse to a little manipulation for a good cause. Are you telling me Rand would leave you if you meddled in his business?"

"Well, no. I am certain we would work it out. But you're not married yet. What if Kit is so angry he calls off the wedding? Then you'll have lost all your money, and—"

"Never mind." There was no reasoning with either of them. Rose reached back into the carriage and hefted the bag of coins with a little grunt. Fuming, she stomped to the pawnshop's door and knocked.

And knocked. And knocked.

She had just about decided the Whittinghams weren't home when Thomas finally cracked open the door, his face illuminated by a single candle.

"We're closed," he said, then raised the candle higher. "Oh. Lady Rose." With his free hand, he clutched the top of his half-open shirt.

She shifted the heavy bag in her arms. "I have something for Ellen. From Kit."

He eyed the bag curiously. "Well, come in, then, will you?"

She followed him through the dark shop and up the stairs, noting his disheveled hair and wondering if she'd roused him from his bed. It was early yet, but he and Ellen were newly wedded. If Rose had her way, she'd be going to bed early every night with Kit. She could hardly wait to finish this and surprise him at his house.

"In here," Thomas said at the top of the stairs, opening a door to a small room crammed full of furniture and decorative pieces.

"Rose!" Ellen jumped up from a chair, dressed in a pale pink wrapper. The firelight behind her left no doubt that she wore nothing underneath.

So Rose had guessed right. She wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or amused. "I've brought something for you. From Kit." She walked closer and handed Ellen the bag.

Not expecting its weight, Ellen squealed as it slipped through her hands and fell to the floor with a thud, flopping onto its side. The top opened a little, and a coin rolled out and across the plain wooden boards, finally landing with a little clink. For a moment, it just sat there, glinting gold in the firelight.

Then Ellen rushed to scoop it up. She folded her fingers around it and looked to Rose, a question in her eyes.

"Your dowry," Rose told her. "The first thousand pounds of it. The rest is forthcoming. It's waiting in London whenever you decide to claim it." She handed Ellen the goldsmith's promissory note for nine thousand pounds. "I couldn't carry more."

That last sentence, at least, was the truth. And if the rest of what she'd said was less than honest, it was meant well, for both Kit's and Ellen's good.

Rose sent up a little prayer that Kit would see it that way.

Ellen stared at the paper with the goldsmith's name. Rose hoped she wasn't going to fuss over the missing thousand pounds—ten thousand, after all, was a vast sum of money.

Ellen still hadn't said a word. "Kit loves you," Rose added simply.

"I know." Tears flooded Ellen's eyes. She opened her clenched fist and stared down at the coin. "I…I don't know what to say."

"Save your words for Kit. Just tell me you'll come to our wedding."

"Of course I will."

Rose opened her arms, and Ellen stepped into her embrace.

"Kit needs you," Rose murmured by her ear. "You're his only family."

Ellen hugged her tighter. "You'll be his family soon."

"It's not the same. You're with Thomas now, but Kit shares your blood." Rose and her sisters bickered all the time, but even angry as she was with them now, she knew they only wanted the best for her. And they would always be there if she needed them. Always. "You need Kit, too. Sisters and brothers…it's a bond that should never be broken."

"I was going to make her go to your wedding, anyway," Thomas put in.

"He was going to try to make me go," Ellen clarified with a strained laugh. She took a deep breath and stepped back. "It was turning into our first fight."

Rose eyed her scant apparel. "Not too serious, apparently."

"Not yet." This time the laugh was real, and a twinkle lit Ellen's eyes. "We've been enjoying your sonnets."

"Ellen!" Thomas protested, turning ten shades of red.

"They're not mine," Rose said dryly. "You're welcome to them."

She noticed both their gazes stray to the bag of coins and figured they were too polite to dump them all right there and wallow in their new fortune—but also that they were dying to do so.

"I'll leave you, then," she said. "To the sonnets and the gold."

Thomas followed her back down the stairs. "Thank you," he said at the door.

"Thank Kit."

"We will. But I thank you, too. I'm aware that what Kit gives us comes out of your pocket as well."

He didn't know the half of it. "Kit and I have plenty," she assured him. "It's the love that counts anyway, isn't it?"

He nodded as he locked the door behind her.

It had gone perfectly. She smiled to herself as a footman ushered her into the carriage.

"We're sorry," Violet and Lily said together before she could even sit down.

"Sorry?"

"We talked while you were gone. And you're right," Violet admitted. "We both gave up our inheritances for our men. And it was a good bargain."

"The best," Lily agreed.

Rose was stunned by their about-face. "It wasn't exactly the same."

"True." Violet started a little as the carriage lurched and began the short drive down the hill to Kit's house. "We both did it to win our men, and you already have Kit."

Rose hoped she still would after she told him of this night's work.

"We've decided," Lily said, "that what you just did was more romantic. And noble."

"Noble?" No one had ever described Rose Ashcroft as noble. "Noble?"

"We traded money for selfish reasons—for what we ourselves wanted. You sacrificed not for yourself, but for your husband's happiness."

"But can't you see? I cannot be happy if Kit isn't. That was the whole point."

Her sisters exchanged a look. "She gets it," Violet said gravely.

"Yes." Lily breathed a languid sigh. "Isn't love wonderful?"

The carriage rolled to a stop. "We're here," Rose announced unnecessarily, her heart suddenly pounding.

Here was her moment of truth.

As she climbed down the steps with her satchel, she ordered herself to relax. Despite her sisters' dire predictions, she'd known from the first this would work. And she was dying to see Kit. Her entire body tingled in memory of their first night together last week.

Putting a smile on her face, she marched up the stairs and banged the knocker.

Graves promptly answered. "Lady Rose. What a surprise."

"I hope it's a pleasant one." Surely everything would be all right. "Especially pleasant for Kit."

"I'm afraid Mr. Martyn has gone to Hampton Court," the butler told them. "My apologies, Lady Rose. I don't expect him back until Thursday."

"Thursday?" Rose echoed, her stomach souring with disappointment. Not only could she not see Kit, the roads were too dangerous to travel at night. The countryside was dark as sin, and highwaymen abounded. Standing on the doorstep, Rose looked helplessly at her sisters, then back to Graves. "Do you suppose we could stay the night anyway?"

"Of course, of course." The butler reached for her satchel. "Mr. Martyn would have my head if I turned you away."

In no time at all, he'd called for footmen to take their luggage and maids to ready rooms. He sent word to the cook to prepare a fine meal, then ushered the sisters through the magnificent entry hall and into the drawing room to await supper.

Rose plopped onto the moss green settle. "I cannot believe this."

"All is not lost." Lily shrugged and set down her cat before sitting beside her. "We shall have a nice sisterly evening together."

Rose had wanted to spend the evening with Kit. Her body all but ached, reminding her. "I think I just want to go to sleep—" Suddenly an alarming thought occurred to her. "Good God, this is terrible. I won't be able to explain to Kit before we leave."

"Explain what?" Violet asked, perusing a book she'd found on a shelf.

"About Ellen and the money. I need to explain. Else he might hate me and call off the wedding—"

"Oh, Rose." Lily covered her hand with her own. "I'm sorry we ever said that. Kit isn't going to hate you."

Violet shut the book and sat on her other side. "As you pointed out, I meddled in Ford's life, too. And he certainly didn't hate me for doing those things. In fact, he thought it was wonderful."

But now that the idea had taken root in her head, Rose couldn't help but worry. "Ford is different," she said. "He thrives on invention, creation—he's not a man driven by ambition, as Kit is. Ford's happiest when other people take care of the details so he can concentrate on his science. But Kit is used to being in charge. He may not take lightly to my arranging his life."

"You said you know him," Lily reminded her. "You said you were certain he wouldn't react badly."

That was true. Her heart stopped pounding quite so hard. "You're right," she said, "I do know Kit. He'll probably laugh when he hears what I've done."

But a moment later she was doubting again. She felt as though her emotions were buffeted by the wind.

More than anything, she wanted to talk to Kit and see his reaction once and for all. But she couldn't drag her sisters to Hampton Court, and she couldn't send them home in the carriage and wait here until Thursday, either. Her wedding was Saturday. She had to make flower arrangements, help her mother…

"I'll leave him a letter," she decided. "And I'll ask him to send a message as soon as he reads it." She'd be counting the hours until Thursday night when, she hoped, she'd receive words of reassurance. Words that would allow her a good night's sleep.

"The perfect solution," Violet said.

Not perfect, but the best Rose could do.

"He loves you," Lily reminded her.

Rose could only hope he loved her enough.

CHAPTER FIFTY

He was a coward.

Kit had argued with himself on the entire drive from London. Should he give Ellen her dowry before the wedding, so she'd attend and neither of them would be sorry later? Or wait until she started talking to him again, no matter how long it took?

He wanted to do the latter; he didn't want to give in to her childish behavior, and he didn't want to feel like he was buying her love. But he didn't have the guts. As evidenced by the fact that, following his final inspection of the completed chapel at Whitehall, he'd detoured to visit his goldsmith before driving back here to Windsor.

Not to mention that even though his work had kept him a day later than he'd intended—even though it was nightfall already and his wedding was tomorrow—he was even now heading up the High Street to Ellen's house instead of down the hill to his own.

Still, if he was a coward, at least he was a happy one.

Amazingly, in less than twenty-four hours, Rose would be his. He hadn't needed the knighthood, let alone a more important title. He'd won her as plain Kit Martyn, and there was satisfaction to be found in that.

No more mishaps had occurred, and, in fact, his work was proceeding extremely well. Lord Trentingham, of course, was enamored of his new greenhouse. Charles was pleased with the chapel at Whitehall, and when he saw the exquisite dining room here in Windsor, which was also now complete, Kit was confident he'd approve. It was unfortunate the new Hampton Court building was so far behind schedule, but as its intended occupant was currently in France, that wasn't exactly disastrous. And Kit was certain that, when finished, it, too, would exceed Charles's expectations. Despite losing the Deputy Surveyor post, his future was not at all bleak.

A week from today, he and Rose would attend the queen's birthday celebration at Whitehall, then leave for Italy the day after that. A dream come true for them both. He would learn from the great architects, and Rose would be there to translate.

But first things first, Kit thought as his carriage drew up before the pawnshop. Before he could be happy with the new woman in his life, he needed to square things with the old one.

He drew a deep breath, hefted the bag of coins, and marched up to the pawnshop's door. It was locked tight at this late hour, but as he was raising his hand to knock, it swung open. Ellen and her husband both stood there, wrapped in cloaks, obviously on their way out.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Where are you going?" he countered—then realized she'd actually spoken to him. Would wonders never cease? Just when he was ready to give in, she'd saved him from proving himself a coward.

"Now that the shop is closed for the evening, I was going to try to see you," she said. "As I've done the past four nights."

"I was away," he said unnecessarily. "Here." He held out the bag. "A down payment on your dowry. I never meant to keep it from you. My goldsmith is holding the rest for you in London."

"I know. I've been trying for four days to thank you." Instead of taking the money, she threw her arms around him, the hard bag of gold between them. "Thank you so very, very much." She kissed both his cheeks. "I love you. I honestly don't know what came over me. But I'm sorry I didn't trust you, that I tried to punish you by remaining silent."

Though clearly rehearsed, her words sounded sincere. But Kit was stunned. He pulled away. "How did you know I was about to give it to you?" Until a few minutes ago, he hadn't been sure himself.

Ellen exchanged a confused glance with Thomas, then looked back to Kit. "What do you mean, how did I know?"

"There was no need to bring more gold," Thomas added. "The first bag was sufficient proof of your intentions."

