THE TEMPTATIONS TRILOGY

Lauren Royal

Author's Cut Edition

Novelty Books

THE TEMPTATIONS 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.

LOST IN TEMPTATION © Lauren Royal 2005, 2012

TEMPTING JULIANA © Lauren Royal 2006, 2012

THE ART OF TEMPTATION © Lauren Royal 2007, 2012

ISBN 978-1-938907-11-1

4th Edition, July 2013

Cover by Kimberly Killion

Book Design by Typesetter For Mac

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.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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

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

INSIDE FLAP

As the new Marquess of Cainewood, Griffin Chase is desperate to marry off his three younger sisters. He never thought he'd be a matchmaking mama, and his sisters aren't at all sure they appreciate his efforts. But with the help of an heirloom recipe book, they discover that cooking up a little magic can be seductive...

LOST IN TEMPTATION - England, 1815 - Lady Alexandra Chase has always done what was expected of her. But when the man she's loved since her girlhood returns from a long spell abroad, she quite suddenly finds herself hoping the fine lord her brother has picked