Kit shifted the heavy weight in his arms. "The first bag?"

"The one you sent with Rose." Ellen enunciated slowly, as though he were a half-wit who required the simplest explanation.

Which wasn't too far off from the way he was feeling at the moment. "Rose? What does Rose have to do with this?"

Thomas looked even more confused than Kit felt. "She brought us your money. Or a thousand pounds of it, and a promissory note from your goldsmith for the rest. Abrahamson & Company."

"My money is with Lazarus & Sons." Kit's thoughts seemed to be moving through a fog, until suddenly everything cleared. "Lord Almighty. It must have been her money. Her inheritance."

Thomas blinked. "Is she mad?"

"Clearly," Kit said. "Insane, infuriating—"

"Madly in love," Ellen interrupted with a soft smile.

Reeling, Kit leaned against the doorpost. Not light to begin with, the bag seemed to be growing heavier by the moment. "Do you think I could come in and sit down?"

"Rose is anxious," Chrystabel said later that night as she readied herself for bed. "Distressed. I never in my life thought I'd see Rose like this. Of all our girls—"

"You're the one who's anxious." Joseph stepped behind to unlace her, pausing to kiss the back of her neck.

The little shiver that rippled through her wasn't enough to really distract her. She reached up to unpin her hair. "I should have let her sleep with Kit."

"What?" Though he sounded astonished, his practiced fingers kept unlacing. "You cannot mean that, Chrysanthemum."

"I do. It's the only explanation for Rose's attack of nerves. It was a mistake keeping them apart. Our daughter should be happily anticipating her wedding tomorrow, and instead—"

"You explained so well all your excellent reasons for forbidding their early union." He spread the back of her gown, drawing it off her shoulders and kissing the newly bared skin. "Fear of an eight-month baby—"

"We had a six-month baby and survived—"

"Loss of innocence before the wedding—"

"So what?"

"—when the wedding could be called off for various reasons—"

"What reasons? It was different with Lily and Rand, where his father was against the match. But Kit has no living parents, no one he has to please. He's his own man—"

He laughed, pushing the gown and her chemise down to pool at her feet. "And you're your own woman, my love. Truly one of a kind."

Wondering if he meant that as a compliment or a complaint, she turned and kissed him anyway. "Thankfully, tomorrow it will all be settled, all three of our girls married."

He skimmed his warm hands down her sides to her hips. "Do you find that sad? Another reason to be anxious?"

Nodding, she bit her lip. And reached for her night rail.

"Oh, you won't be needing that." Snatching it from her hands, he threw it artfully over his shoulder. "I suspect a prewedding night might take your mind off tomorrow's anxieties."

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

No note had come from Kit.

Wearing a sapphire silk dressing gown, Rose paced her crimson bedchamber while her sisters and Judith watched. They were here to help her dress for her wedding.

But she couldn't help wondering if she was going to have one.

She lifted the bouquet she'd made for herself and stroked the soft red and white petals. If she hadn't given all that money to Kit's sister, she wouldn't think twice about the fact that he hadn't arrived yet; in truth, she had no reason to expect him this early. And he wasn't supposed to see her before the wedding, anyway.

But she'd thought she'd hear from him Thursday night. And now it was Saturday…

"You look worried," Judith said.

Rose inhaled deeply of the sweet floral scent before she set the flowers down and forced a smile. "Wedding nerves. You suffered them, too, if you'll remember."

"Did I?" Judith laughed, looking happier than Rose had ever seen her. "But there was no cause for nerves, as I discovered. If it's the wedding night you're dreading…don't. It was ever so wonderful—" She must have suddenly realized what she was saying, because she broke off, her cheeks flushing pink.

Struggling to keep a straight face, Rose exchanged glances with her sisters. "Thank you," she told Judith primly. "I feel much better."

"Oh, good." Judith smiled.

Rose's hair was already dressed with pearls and red ribbons, her lashes darkened, and her eyes lightly outlined with kohl. For want of something to do, she sat at her dressing table and fluffed more powder on her face.

"You're going to look like a ghost," Violet said.

"Good God, you're right." Staring at her pale self in the mirror, she pulled a little sheet of red Spanish paper from a tiny booklet. "Where's Kit?" she asked, rubbing it on her cheeks.

"Now you look like a harlot." Lily grabbed a handkerchief to rub some off. "Let me help you."

Rose sat rigid under her ministrations. "Is it time for me to get dressed?"

"Might as well." Violet swept the red gown off the bed. "Shall I call Harriet?"

"No. You three can help me. I cannot stand any more of her chatter. All she ever talks of is Walter and getting married. I almost wish they'd chosen to live at Hampton Court instead of with me."

"That isn't true," Lily said.

Of course it wasn't. Harriet's chatter hadn't bothered her before she gave the money to Ellen. She just couldn't take so much unadulterated happiness right now. It set her teeth on edge.

She slid out of her wrapper and stood in place while Judith slipped the diaphanous chemise over her head, being careful not to ruin her hair or her carefully applied face. Then her sisters brought over the gown and helped her wiggle into it. Violet smoothed the satin skirts over her hips while Lily stepped close to lace her tightly into the bodice.

"I think I may be with child," she murmured to Rose's chest.

Rose blinked and glanced down to Lily's still-flat stomach. In her dusky pink gown, her sister's body looked as lithe as ever. "Are you sure?"

Lily looked up with a dreamy smile. "I'm two weeks late."

"Oh, Lily!" Violet threw her arms around her.

"Me, too," Judith said shyly.

Lily froze. "You're not jesting?"

"No," Judith said, and they both let out excited little screams.

Beaming, Lily turned from Violet's arms into her friend's. "Remember when you said we should be newly wedded together? Now we're going to become mothers together, too!"

Rose watched them embrace, slowly tying her abandoned laces in a bow while her own flat stomach churned. Lily and Judith and Ellen, all pregnant. And Violet had three children already.

On this day that was supposed to be happy, she felt so left out. She reached for her stomacher and plastered it against her front, beginning to fasten the tabs. Would she ever have children of her own? Not if Kit didn't show up to marry her—

"Edmund is thrilled," Judith gushed. "What did Rand say?"

"I haven't told him yet." Lily hugged herself round the middle as though she were protecting her child. "I wanted to be sure. We've been disappointed before—"

"Oh, heavens," Judith said. "You've been wed just two months. You must tell him. If he's half as happy as Edmund, you'll end up spending a night that makes you wonder if you could possibly conceive a second child when you're already increasing with the first—"

She clapped a hand over her mouth, her cheeks looking like she'd used a whole booklet of Spanish paper.

Lily laughed. "I'll tell him today."

"Tell who what?" came a voice from the doorway.

Kit.

Rose's heart thundered beneath her laces.

"Never mind," Lily blurted.

Kit locked his gaze on Rose, but she couldn't read his face. "You're not supposed to see me before the wedding," she said inanely. "It's bad luck."

"I'll risk it. I need to talk to you."

He looked so serious. The little breakfast she'd managed to choke down this morning was threatening to come back up.

"Well…we'll leave," Lily said.

"Excellent idea." He waited by the door while the other three women scurried out, then shut it decisively behind them. "Do you need help with that?" he asked, indicating Rose's half-attached stomacher.

"No." Her fingers began moving again, albeit shakily. He was walking closer. "Kit—"

Her sentence was cut off when his mouth crushed down on hers.

This was no gentle caress, but hot and emphatic. His lips coaxed hers open and his tongue swept her mouth in a declaration of possession that made her senses dim and her knees threaten to buckle.

By the time he broke contact, she was gasping for breath, reeling with the sudden reversal of worry to elation.

He kissed her chin, her neck, between her breasts where her stomacher dangled drunkenly. "God, I love you," he murmured against her skin. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. "You smell like sin."

She threaded her fingers into his hair and pressed her lips to the top of his head. "I was so afraid you'd hate me."

"Hate you?" Straightening, he lifted her chin until her gaze was forced to his. His incredible eyes searched hers. "Why?"

"For meddling in your affairs. I only wanted your happiness…"

"Did you think I didn't know that? Did you think I wouldn't fall in love with you all over again when I realized you were willing to give up your inheritance to bring me and my sister together? What kind of man do you think I am?"

She'd known what kind of man he was—she shouldn't have let her sisters lead her to doubt. "You didn't answer my letter."

"What letter?" His thumb moved from her chin, skimming tenderly over her cheek. "I never received any letter."

"I left it propped on your washstand."

He shrugged. "No one's ever done anything that touched me the way you have. Lord Almighty, sweetheart, when I went to give Ellen her dowry and she told me—"

"What?" She forgot about the missing letter as her hand flew up to grasp his wrist. "You gave Ellen her dowry?"

"I tried to," he said with a wry grin. "She told me you already had." His gaze softened. "However was I lucky enough to win a woman as special as you?"

Rose's throat tightened. No one had ever called her special. "I should have known you would do the right thing." She'd known he was a good man—that was why she'd decided to marry him.

He kissed her again, more gently this time, a tender kiss that made tears well in her eyes. No matter what he said, she knew she was the lucky one—lucky he hadn't given up when she'd pushed him away for all the wrong reasons.

But if he had given up, he wouldn't have been Kit.

"No crying on your wedding day," he said, wiping a rogue tear off her cheek with a warm thumb. "I'm sure that's worse luck than having me see you before the ceremony."

She managed a watery chuckle.

His hands went to finish attaching her stomacher. "You look beautiful."

"You look better," she said, her pulse thumping madly under his fingers. He wore a deep green velvet suit with silver braid trim on the long waistcoat and the surcoat that went over it. Just enough lace fell from beneath his cuffs, and a tasteful diamond pin winked from the folds of his cravat.

Perfect. If she'd noticed how he was dressed when he first appeared in her doorway, she would have spared herself a few anguished seconds of worry. No one would take him for anything but a groom.

A heart-stoppingly handsome one.

His fingers traced the pearl scrollwork on her stomacher. "I have something for you." He pulled a small wooden box from his pocket. "I wasn't sure what color you'd be wearing, but I think they will match."

She opened the lid to find an exquisite pair of earrings, two teardrop pearls swinging from clustered diamond tops. "They must have cost a fortune," she gasped. She'd never seen such enormous pearls.

He smiled as he took them from the box and moved closer to fasten them on her ears. "I may not be titled, but I'm hardly a pauper."

"I'm not wearing any earrings. I didn't have any I wanted to wear."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, kissing a bare lobe before he decorated it. "I don't ever want to see you wearing that damned duke's jewels again. In fact, I think you should pawn them. Permanently. I just happen to know of a pawnshop."

She laughed as he attached the second earring. When he was finished, he drew her close, running his hands over her back and down to her bottom. She ached where he brought their bodies together.

"I love you," he said.

She'd never tire of hearing those three words. "I love you, too."

"I love you in red."

"I'm glad." His scent was making her dizzy. "My sisters both wore blue."

"I'd love to see you in blue, too." He nibbled her neck. "I'd love to see you in purple," he said conversationally. "I'd love to see you in green. I'd love to see you in a rich, metallic gold."

Each word against her skin made delicious shivers whisper through her. She sighed, tilting her head to give him better access.

His lips settled in the sensitive hollow of her throat. "But mostly," he whispered devilishly, "I'd love to see you naked."

If her sisters hadn't knocked on the door then, he might have.

Standing at the front of her family's small, crowded chapel, Rose shifted on her high-heeled shoes and slipped her hand into Kit's.

"Christopher Martyn, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will." The confident words boomed through the magnificent oak-paneled chamber, binding Kit to Rose.

But Rose wasn't listening to the ceremony. Instead she was thinking that Kit was the most handsome, intelligent, loving man she'd ever known, not to mention moral to a fault. She was so glad he'd managed to burst her foolish bubble and make her realize what really counted.

Love, clear and true.

Happy tears brightened her mother's brown eyes. Rose knew Mum thought Kit was perfect for her—she even suspected she'd had a hand in getting them together. There were too many times she'd left them alone early on, too many times she'd decided to follow the court when Kit just happened to be working at a particular castle or palace.

But Rose didn't care.

Her gaze wandered over the assembled guests, landing on Lily. Her younger sister stood next to Rand, her rich sable hair cascading to her shoulders in glossy ringlets, her lips curved in a way that made Rose think she'd just shared her secret. Beside her, Rand beamed a smile, looking like he wanted to shout to the world that he was going to be a father.

The two were so clearly in love, Rose knew they belonged together—and she was thrilled for her sister. She was so glad Lily had ended up with Rand, leaving her to find Kit.

The priest cleared his throat and looked back down at his Book of Common Prayer. "Lady Rose Ashcroft, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…"

Standing on Lily's right, their older sister Violet shifted one of her twin babies on her hip, gazing up at Ford. Sun streamed through the stained glass windows, glinting off her spectacles as she whispered something in his ear.

Holding their other infant, Ford squeezed his wife around the shoulders. Seated cross-legged at their feet, their three-year-old son Nicky traced a finger over the patterns in the colorful glazed tile floor, obliviously happy.

Rose couldn't wait to have a family of her own. She flashed a quick smile at Ellen where she stood beside Thomas, one hand in his and the other resting lightly on her middle. The niece or nephew growing there, Rose thought giddily, would someday be cousin to her own child.

"…so long as ye both shall live?" the priest concluded expectantly.

In the hush that followed, Rose's heart swelled. She'd thought her wedding day would never come.

"I will," she pledged, squeezing Kit's hand.

A few more words, a gorgeous ruby ring slipped onto her finger, and Rose and Kit were husband and wife, Mr. Christopher Martyn and Lady Rose Martyn.

Once upon a time, she'd thought that disparity would bother her. But nothing could be further from the truth.

When Kit lowered his lips to meet hers, Rose threw her arms around him.

She'd finally found someone who could make her feel like a queen.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Rose couldn't remember ever hating idle chitchat more than she did late that afternoon. Idle chitchat was the very devil.

Especially when it contrived to keep her from her wedding night.

She'd been wanting Kit ever since he'd appeared in her bedchamber earlier today. No, since before that. Since she'd shown up at his house and found him gone. The want was a fire smoldering inside her—a heat that would take little encouragement to flame.

Very little.

"Farewell, Aunt Cecily, Aunt Arabel," she said with a forced smile, kissing Mum's sisters on both cheeks. She urged them down the portico's steps to the lawn. "Thank you for coming." As they finally walked away with their children, she leaned close to Kit's ear. "I think that's the last of our guests. We can leave now."

He glanced toward the river. "Soon."

As her curious gaze followed his, Jewel and Rowan stepped onto the portico. "I have something for you," Jewel said.

Rose looked down to find a box, exquisitely fashioned of colored, leaded glass. "It's beautiful!" she exclaimed.

"Jewel made it," Rowan informed them. "Her hands are covered in cuts." He voice rang with admiration, as though blood and gore were badges of honor.

"We'll treasure it," Kit told the girl. Taking the box, he reached to squeeze Rose around her waist. "Won't we?"

"Absolutely." She tingled all up and down her side where he'd pulled her against him. "Thank you so very much," she told Jewel. "I had no idea you worked with glass."

Jewel hid her scarred hands behind her back. "Mama and my little brother both make jewelry. I got tired of doing the same thing. I was looking at the windows in a church, and Papa told me how the lead is soldered like some of Mama's jewelry. I thought I might like to try it."

Chrystabel moved around Rose, plucking the last of the love-knots off her gown. She took the glass box from Kit, lifted the lid, and dropped the little red bows inside. "It's over," she said with a long, drawn-out sigh.

Rose wished it were over. She wanted to be alone with Kit. "It was a beautiful wedding, Mum."

Chrystabel sighed again. "I never really got to plan a big wedding. I shall have to do so for Rowan. A nice, long betrothal—"

Rose's laugh interrupted her. "Have you considered that Jewel might want to plan her own wedding? Or Jewel's mother might—"

"Jewel?" Rowan's eyes widened in alarm. "I'm not going to marry Jewel!"

Kit gave the boy an indulgent smile. "Wait till you're older—"

"Never!" Rowan looked at Jewel with such horror, the girl shrank back.

Rose pulled Kit aside. "May we leave now?" she asked.

He confused her by glancing toward the river again. "I don't think…ah, yes. Here's our transportation."

Rose turned and stared at the beautiful, gilded barge rounding the bend and approaching Trentingham's dock. "This is how we're getting to Windsor? What about your carriage?"

"Ellen and Thomas accompanied me here. I sent them home in it. You wouldn't have wanted to ride back with them, would you?"

"Not really." She liked Kit's sister well enough, but she was anxious to begin her wedding night—and she didn't want company. "This is Ford's barge. Was it his idea?"

"Violet's, actually. Who knew a romantic heart hid inside that intellectual exterior?"

"Violet," Rose said low, "lost her virginity on this barge. She told me all about it on the way to your house last week."

"All about it?"

"Well, perhaps not all. But there's a bed inside the cabin."

Kit's gaze heated. "Well, let's go then," he said loudly, turning back to her family.

"You know," her father said for the third time, "it's traditional for a girl to spend her first married night at her parents' house."

"I'm only questioning convention," Rose shouted.

Her mother smiled. "When are you going to London, dear?"

"The queen's birthday celebration is Friday, so we're thinking probably Wednesday."

"Windy?" Father frowned. "Yes, the wind does seem to be picking up."

"It certainly is, Father." Rose shared an amused glance with Kit. "I think everyone should hurry inside."

A few hugs and kisses and tears later, Rose and Kit crossed the lawn to the river and climbed aboard the barge. He pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. They turned to bid farewell to her family, happy to be alone at last.

Well, almost alone. There was a crew, of course, to guide the vessel to Windsor. And a young man playing a violin, sheltered from the weather by the tall wall of the cabin that sat in the barge's middle.

Heat thrummed through Rose's veins. She forced herself to stand at the rail, waving at her family until the barge pulled away. The wind was indeed picking up, whipping her skirts and hair. Her heart seemed to speed up to match until it beat in a wild frenzy. Beside her, Kit felt warm, a temptation worthy of the devil himself.

"Inside," she demanded the moment they cleared the dock. She couldn't get him into the cabin fast enough. No sooner had they slammed the door behind them than she threw herself into his arms.

The kiss, hot and out of control, left no doubt that Kit was of the same mind. Violin music swirled through her head as his tongue swept her mouth. She returned the favor, tasting him, breathing in his scent and feeling a little thrill at the realization that he would be hers to savor from now on.

As the barge turned into the center of the river, the kiss grew more frantic. Her eyes closed and her mouth sealed to Kit's, Rose wrenched his surcoat off his shoulders and pushed it down his arms. The vessel rocked, threatening her balance, and he grabbed her to hold her upright, laughing into her mouth.

"Now," she said against his lips, working him closer to the bed. The barge settled into a more gentle rocking rhythm, but wind whistled through the shutters, igniting a similar storm in her blood. She shoved his long waistcoat off, her hands going blindly to his cravat as his fingers went to her stomacher. She burned, she ached. The tiny cabin seemed endless as she inched him toward the bed, their mouths still locked in that breathless caress. She turned them both, ready to sink to the mattress the moment she felt it behind her knees.

But what she bumped into was higher. And harder. She put a hand back, feeling wood. She twisted in dismay, her eyes flying open. A wedding feast for two was spread on a gorgeous carved mahogany table surrounded by six matching chairs.

There was no bed. "Where the devil is the bed?"

"Hmm?" Deprived of her lips, Kit kissed her throat instead.

"The bed. The bed is gone." Disappointment dulled all the exciting, stormy sensations. "Kit, there's no bed."

He raised his head and blinked, then shrugged. "We'll make do."

What? Would they lie down on the floor? "I don't see how—"

"Trust me, sweetheart." Seemingly unperturbed, he dropped her stomacher to a chair and untied the bow securing her laces, bending again to kiss the valley between her breasts.

Beneath his hot mouth, her flesh prickled. She swayed and closed her eyes. "You're right," she suddenly realized. "Position Five could work on the table."

He jerked upright. "Position Five?"

"From I Sonetti. Here." She turned and shoved dishes away from the edge. "Sit here."

"Here?"

"Here," she said, pushing him into place. She backed up to him and raised herself to sit on his lap, moving her legs to either side of his knees and wiggling herself close. "Hmm." She leaned forward a little, angling…"Yes, it can work!"

His laughter burst out behind her.

"What?" she asked, half twisting on his lap.

"It may work, but it's not very romantic." He swung her around to sit properly sideways, then leaned her back against his arm. "There. Now I can kiss you."

She wanted more than kisses. "But we cannot—"

"Trust me, sweetheart, we can." When she opened her mouth to protest again, he covered it with his fingers. "Trust me."

Well, she had little choice, did she? When he replaced his hand with his mouth, she sank into the embrace, trusting. And trembling. His lips seemed made to fit hers, and the storm overtook her again, just that easily.

He spread her bodice wide and toyed with her aching breasts, slipping a hand up under her gown. But she had no taste for leisurely play. The barge rocked, and the wind whistled, whipping her senses.

"Now," she murmured, "show me now." When he failed to respond, she nipped his bottom lip. "Now."

He laughed again. "And to think I feared you'd never come to my bed." He set her on her feet momentarily while he pulled out a chair, then sat and turned her to face him, drawing her down to straddle his lap.

Leaning back, he reached beneath her skirts and quickly unlaced his breeches. "Isn't this better than facing away?" he asked, drawing her near.

She sucked in a breath, feeling that exquisite need where her body pressed against his, where she could feel him straining against her.

"I can kiss you," he pointed out before taking a long minute to demonstrate, leaving her lightheaded. "And touch you." As his fingers teased her breasts, she squirmed against him below. "And hold you." His arms went around her to pull her close.

"Yes," she gritted out, "I can see the advantages. Now, can you show me how it will work?"

His hands went to her hips and raised her a little. Then he lowered her, slowly, slowly sliding into her.

She felt herself stretching, accommodating, welcoming him into her body. She sighed and then gasped when she felt him him slide out and back in, felt the storm rising in her blood. And then they moved together, that urgent heat building, a rush of heady sensation that threatened to sweep away all thought.

As his mouth met hers, she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling it up, shoving her hands underneath to grip his heated flanks. Her breath quickened. The searing need built until it seemed unbearable, until she couldn't move fast enough, until the storm finally burst, a swirling maelstrom of pleasure that had her shaking uncontrollably. When she might have screamed, he took the sound into his mouth, and she felt his own low cry echoing inside her.

Somehow, Kit had become her world. If she could crawl inside him, she would. She contented herself with slumping against him, sweetly drained, reveling in the feel of his arms crushing her close as she waited for her heart to calm, her breathing to slow. So they could start all over again.

She would never get enough of him.

The gentle sway of the barge was soothing. As the blood stopped pumping in her ears, the wind seemed to whistle less fiercely, and the gentle strains of the violin seeped through the shutters and filled the cabin with peace.

The calm after the storm.

With her ear pressed against Kit's chest, she could hear his heart thumping. "'You are filling me,'" she quoted softly, "'thrilling me, and I could stay seated here for a year.'"

His satisfied hum vibrated through her. "Nice," he murmured.

"That was from one of the sonnets," she admitted, opening her eyes. Sconces on the beautifully paneled walls held flickering candles. She raised her face and kissed Kit's chin. "I Sonetti didn't show this position."

"Forget I Sonetti." He reached around her to fill two goblets from a waiting bottle of champagne. "I wonder what happened to the bed?"

"I don't know." Rose laid her head on his shoulder. "The entire barge used to be rather shabby. Violet had mentioned it was being refurbished, but I never imagined they'd scuttle the bed."

"They have a family now. A table makes more sense."

"Not to us."

"It's not such a long journey, and they set out a veritable feast to occupy us. Did you eat anything at the wedding?"

"I was too busy talking to people." She smiled at the wonderful memories. "But I'm not hungry."

"No? Drink, then." He handed her a goblet, waiting for her to sit up before raising his in a salute. "To a lifetime of love."

"And beds," she said, draining her cup in one long swallow.

He laughed and pulled her near. Violin music drifted in from the deck, and the boat rocked gently as it made its way downriver. She relaxed against him again, just breathing, existing, enjoying the closeness as he munched cheese and bread and sipped wine.

Suddenly she felt so happy, tears pricked her eyes. "Kit, I'm so glad I married you."

He squeezed her tight. "Then you wouldn't rather be here with the duke?" he teased.

"I expect he'd be puking all over me."

He gulped and swallowed. "What?"

"The duke gets seasick."

"Ah." She heard laughter in his voice. "Good thing you chose me instead."

"Good thing," she sighed in agreement, then sat up when she felt a bump. "Good God, we're here." She jumped off Kit's lap as a knock came at the door.

"Mr. Martyn?"

"One moment," he called, shrugging back into his waistcoat. He laughed at her fumbling fingers. "No need to rush. Careful of your dress; you'll want to wear it to the queen's ball." He made short work of attaching her stomacher, then swung her up into his arms and started carrying her off the barge.

"Kit!" She laughed, thinking she was much too tall for this. This wasn't just a few feet like in the maze. And there were people watching. "You'll hurt yourself. Put me down."

"I think not." They had docked right beside his house—their house—and he walked around to the front. "I've been told I should carry you over the threshold. Else we could have bad luck."

"Only if I trip."

"Well, this way you won't trip, will you?" The wind whipped her skirts, practically blowing them up the portico's steps. "I'm ensuring our future," he informed her as the front door swung open and he carried her inside.

Holding the door grandly, Graves grinned at them both.

"Put me down," Rose said, feeling windblown and silly.

"Not a chance." Kit continued up the stairs. "We've one more threshold before we're safe."

He crossed that one—their bedchamber—before he set her on her feet.

"I feared for your heart," she said and kissed him.

But he didn't even seem winded. "You weigh nothing," he assured her, and she supposed she didn't—at least compared to big beams.

By the fireplace a small round table sat between two chairs, its polished surface covered with dishes of fruit, a pile of cakes, and bowls of whipped cream and strawberry sauce. Kit dipped an orange slice in both and slipped it between her lips. "Dessert," he said with a smile.

The combination was tart and sweet, but she still wasn't hungry. "I'd rather have a kiss," she told him archly.

He obliged her, thoroughly, so thoroughly her knees felt weak when he finally drew back and turned her around to face a low chest of drawers.

She blinked and focused. "There it is!" she cried, spotting a square of white underneath it. "The letter!"

"The letter?" he said from behind her.

"The note I left for you, explaining about Ellen. It must have fallen off the washstand and somehow wound up under there."

"I don't care about the letter." His hands tightened on her shoulders. "Look up."

And there, on the oak-paneled wall, was an oval gilt-framed painting.

Of her.

The Rose on the canvas was the same one he'd sketched that first day, her lips curved gently, her eyes holding secrets. "I drew a hundred pictures of you," he said softly, "but I always came back to this one."

"It's beautiful," she breathed, staring. She imagined him painting it, his brush stroking lovingly while she worried needlessly he might not want her. Her heart squeezed in her chest. "I wish I could paint you."

He stepped in front of her, his gaze glittering green. "Do you mean that, sweetheart?"

Something in his voice gave her pause. "Oh, yes, but I cannot."

"I think you can," he said, drawing off his surcoat.

"I've no talent with paint," she said uncertainly, watching him cross to his bed.

His red-draped bed.

Red is a color of power, she remembered him saying.

Her heart raced as he tossed the coat to the red counterpane, followed by his waistcoat. His shirt went next.

Her breath went shallow. "I've tried painting," she said inanely, "but I can never get the colors right."

"There's only red and white," he said. "I'm sure you'll do just fine."

"Red and white?" She licked her lips, staring at his bare chest. Gemini, he was magnificent. How could she have wanted an idle aristocrat when a working man like Kit had muscles that made a woman's hands itch to run all over him?

Those muscles rippled as he strode over to the small round table and opened a curved drawer, rummaging inside. At last he pulled out a little brush. A paintbrush.

"White," he said, dipping it in the whipped cream. "And red." He swirled it in the strawberry sauce.

The sweets glistened in the firelight as he handed the brush to her with a grin.

His gaze was more wicked than ever.

"Here," he said. "Paint me."

She gave a startled laugh, then stroked the brush down his chest, leaning to lick off the sweets with a long, hot swipe of her tongue. Cream and sugar and strawberries and Kit.

This kind of painting she could do.

"How odd," Chrystabel said as she crawled into bed that night. "By the time of the wedding, Rose didn't seem anxious at all."

Glad to see she hadn't bothered with a night rail, Joseph skimmed a hand down her body. "You didn't seem anxious, either, my love."

She sighed, half with memories, half with pleasure. "I knew this match was right."

"And here I thought the prewedding night worked," he teased, one hand fondling a breast while the other trailed between her thighs.

"It did," she breathed. "But I think a postwedding night is in order, anyway."

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

"Look at all the people crowding the balconies!" Rose exclaimed.

Everyone who was anyone seemed to be at the queen's birthday celebration. Musicians played at the far end of the chamber while courtiers danced, all dressed in their finest and wearing every jewel they could lay their hands on. From the upper level, more aristocrats and dignitaries looked on.

Kit watched Rose's gaze sweep the classical white and gold room and the stunning ceiling painted by Sir Peter Paul Rubens. "Good God," she said, "this must be the most beautiful building in all of England."

"More beautiful than mine?" he teased, enjoying her reaction to Whitehall's Banqueting House. In truth, he only hoped to build something as magnificent as Inigo Jones's masterpiece someday. While Rose would be happy here for hours, he couldn't wait to leave and begin their journey to the Continent, where he'd finally get the chance to study the architecture that had inspired Jones.

And yet, this appearance was somewhat of a triumph for him, too. "Shall we dance?" he asked and guided his new wife into the throng. And there he was, plain Mr. Christopher Martyn, dancing at Queen Catharine's birthday ball.

Rose felt like heaven in his arms, tall and slender and his. He could still hardly believe he'd won her.

When Nell Gwyn waved at her and winked, she grinned back. "Imagine," she mused. "Nell was born in a bawdy house and ended up the mother of one of the king's sons."

"Very like me." Kit whirled her around. "I was born in a cottage and ended up wed to an earl's daughter."

He'd meant it humorously, but it seemed she was in a reflective mood tonight. "It's odd, don't you think, the way people crave the opposite of what they have? Nelly makes Charles happy because her house is his home. A regular home, and a real life when he's with her. She throws parties where he's a guest, not a king. None of his other mistresses do that for him. They take what he has to offer without giving back in return."

Delighted, Kit gave her a quick kiss, right there in front of the king and queen and everyone. "And where did you come by all this information?"

"The ladies here at court. They like me very much, you know. Ever since I started supplying them with lurid sonnets."

He laughed. "The men like you, too. A bit too much for my comfort."

"No need to worry on that account. I don't even see them anymore." She closed her eyes and leaned into him. "For me, you're the only man in this room."

He laughed again and kissed her again, and thanked God again that he'd won her. He couldn't remember ever feeling this happy.

"Even the queen looks happy tonight," Rose said, as though she were reading his mind. She smiled in Catharine's direction. Dressed in a magnificent cloth-of-gold gown, the queen danced with Charles, gazing up at him with calm satisfaction. At thirty-nine, she finally seemed content in her unusual marriage.

But William of Orange and his new princess didn't look so happy. Kit watched them move desultorily around the dance floor. William was shorter than Mary and seemed to have a consumptive cough. Although he was only twenty-seven, deep lines marred his face.

"Poor Mary has been crying again," Rose said with a melancholy sigh.

"Again?"

"I saw her on her wedding day in London. She looked terribly unhappy."

Kit drew her closer. "Their marriage was arranged for diplomatic purposes. Neither of them really had a choice. That's the fate of the important."

Her mood seemed to lighten. "I'm so glad you're not important."

Once that might have hurt, but rank now seemed insignificant next to the joy of wedding Rose.

When they came off the dance floor, Christopher Wren was waiting and handed them both glasses of champagne. "To our queen," he said. "And your successes. The chapel turned out beautifully, just as I'd envisioned it."

Kit toasted him back. "You gave me excellent plans to work from."

"But Windsor's dining room was your own. A masterpiece."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry about the appointment."

"That's water under the bridge," Kit said, meaning it. He had a new life, new plans.

The Earl of Rosslyn sidled up, a champagne glass in one hand and his ever-present walking stick in the other. "Martyn," he slurred.

Kit wrapped an arm around Rose's shoulders. "Rosslyn. I take it life is treating you well?"

"I find myself overburdened with too much work." He drained the glass and snagged another from a passing maid. "So sad that I won the post in your place."

Kit shrugged and began to turn away. The man had won the post fair and square, but that didn't mean he had to listen to his backhanded boasts.

"A shame you miscalculated the length of that span at Hampton Court," he heard Rosslyn say behind him.

Swiveling back, Kit exchanged a startled glance with Wren. The older man knew Kit had done all his measurements and calculations in private—that besides the two of them, only the perpetrator would know exactly what had been wrong with the building. And Wren had promised to keep that knowledge to himself.

Aghast, Kit turned on Rosslyn. "What sort of man would sabotage another's reputation in order to obtain an appointment?"

Rosslyn was drunk and slow, but Kit saw the horror dawn in his eyes as he realized he'd given himself away.

"You set the fire, didn't you?" Kit pressed. "And altered the plans at Hampton Court. I expect you counted yourself lucky that Harold Washburn's greed took care of Windsor for you. By purchasing inferior materials, he lined his pockets and delayed a project without you lifting so much as a finger."

"I paid him to do that," Rosslyn said smugly.

Kit's jaw tensed. No wonder Washburn had been able to throw around so much money.

"Guards!" Wren called.

Leaning heavily on his ribbon-topped walking stick, Rosslyn glared at Kit. A wild sheen in his eyes said he wasn't all there. "Your loss, my gain," he growled. "At last I've proven myself better than you." When a red-coated guard stepped up to restrain him, he twisted from the man's grip. "All those years in school, no matter how well I did, that upstart Kit Martyn always did better—"

He was cut off when a second guard grabbed him and the two began dragging him away. Rosslyn kicked, drawing every gaze in the room with his shouted curses, his useless walking stick banging along the planked wood floor.

Long after everyone else had returned to their revelry, Kit stared after him. "I always thought we were friends," he murmured, stunned.

Rose squeezed his hand. "He never seemed very friendly."

He blinked and looked at her. "Acquaintances, then. Perhaps casual ones. But there was never any animosity."

"On your part."

Wren took Kit's empty glass from his hand and shoved a full one into it. "Drink up. I'll be back."

Numbly, Kit followed his advice, taking it a step further by making his way over to a delicate gilt chair and lowering himself gingerly onto it. Learning that childhood competition could lead to treachery all these years later was a shock he was finding hard to absorb.

Rose followed and stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder. "He's talking to King Charles."

"Rosslyn?"

"No, Wren. The two of them are making their way outside. Out the same way Rosslyn was taken."

Kit rose to see, but the men had already exited the building. Feeling drained, he turned to his wife. "Let's leave. I've had enough. We can get a good night's sleep before we start our journey tomorrow."

"Wren said he'd be back." She peered over Kit's shoulder. "Look, he's coming now. With Charles."

Kit drained his glass and set it down as the men approached. Rose took his arm, a silent show of support. The king wasted no time with greetings. "Martyn. I've just learned that in the face of betrayal, you put Barbara's life, and those of our children, before your own interests. I'm very grateful."

Kit's gaze flicked to Wren. "I told him," the older man admitted.

"I can see that." Kit looked back to Charles. "The building was flawed. I did only what needed to be done. Any other man would do the same."

"Not any," Charles disagreed. "Only the sort of man I was searching for to appoint Deputy Surveyor. I believe I've found him."

A tiny gasp escaped Rose's lips, and her hand tightened on Kit's arm. It took a moment for the king's words to sink in before Kit swept him a deep bow. "My thanks, Your Majesty." It had happened so fast, he could scarcely believe his old goal had been reached at last. "I shall endeavor to assure you chose the right man."

"I expect no less."

"There's more," Wren said.

Charles nodded. "I've stripped Gaylord Craig of his title and properties. I wish to grant them to you. You shall henceforth be known as the Earl of Rosslyn."

Dumbfounded, Kit looked between the king and Wren. "It seems only fitting," Wren said graciously.

Kit's knees locked. He felt all the blood draining from his face.

"Sit down." With a laugh, Rose pushed him back onto the chair.

Clearly enjoying his own magnanimity, Charles grinned. "I'll accept your thanks later, Rosslyn." Rosslyn. "My queen is awaiting a birthday toast."

"Congratulations, my lord. My lady." Wren bowed and walked off.

As Kit watched them both go, his world slowly stopped spinning and righted itself. Almost.

"Deputy Surveyor and an earldom," he murmured. "Wren is Surveyor General and only a knight."

Rose moved closer. "Wren didn't save King Charles's children's lives."

It still didn't seem real. "You're a countess now," he told his wife. "Lady Rosslyn."

There in front of all the court, she perched herself on his lap and toyed with his cravat, using it to pull him near for a quick kiss. "I don't care," she said gaily, adding "my lord" with an impish grin.

My lord. Two short words that meant so much. He kissed her again for good measure, feeling, at the moment, that she was the only familiar thing he had to cling to. "After all those weeks of putting up with that damned duke's attentions, you cannot tell me you don't care—"

"I don't," she repeated. "You've been vindicated, and we're off to explore the world together, and that's all that matters."

That sounded wonderful, but too simple. A maid came by with more champagne, and he took a glass, still dazed. "I'm not sure," he said slowly.

"Sure of what?"

"Anything. Where the Rosslyn lands are, for starters."

"Good God," she said with mock alarm, "I hope it's not Northumberland."

"And what it will take to care for them."

"I can help you with that." She looked both startled and pleased at that thought.

"And whether I can go off to explore the world when I've just been appointed Deputy Surveyor."

Now genuine alarm widened her eyes. "You can go. We're going. Tomorrow. The post will wait. It will be winter soon, anyway, too cold for building, and—"

"Very well, we'll go. Before Charles has a chance to say otherwise." It would be the first time in his life he acted irresponsibly, but devil take it if he and Rose didn't deserve their dream of traveling. They could cut their holiday short, but they would go.

It felt damned strange to be putting the present before his future, but maybe it was about time.

As the courtiers raised their glasses all around him, toasting the queen, he blew out a breath and set Rose on her feet, then stood and raised his own. He was one of them now, and that felt damned strange, too.

But Rose was right. It didn't really matter. They were together, and that was enough.

She smiled up at him, raising her face for a bubbly champagne kiss. His heart swelling, he leaned her back over his arm and gave her one that had all the jaded courtiers around them whistling by the time he finished.

"A thing of beauty," she whispered, gazing up at him—and she didn't mean the spectacular building.

He knew just how she felt.

Thank you for reading The Flower Trilogy!

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If you'd like to learn more about the

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read on for my Author's Note.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear Reader,

Perhaps, like me, when you read a historical novel you wonder which characters besides the king and queen might actually have lived. I hope you won't be disappointed to learn that all of Rose's suitors were invented. All of King Charles's mistresses, however, were real people.

Charles II kept many mistresses throughout his life. Although some were disliked by his subjects while others were accepted, never in English history has another royal mistress been as popular as "pretty, witty" Nell Gwyn.

Whether Nell was actually born in a brothel is open to question, but legend has it she came into the world in Covent Garden in February 1650. As a young girl, Nell sold oranges at the Theatre Royal and began as actress there in 1665. Charles saw her on stage, and by 1668 she became his mistress. Nell bore the king two sons, Charles in 1670, later the Duke of St. Albans, and James in 1671. Charles never tired of Nell, and on his deathbed, his last request to his brother is said to have been "let not poor Nelly starve."

In opposition to Nell's popularity, Louise de Kéroualle was universally disliked. Born in 1649 in France, Louise first came to England in 1670 as a maid of honor to Charles's sister, Henrietta. Charles's interest was apparent, and when Henrietta died later that year, Louise returned to London and was established as the king's mistress, receiving Louis XIV's congratulations on her success. After giving birth in 1672 to another of Charles's sons named Charles, later the Duke of Richmond, she was created the Duchess of Portsmouth.

Though Louise's unpopularity was due mostly to her being French and Catholic, she was also known to be wildly extravagant with the king's money. Her apartments at Whitehall were rebuilt three times, and John Evelyn said they had "ten times the richness and glory beyond the Queen's."

Hortense Mancini, the Duchess Mazarin, was one of five Italian sisters all noted for their great beauty. Two of them became mistress to Louis XIV. Born in Rome in 1646, Hortense moved to France at an early age. Charles proposed to her while there, but her uncle, Cardinal Mazarin, didn't think the exiled king's prospects were good. She later married and then left her husband, arrived at Charles's court in 1675, and became his mistress shortly thereafter. Considered an "adventuress," she was known for her compulsive gambling, her great skill with swords and guns, and her inclination to wear men's clothing.

Christopher Wren was a real person, too. Best known for rebuilding London's churches and St. Paul's Cathedral after the Great Fire, he also designed the Royal Observatory and the Royal Hospital at Chelsea. In 1669, Charles II appointed him Surveyor General of the King's Works, making him responsible for supervising all work on the royal palaces. Wren was knighted in 1673.

Besides churches, palaces, and other famous buildings, Wren also built a family home for himself beside the Thames in Windsor—the house I used as Kit's house in this book. Built in 1676, the home is now known as Sir Christopher Wren's House Hotel. If you're lucky enough to visit, ask to view the original "Oak Room" (Kit's dining room), and see if you find it as impressive as Rose did. Wren's original paneled master bedroom can be booked for an overnight stay. To find the hotel from the castle, just walk down the hill to the river, as Kit and Rose did in the story.

Many other settings in Rose are also real places you can visit, and although Kit is a fictional character, all the projects he worked on in the book were actually built for Charles II by different men.

Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal and Lord Chancellor of England, began building Hampton Court Palace in 1514. The best surviving part of Wolsey's palace is Base Court with its forty guest lodgings. By 1528, Wolsey had fallen from favor and was forced to relinquish Hampton Court to Henry VIII, who remodeled the palace to suit himself. Henry's personal lodgings have since been demolished, but you can still see his kitchens, his great hall, and his astronomical clock in Clock Court.

The later Tudors changed very little of the palace, and neither did the early Stuarts or Oliver Cromwell. So the next king to make a major mark on Hampton Court was Charles II. Among other projects, Charles completely redesigned the gardens and also commissioned a set of apartments for his mistress Barbara, the Duchess of Cleveland. This new building, which I have Kit building in Rose, is said to have looked completely different from the Tudor gothic architecture of Henry VIII's day.

In 1689, soon after William and Mary took the throne, they followed Charles's architectural lead and asked Christopher Wren to rebuild Hampton Court Palace in a more modern style, to compare with the likes of Versailles and the Louvre. The old Tudor buildings around Cloister Green Court were demolished and replaced by Wren's elegant Fountain Court. The Duchess of Cleveland's lodgings by the privy garden were destroyed at this time as well, and little is known of them now, as no building plans survived.

As for Hampton Court's maze, the one you can visit there now was designed in 1690 for William III, but it possibly replaced an earlier maze, perhaps laid out for Henry VIII. In an inventory of Cromwell's goods at Hampton Court dated 1659, there is mention of a cistern that serves "the fountaine and Maze." Since Charles II was restored to his throne the following year, perhaps the maze still survived at the time of Kit and Rose's story. In any case, I had fun imagining them exploring it!

Hampton Court Palace is open to the public seven days a week year-round. Just a thirty-minute train ride from Central London, it's a perfect day trip back in time for anyone visiting the capital.

The remodeled east end of the Royal Chapel at Whitehall Palace in London was indeed designed by Christopher Wren—the sketch he made that Kit showed Rose still survives. The actual work was carried out by Thomas Kinward, Robert Streater, and Henry Phillips, for a total cost of a little more than £71. The fire in Rose was entirely my invention, but would surely have raised the price of construction.

Sadly, Whitehall Palace was destroyed by fire in 1698. Although a few walls and other original bits of the palace survive as parts of the current government buildings, the only intact part of Whitehall today is Inigo Jones's exquisite Banqueting House. Completed in 1622 and renowned for its architecture and magnificent ceiling painted by Sir Peter Paul Rubens, the building is also famous for being the scene of Charles I's execution.

In Charles II's time, the Banqueting House was used as the ceremonial chamber of the court and the scene of grand receptions. Of the queen's birthday celebration on the 15th of November in 1677, which Rose and Kit attend in the final chapter of their story, John Evelyn noted in his diary: "The Queene's birth-day, a greate Ball at Court, where the Prince of Orange and his new Princesse daunced."

The Banqueting House is open to the public Monday through Saturday except for bank holidays, but it sometimes closes on short notice for government functions. This happened the first time I tried to visit, so do call ahead!

Of all the projects I had Kit working on in this book, the only one that can be seen today is the King's Dining Room at Windsor Castle. In real life it was designed by architect Hugh May, who did extensive renovations for King Charles between 1675 and 1678. I chose this particular room for Kit not only because it was actually completed in the year of my story, 1677, but also because it's the most intact example remaining of Charles's rooms, including the original wall carvings by Grinling Gibbons and Henry Phillips and the whimsical ceiling painted by Antonio Verrio.

Windsor Castle is the largest and oldest occupied castle in the world. It has stood for over 900 years since William the Conqueror chose the site a day's march from the Tower of London. The castle has been inhabited continuously and altered by each sovereign. Some concentrated on strengthening the site against attack, while others, living in more peaceful times, helped create the palatial royal residence you can visit today.

Windsor Castle is open seven days a week year-round, but there are periods, especially in June and December, when the queen is in residence and the State Apartments are closed to visitors.

Trentingham Manor was inspired by the Vyne, a National Trust property in Hampshire. Built in the early sixteenth century for Lord Sandys, Henry VIII’s Lord Chamberlain, the house acquired a classical portico in the mid-seventeenth century and contains a grand Palladian staircase, a wealth of old paneling and fine furniture, and a fascinating Tudor chapel with Renaissance glass. The Vyne and its extensive gardens are open for visits April through October.

To see pictures and learn more about the real people and real places in Rose, please visit my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com, where you can also enter a contest, sign up for my newsletter, and find recipes for some of the seventeenth-century foods that Rose and Kit enjoyed in this book. My favorite is the artichoke pudding that Ellen liked so much at the Ashcrofts' London town house, but if you try the recipes, I hope you'll e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com and tell me which one you enjoy most.

If you'd like a preview of my next novel, Lost in Temptation, you'll find an excerpt in the back of this book.

To hear about my upcoming releases, my contests, and other news, please sign up for my newsletter, friend me on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter (@readLaurenRoyal) or Pinterest. I love to keep up with my readers!

I hope you enjoyed Rose—thank you for reading!

Till next time,

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks:

To this book's editor, Audrey LaFehr, for her wonderful ideas that helped make it the best it could be.

To my critique partner, Terri Castoro, for putting up with me through ten books (she truly deserves a medal).

To my son Brent, for developing an awesome Mac app especially for me, so I can format my e-books to match my picky expectations. (Watch for Novelty Press, coming soon to the Mac App Store!)

To my husband Jack and son Brent, for their patience whenever I ask for website updates (which is all the time).

To Jack, Brent, Blake, and Devonie, for supporting me through writing another complete trilogy (without threatening to leave on grounds of neglect).

To fellow romance author Glynnis Campbell, for being the best friend a writer could have.

To Ian Franklin and Michelle Griffiths, State Apartment Warders at Hampton Court Palace, for directing me to the right places, and, in Ian's case, giving me incredibly useful information.

To Philip Sidebotham, Adrian Moles, and Tiffany Green at Sir Christopher Wren's House Hotel in Windsor, for graciously allowing and assisting a crazy author to poke around and take photos of Wren's house.

To Amy and Rick Tanaka, for their expert advice on matters architectural.

To Blake, Brent, and Devonie Royal-Gordon and their friends Darci Dipo, Dan Mehefko, and Anna Pione, for helping me explore Hampton Court Palace through many different perspectives.

To Andrew Metz, for the videotape on Hampton Court's history.

To Barry Waller, for converting the videotape on Hampton Court's history so that I could actually watch it.

To Alison Bellach Sonderegger, for sharing a laugh with me over the yipping sex in the hotel room next to ours and then challenging me to put it in a book.

To my parents, Joan and Herb Royal, as always, for everything.

To my official First Readers: Ken and Dawn Royal, Karen Nesbitt, Taire Martyn Ruffing, Alison Bellach Sonderegger, and Jane Armstrong, for telling it like it is.

To my Awesome Publicity Team—Rita Adair-Robison, Debbie Alexander, Dick Alexander, Joyce Basch, Diana Brandmeyer, Carol Carter, Terri Castoro, Elaine Ecuyer, Dale Gordon, Darren Holmquist, Catherine Hope, Taire Martyn, Sandy Mills, Karen Nesbitt, Jack Poole, Caroline Quick, Joan Royal, Wendi Royal, Diena Simmons, Alison Sonderegger, and Julie Walker—for all their hard work and support.

And, last but certainly not least, to all my readers, whose wonderful e-mails, Facebook posts, and tweets inspire me to write more books.

Thanks, everyone!

BONUS MATERIAL

About the Author
Contest
Books by Lauren Royal
Excerpt from LOST IN TEMPTATION

Recommended Reads
Contact Information

ABOUT LAUREN ROYAL

I decided to become a writer in the third grade, after winning a “Why My Mother is the Greatest” essay contest and seeing my entry published in a major newspaper. But everyone told me it's too hard for novelists to get published, so after college I spent fourteen years as the CEO of my own jewelry store chain before writing my first book.

I've been oh-so-lucky to see my books hit bestseller lists all over the world and win awards including the Golden Quill and Booklist's Top 10 Romance of the Year, making this second career a real dream come true. I live in Southern California with my husband, our three young adult children, and one constantly shedding cat, and I still think my mother is the greatest!

I love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com or via the "Keep in Touch" section on my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com.

ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN

A sterling silver rose pendant!*

To enter, visit the contest page on Lauren's website at

http://www.LaurenRoyal.com and answer a question

to be entered in the monthly drawing.

No purchase necessary. See complete rules on the site.

*Please note: Depending on when you enter, the prize may be another piece of jewelry associated with one of Lauren's books.

BOOKS BY LAUREN ROYAL

The Jewel Trilogy
Amethyst
Emerald

Amber
Forevermore (a Jewel Trilogy novella)

The Flower Trilogy
Violet
Lily
Rose

The Temptations Trilogy
Lost in Temptation
Tempting Juliana
The Art of Temptation

Excerpt from
LOST IN TEMPTATION

Book One of the
Temptations Trilogy
by Lauren Royal

Cainewood Castle, the South of England

Summer 1808

It was almost like touching him.

Lady Alexandra Chase usually sketched a profile in just a few minutes, but she took her time today, lingering over the experience in the darkened room. Standing on one side of a large, framed pane of glass while Tristan sat sideways on the other, she traced his shadow cast by the glow of a candle. Her pencil followed his strong chin, his long, straight nose, the wide slope of his forehead, capturing his image on the sheet of paper she'd tacked to her side of the glass. Noticing a stray lock that tumbled down his brow, she hesitated, wanting to make certain she caught it just right.

Someone walked by the open door, causing Tris's shadow to flicker as the candle wavered. "Are you finished yet?" he asked from behind the glass panel.

"Hold still," she admonished, resisting the urge to peek around at him. "Artistry requires patience."

"This is a profile, not oil on canvas."

True, and she often wished she had the talent to paint, like her youngest sister, Corinna. But the fact that she was missing something Corinna had—that elusive, innate ability to see things others missed and convey them in color, light, and shade—didn't keep her from taking pride in her own hobby.

Alexandra made excellent profile portraits.

She'd been asking Tris to sit for her for years, but he'd never seemed to find time before. "You promised you'd sit still," she reminded him, knowing better than to read malice into his comment. "Just this once before you leave."

"I'm sitting," he said, and although his profile remained immobile, she could hear the laughter in his voice.

She loved that evidence of his control, just like she loved everything about Tris Nesbitt.

She'd been eight when they first met. Her favorite brother, Griffin, had brought him home between terms at school. In the many years since, as he and Griffin completed Eton and then Oxford, Tris had visited often, claiming to prefer his friend's large family to the quiet home he shared with his father.

Alexandra couldn't remember when she'd fallen in love, but she felt like she'd loved Tris forever.

Of course, nothing would ever come of it. Now, at fifteen, she was practical enough to accept that her father, the formidable Marquess of Cainewood, would never allow her to marry plain Mr. Tristan Nesbitt.

But that didn't stop her from wishing she could. It didn't stop her stomach from tingling when she heard his low voice, didn't stop her heart from skipping when she felt herself caught in his intense, silver-gray gaze.

Not that he directed his gaze her way often. It wasn't that he was unfriendly, but, after all, as far as he was concerned she was little more than Griffin's pesky younger sister.

Knowing Tris couldn't see her now, she skimmed her fingertips over his shadow, wishing she were touching him instead. She'd never touched him, not in real life. Such intimacy simply didn't occur between young ladies and men. Most especially between a marquess's daughter and an untitled man's son.

The drawing room's draperies were shut, and the resulting dimness seemed to afford them an odd closeness alone in the room. She traced the flow of his cravat illuminated through the glass onto her paper. "Where are you going again?" she asked, although she knew.

"Jamaica. My uncle wishes me to look after his interests. He owns a plantation there; I'm to learn how it's run."

He sounded sad. During this visit he'd seemed sad quite a bit. "Is that what you wish to do with your life?"

"He doesn't mean for me to stay there permanently. Only to acquaint myself with the operation so I can make intelligent decisions from afar."

"But do you wish to become his man of business? Do you want to manage his properties? Or would you rather do something else?"

He shrugged, his profile tilting, then settling back into the lines she'd so carefully drawn. "He financed my entire education. Have I a choice?"

"I suppose not." Her choices were limited, too. "How long will you be gone?"

"A year at the least, probably two, perhaps three."

Everything was changing. Griffin would leave soon as well—their father had bought him a commission in the cavalry. Although Griffin and Tris had spent much of the past few years at school and university, these new developments seemed different. They'd be across oceans. It wasn't that Alexandra would be alone—she'd still have her parents and her grandmother, her oldest brother and her two younger sisters—but she was already feeling the loss.

"Two or three years," she echoed, knowing Griffin would likely be gone even longer. "That seems a lifetime."

Tris's image shimmied as he laughed out loud. "I expect it might, to one as young as you."

He wasn't that much older, only one-and-twenty. But she supposed he'd seen a lot in the extra six years he had on her. Young men left home as adolescents to pursue their educations. They spent time hunting at country houses and carousing about London.

While she didn't exactly chafe at her own more restrictive life, she was counting the years and months until she'd turn eighteen and have her first season. She'd spent hour upon hour imagining the balls, the parties, and all the eligible young lords. One of those titled men would be her entrée to a new life as a society wife. A more exciting life, she hoped. And she would love her husband, she was certain, although right now she could hardly imagine loving any man besides Tris.

He'd never indicated any interest in her, but of course he wouldn't. As well as she, Tris knew his place. But that didn't stop her from wishing she knew whether he cared.

Just whether or not he cared.

"Will you bring me something from Jamaica?" she asked, startling herself with her boldness.

"Like what?" She heard astonishment in his voice. "A pineapple or some sugarcane?"

It was her turn to laugh. "Anything. Surprise me."

"All right, then. I will." He fell silent a moment, as though trying to commit the promise to memory. "Are you finished yet?"

"For now." She set down her pencil and walked to the windows, drew back the draperies, and blinked. The room's familiar blue-and-salmon color scheme suddenly seemed too bright.

She turned toward him, reconciling his face with the profile she'd just sketched. From the boy she'd met years ago, he'd grown into a handsome, masculine man—one might even say he looked arresting. But she wouldn't describe him as pretty. His jaw was too strong, his mouth too wide, his brows too heavy and straight. As she watched, he raked a hand through his hair—tousled, streaky dark blond hair that always seemed just a bit too long.

Her fingers itched to run through it, to sweep the stray lock from his forehead.

"It will take me a while to complete the portrait," she told him as she walked back to where he sat beside the glass, "but I'll have it ready for you before you leave."

"Keep it for me."

She blew out the candle, leaning close enough to catch a whiff of his scent, smelling soap and starch and something uniquely Tris. "Don't you want it?"

He rose from the chair, smiling down at her from his greater height. "I'll probably lose it if I take it with me."

"Very well, then." She'd been hoping he'd say she should keep it to remember him by. But as always, Tris was the perfect gentleman. If he did harbor any affection for her, he wouldn't betray so with such a remark. "I wish you a safe journey, Mr. Nesbitt."

She'd called him Tristan—or Tris—for years now, but suddenly that seemed too informal.

His gray gaze remained steady. "Thank you, Lady Alexandra. I wish you a happy life."

A happy life. She could be married by the time he returned, she realized with a shock. In fact, if he were gone three years, she very likely would be.

Her heart sank at the thought.

But at least she'd have his profile. When she was finished, it would be black on white in an elegant oval frame, a perfect likeness of his face. And she'd almost touched him while making it.

As he walked from the room, she peeled the paper off the glass and hugged it to her chest.

RATAFIA PUFFS

Take halfe a pound of Ground Almonds and a little more than that of Sugar. Make it up in a stiff paste with Whites of five Eggs and a little Essence of Almond whipt to a Froth. Beat it all well in a Mortar, and make it up in little Loaves, then bake them in a very cool oven on Paper and Tin-Plates.

I call these my magical sweets…my husband proposed directly after eating only one!
—Eleanor, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1728

Cainewood Castle, seven years later

June 1815

"Not all of it!" Alexandra Chase made a mad grab for her youngest sister's arm. "We're instructed to add a little more sugar than almonds."

Corinna stopped grating and frowned. "I like sugar."

"You won't like these ratafia puffs if they're all sugar," their middle sister, Juliana, said as she took the cone-shaped sugar loaf and set it on the scarred wooden table in the center of Cainewood Castle's cavernous kitchen.

"Here, my arm is tired." Alexandra handed Corinna the bowl of egg whites she'd been beating, then scooped a proper amount of the sugar and poured it into another bowl that held the ground almonds. Stirring them together, she shook her head at Corinna. "You really are quite hopeless with recipes. If you didn't look so much like Mama, I'd wonder if you're truly her child."

A sudden sheen of tears brightened Corinna's brilliant blue eyes. She quickly blinked them away. "She always made good sweets, didn't she?"

"Excellent sweets," Juliana said in a sympathetic tone, shooting a warning glance to her older sister.

Alexandra felt abashed and maybe a little teary herself. She looked away, her gaze wandering the whitewashed stone walls of the kitchen. Heaven knew Corinna was the most talented of the three of them. She'd meant only to tease her sister about her lack of their family's renowned skills for making sweets, not remind her of their mother. Memories could still be painful, since Mama had been gone less than two years.

But the time for sadness was over…following years of mourning various family members one after another, Alexandra and her sisters were finally wearing cheerful colors and ready to face the world. In Alexandra's case, she was more than ready to put the sorrow behind her and get on with her life.

During her first and only season four long years ago, she'd entertained many excellent offers of marriage. But when her grandmother died shortly thereafter, all thoughts of a wedding had been postponed, and she'd missed the 1812 season while mourning her. Then her father had died, and she'd missed the 1813 season while mourning him. Then her mother had died, and she'd missed the 1814 season while mourning her. Then her oldest brother had died, making 1815's season yet another one of solitude here in the countryside.

All of the marriage-minded men who'd courted her had long since found available brides. But Alexandra wasn't sure she wanted to face another season, with all the attending games and frivolity. She just wanted to be a wife. She wanted to put her old life behind her and start over in a new place and a new situation.

As for her younger sisters, they'd yet to be presented at court and were beside themselves at the thought of finally having a season. It seemed all Juliana and Corinna could talk of were the many parties, balls, breakfasts, dances, and soirees they were looking forward to attending.

"I can hardly wait for next spring," Corinna said, echoing Alexandra's musings.

Juliana added a few drops of almond extract to the egg whites. "If Griffin has his way, we'll all be married long before spring. We'll never have a season."

"He cannot get us all married off so quickly." Alexandra idly stirred the almonds and sugar. "Never mind that he's been inviting his friends here to meet us since before we were out of mourning. You two will have your seasons. He'll have to be content with my marriage for now."

"If the 'magical' ratafia puffs do their job." Corinna handed the bowl of eggs back to Alexandra. "Here, now my arm is tired. This is hard work." Mopping her forehead with a towel, she looked pointedly through an archway to where a scullery maid stood drying a towering stack of dishes. "I cannot understand why you won't ask her—"

"If the magic is to work," Juliana interrupted patiently, "Alexandra must make the ratafia puffs herself, not relegate the task to a servant."

"Holy Hannah!" Corinna tossed her mane of long, wavy brown hair, which she insisted on wearing down even though she had long since become old enough to put it up. "It's blazing hot in here with the coal burning all the day long. Ladies don't work in the kitchen."

Still beating the eggs, Alexandra glanced at the ancient, stained journal that lay open on the long table. "Chase ladies do. Our foremothers have been making sweets forever." The heirloom volume was filled with recipes penned by Chase females going all the way back to the seventeenth century. "It's a tradition," she added, looking back up at her sister. "Will you be the first to break it?"

"Perhaps. Unlike you, I don't put much stock in tradition."

Alexandra beat the eggs harder. "You should—"

"Girls." Always the peacemaker, Juliana took the bowl of stiffened eggs and dumped the almond and sugar mixture into it. "Why is there no ratafia in ratafia puffs?" she asked, adeptly changing the subject.

"Perhaps we're supposed to serve ratafia with them," Corinna suggested.

Alexandra laughed. "Griffin invited Lord Shelton to take tea, not to drink spirits. I expect they're called ratafia puffs because they taste of almonds like ratafia does."

Corinna dipped a finger into the sweet mixture and licked it off. "Do you think Lord Shelton will really propose?"

Juliana rolled her lovely hazel eyes. "Alexandra could feed him dirt and he'd propose. Have you not seen the way he looks at her?"

"Like he'd rather eat her than the sweets?"

"Oh, do hold your tongues." Alexandra had noticed the way Lord Shelton looked at her, and although she couldn't figure out why he looked at her that way—she knew she had a pretty face, but her boring brown eyes and impossible-to-control brown hair left a lot to be desired—she had to confess it was gratifying. She only wished she felt the same way about him.

But even though he didn't make her heart race, he was handsome and kind. He possessed a fortune of his own, so she knew he wasn't after her sizable dowry. And he lived nearby, so she would see her sisters often.

He really was quite perfect.

Once, at fifteen, she'd basked in the illusion of love. But now she suspected love to be an unrealistic, childish expectation. Years of sadness and disappointment had taught her to expect less than she used to of life.

With any luck, the ratafia puffs would work their magic, she thought as she dropped shiny dollops of the batter onto a paper-lined tin baking sheet.

The Chase sisters were long overdue for some luck.

For the first time in seven years, Tristan rode over Cainewood Castle's drawbridge and into its quadrangle. As a groom hurried from the stables, he swung down from his black gelding, his gaze skimming the clipped lawn and the four stories of living quarters that formed a U around it.

Cainewood didn't look any different, although there was no reason it should. If he remembered right, the castle had been in Chase hands—save during the Commonwealth—for close to six hundred years. He shouldn't have expected it to change in the last seven.

But he'd changed, so it felt odd that this place hadn't.

Seven years ago, he'd been a young man of one-and-twenty on his way to Jamaica to begin a promising career working with his generous Uncle Harold. He'd had a new degree from the University of Oxford, a soon-to-be-healed broken heart, and nary a serious care in the world.

Four years ago, Uncle Harold had died, and Tristan had taken his place as the Marquess of Hawkridge.

These days, he was anything but carefree.

The young groom tipped his cap. "Take your horse, my lord?"

"Yes, thank you." Tristan handed over the reins. As his mount was led away, his gaze wandered the ancient keep—still as tumbledown as he remembered it—and past it to the old tilting yard that lay beyond. He smiled, recalling games played there as a youth, he and Griffin—and often, Griffin's charming little sisters—running through the untamed, ankle-high vegetation. Those summers spent here during his school years were memories to be treasured. Griffin's family had been a jolly substitute for the lack of his own.

"Tristan. Or I suppose I should call you Hawkridge. Whichever, it's been entirely too long."

Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't heard Griffin approach, but now he turned to see his old friend holding out a hand. He reached his own to grasp it.

"Ah, hell," Griffin said and pulled him into a rough embrace instead.

Tristan tensed for a stunned moment. Other than the impersonal attentions of his valet or a perfunctory handshake now and then, it was the first human touch he had felt in…entirely too long to remember.

He clapped his friend on the back. "Yes. Entirely too long," he echoed as he drew away. "Am I supposed to call you Cainewood?"

"Strikes the ear wrong after all these years, doesn't it?" Like the castle, Griffin's slightly crooked smile was familiar. "Griffin will do. I didn't expect you until tomorrow at the earliest."

Tristan walked with him toward the entrance. "Your note sounded urgent."

Before they reached the front steps, the double oak doors opened. Cainewood's longtime butler stood between them. "Welcome back, my lord," he said with a little bow.

"Why, thank you, Boniface," Tristan returned, pleased to see him again. The man was aptly named, for he had a bonnie face—a youthful countenance that belied his forty-odd years. No matter how hard he tried to look stiff and serious, he never quite succeeded. And other than a touch of gray gracing his temples, the years hadn't changed him a bit.

Tristan couldn't say the same for Griffin. "You look older," he said as they climbed the steps. Griffin's jaw looked firmer; his green eyes looked somewhat world-weary. "But I expect one could say the same of me."

Griffin nodded. "We're both shouldering responsibilities we never thought to have."

"Feeling overburdened, are you?" Tristan was surprised. "Surely the marquessate is less stressful than plotting war strategy."

"You have no idea." They stepped inside. "I have three sisters to marry off, and that's only the beginning—"

"They cannot already be old enough to wed!"

Griffin's laugh boomed through the three-story-high entrance hall, all the way up to its stone-vaulted ceiling. "You expect we aged while time stood still for them?" He led Tristan up the carved stone staircase. "Corinna—the baby—is nearly twenty. Plenty old enough to find a husband."

Tristan frowned. "And Juliana and Alexandra?" he asked, deliberately mentioning her last.

Maybe she would seem less important that way.

"Twenty-one and twenty-two." They turned on the landing and went up a second level to the family's private apartments. "Four deaths in the family have kept them from the marriage mart, but I mean to see them all settled now—and soon."

Griffin ushered Tristan into a dark wood study. Waving him into a leather wing chair, he went to open a cabinet.

Tristan sat warily. "Look, old man, I sympathize with your problem, but your letter indicated you were in dire straits and needed my expertise—"

"Yes." Rather than sitting behind the massive mahogany desk, Griffin chose the chair beside Tristan's. "I appreciate your response." He set two crystal glasses on the small table between them, unstoppered a matching decanter, and began pouring. "Regardless of the fact that you've hidden yourself away in the countryside all these years, you are known far and wide—"

"I'm not in search of a wife!"

"—for your advances in scientific agriculture and land management." In the midst of handing Tristan a glass, Griffin blinked. "Wife? Do you imagine I asked you here to marry one of my sisters? Perish the thought!"

Tristan breathed deep of the brandy as he wavered between relief and annoyance. Never mind that he had no interest in wedding any of Griffin's sisters—or anyone else, for that matter—he wasn't sure he appreciated having his unsuitability thrown directly into his face. "Why did you summon me, then?"

"I need your help. I've heard you've worked miracles with Hawkridge's vineyard."

"I've managed to revive it, yes. We've had two excellent harvests—the wine from last year's is particularly good." Relaxing back, Tristan took a bracing sip of the fine spirits. "You're in need of wine?"

Griffin's sip was more like a gulp. "Charles," he said, referring to his late older brother, "had taken up growing grapes, with an eye to making wine. He planted vines some three years ago—"

"Charles wanted to make wine?"

"It's the latest thing; haven't you heard? What with the prices soaring during the war against France, I suspect he thought to make a killing. But regardless, Charles always was a swell of the first stare."

"Yes," Tristan said dryly. "He was." He well remembered Charles, a tall, dark man with an air of superiority and an eye to owning the best. "Go on, then."

"I've been told not to expect a yield suited for production for another year at the least. But the vines should be bearing fruit by now, shouldn't they? They're not producing anything."

"Three years with nothing at all? Not even the odd bloom?"

"Nothing beyond leaves. I fear they may be dying. And I haven't the foggiest idea what to do." Griffin's fingers tightened on his glass. "I'm trained to lead men into battle, not manage land and livestock."

"Not to mention make wine, which is another enterprise entirely." Tristan sipped thoughtfully. "With more than thirteen thousand acres, a good percentage of that productive, you cannot stand to lose the vineyard? This is your emergency?"

Griffin colored. "I apologize if my letter made it sound dire. But…this was Charles's pet project. He invested a fair amount of funds, and I wish to make a success of it." After hesitating a moment, he met Tristan's eyes. "I hate to think I might fail where my brother would have succeeded. I'm not comfortable with these responsibilities—they were meant to be his, and I wasn't raised to the task. But I mean to make the best of it."

The admission sounded pained, but Tristan could sympathize. He didn't imagine that military officers sat around at night baring their souls. And as for himself, it had been a long time since he'd had anyone to confide in.

"I understand," he said. He hadn't been raised with expectations of inheriting a title, either. Quite the contrary, he'd been born the son of a second son, a mere mister who'd attended the right schools only on the largesse of his uncle. "I'm trying to make the best of my life, too."

Griffin nodded, looking uneasy.

These days, most everyone was uneasy around Tristan.

"Shall I have a look at your vineyard?" He drained his glass, set it down, and began to rise.

"It will have to wait until tomorrow." Waving him back down, Griffin refilled their glasses. "It's a good hour each way by horseback, and I'm expecting another caller shortly. A very acceptable suitor for Alexandra's hand."

Alexandra. Tristan pictured long dark curls and innocent young eyes. He wondered how she'd look all grown up.

He wondered if she'd have the same effect on him she used to.

"We'll ride over in the morning," Griffin added. "You'll stay, won't you? At least long enough to evaluate the situation?"

"I'll stay as long as I'm needed." Though Griffin's problem wasn't as pressing as Tristan had imagined, it had been a long time since he'd felt needed.

And a long time since he'd seen Lady Alexandra Chase.

"You look lovely, Alexandra." Standing in the high gallery, Juliana tweaked her sister's low, ruffle-edged neckline. "Lord Shelton won't be able to resist you."

"Especially after he tries your magical ratafia puffs." Corinna grabbed one of the small sweets from the tray on a marble side table and popped it into her mouth. She sighed as it dissolved on her tongue. "François said they turned out perfect."

"Lord Shelton won't be able to try one if you eat them all first." Alexandra lifted the silver tray, smiling at the little golden puffs, which had been beautifully arranged by François, their French cook. "Come along, now. Lord Shelton is surely waiting." She hurried through the gallery, lifting her blue sprigged muslin skirts with one hand while carrying the fancy tray with the other.

Her sisters flanked her going down the wide stone staircase. "Gentlemen expect to wait for ladies," Juliana said. "It's not the thing to appear too eager."

"I don't care to play those silly feminine games," Alexandra said, gazing down at her sister.

Juliana was exceedingly short—so short she made Alexandra feel tall, although she and Corinna were rather average in height. Juliana, Alexandra had noticed in the brief time Griffin had been inviting his friends to pay calls, attracted men like bees to honey—most especially the shorter men.

Thankfully, Lord Shelton was tall.

On the first floor, Alexandra paused in the picture gallery outside the drawing room's door. Masculine voices drifted out. Griffin must have been entertaining her guest—or, more likely, trying to talk him into a proposal.

With any luck, his efforts would pay off.

She schooled her expression into a welcoming one and rounded the corner into the room. "Lord Shelton," she said pleasantly, "please excuse my tardiness. I hope these sweet confections will make up for the wait."

Lord Shelton turned and smiled, walking toward her. But her gaze shifted past him, to where another man stood beside her brother. As he turned slightly and she met his eyes—intense gray eyes she recalled from years before—her heart gave a little skip.

Tristan Nesbitt.

He still had the same strong jaw, the same long nose, the same heavy, straight brows. His skin was unfashionably bronzed, as though he'd spent much time outdoors, and his streaky brown-blond hair still looked tousled, as it used to—and still made her wish to run her fingers through it.

The mere sight of him robbed her of breath.

"Good afternoon, my dear," Lord Shelton said. "I was more than pleased to receive your invitation to take tea."

She tore her gaze from Tris. Lord Shelton looked pale in comparison, his skin a pasty white, his hair the lightest blond, his eyes an innocuous blue. Odd, his paleness had never made an impression on her before. It seemed almost as though he'd faded.

And he wasn't as tall as she'd thought. At least not when he was standing in the same room with Tris.

"Thank you for accepting the invitation," she murmured, struggling to remember her manners.

"I'm certain you girls recall Tristan," Griffin prompted.

Juliana and Corinna curtsied. "Mr. Nesbitt," they said in unison.

Dazed, Alexandra followed suit. "Mr. Nesbitt."

"The Marquess of Hawkridge now," her brother informed them. "Tristan inherited four years back."

Tris was titled now? How had that happened? And where had he been all this time? she wanted to ask. That and a million other questions. She hadn't seen him in…sweet heaven, was it seven years? While she hadn't precisely forgotten him in all that time, she had forgotten how just looking at him made her insides melt like butter.

Or maybe she'd banished that from her thoughts.

"Lord Hawkridge," she corrected herself.

"Lady Alexandra," he returned with a vague if polite nod. "And Ladies Juliana and Corinna. My, if you haven't all grown up since I saw you last."

Of course, when he saw Alexandra last, he'd paid her little mind. If he'd noticed her at all, he'd thought of her as Griffin's bothersome younger sister.

And he didn't seem to be paying her any mind now, either.

He turned back to Griffin. "Do you know what time of the year Charles planted the vines?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea," Griffin said.

Lord Shelton stepped closer. "Lady Alexandra." There was a cloying quality to his voice that had been missing when Lord Hawkridge said the same words. Alexandra supposed Lord Shelton was trying to sound romantic. She probably would have reacted positively to that yesterday.

He lifted her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to the back. "My dear, you look exquisite."

She'd never heard anything quite so disingenuous.

Juliana elbowed her discreetly. "Perhaps Lord Shelton would like to taste one of your ratafia puffs."

Alexandra looked down to the silver tray, forgotten in her other hand. "Oh, not quite yet." Her laughter sounded forced to her own ears. "Don't you think we should pour the tea first?"

Ignoring her sisters' puzzled frowns, she walked clear across the room and put the tray on a gilt-legged table that sat against the wall.

Juliana began pouring. "The puffs can hardly work their magic from over there."

"Magic?" Lord Shelton inquired.

"Please do sit," Alexandra told him, leaving the tray safely distant while she made her way back across the room. She seated herself on one of the light blue velvet sofas instead of a chair; a tactical error, since Lord Shelton immediately took the place beside her.

That wouldn't have bothered her yesterday. But his scent—an Oriental mix—was too flowery and suddenly annoying.

When Juliana handed her a teacup, she rose and went to Lord Hawkridge where he was talking with her brother. He smelled of clean soap and starch and something else she couldn't identify—but it was decidedly male. "Tea, my lord?"

"Thank you." He took it while barely sparing her a glance. "Not every variety is suited to our climate," he said to Griffin.

"You're welcome," Alexandra murmured.

"Alexandra," Corinna called conspicuously, "since you're up, why don't you get the ratafia puffs and bring them over here?"

"Not just yet." Alexandra marched to the sofa and plopped back down, giving her sister a pointed look. "I've decided I'm not certain I wish to serve the ratafia puffs at all."

Lord Shelton glanced between them, clearly confused. "And why not?"

"Yes, why not?" Corinna pressed. "They're supposed to be magical."

"Precisely." Alexandra accepted another teacup from Juliana and sipped. "I've no wish to employ magic."

"Magic?" Lord Shelton repeated.

Juliana stood. "May I speak with you in private?" Before Alexandra could disagree, she pulled her up by the arm and drew her out into the picture gallery, Corinna in their wake.

Juliana's hazel eyes radiated concern. "What's going on?"

"Nothing." Alexandra glanced away, her gaze landing on a solemn ancestor who glared from a canvas on the smooth stone wall, looking exceedingly disapproving.

"Nothing?" If possible, Corinna appeared even more disapproving. "Why won't you give Lord Shelton one of the magical ratafia puffs?"

"Magical?" Putting scorn into her voice, Alexandra focused on each of her sisters in turn. "Do you truly believe that eggs and sugar can be magical?"

"Of course not," Corinna said quickly. "But don't you think it's worth a try?"

Juliana laid a gloved hand on Alexandra's arm. "If they did work," she said gently, "you could add a notation to Eleanor Cainewood's entry in the recipe book, verifying her allegation. It's a tradition."

"I don't care," Alexandra said blithely. At least, she hoped she sounded blithe.

Her sisters stared at her, their eyes wide.

"You don't care?" Juliana breathed. "About tradition?" She pulled off a glove and reached to touch Alexandra's forehead. "Are you ill?"

"No." Alexandra drew away. "I just don't care about this silly tradition."

"But, Alexandra…" Juliana hugged herself. "You're the most traditional person I've ever met."

It was true. Juliana was known for her wild ideas—always meant to help, of course—and Corinna was a bit of a rebel. But Alexandra always did exactly the right thing. She ran her brother's enormous household like clockwork; she kept up with her correspondence; she visited the villagers and tenants, both healthy and ailing, always with some famous Chase sweets in hand. She could sing, play the pianoforte, make lovely profile portraits, and embroider—and if she wasn't exactly renowned for any of those talents, at least she was competent.

Alexandra was a perfect lady. The best single word to describe her was traditional. But right at the moment, tradition could hang for all she cared.

She set her jaw. "I don't want Lord Shelton to eat any ratafia puffs."

Her sisters exchanged matching looks of astonishment. "Why?" Juliana asked carefully.

Corinna cocked her head. "Are you that certain he'll propose without them?"

"I don't wish him to propose at all."

Juliana dropped her glove. "What?"

"You heard me." Alexandra drew a deep breath, relieved the truth was out. "I've changed my mind."

Juliana blinked. "But Griffin expects you to marry Lord Shelton."

When Alexandra only shrugged, Corinna frowned. "You always do the expected thing."

"How very tedious. It's about time I changed, don't you think?"

"Girls?" Alexandra's flabbergasted sisters were saved from answering when Griffin stepped into the gallery. "What are you all doing out here?"

"Talking." Juliana bent to retrieve her glove.

Griffin looked toward the stone-vaulted ceiling as though praying for heaven-sent strength. "Lord Shelton is inquiring after your presence." He lowered his gaze to Alexandra and smiled. "He likes your sweets very much."

"Oh!" she said, when she wanted to say "Drat!" Not that she believed in magic, but…what if the ratafia puffs worked? She didn't want to actually turn down Lord Shelton's proposal. Griffin would never forgive her.

"I'm not feeling well," she told him—and suddenly, it wasn't a fib. The thought of marrying Lord Shelton made nausea rise in her throat. "Please give Lord Shelton my apologies," she said. "I must go lie down."

Like it? Buy it!

Learn more about Lauren Royal and her books at LaurenRoyal.com.

Also available by Lauren Royal:

The Jewel Trilogy
Amethyst
Emerald
Amber
Forevermore (a Jewel Trilogy novella)

The Temptations Trilogy
Lost in Temptation
Tempting Juliana
The Art of Temptation

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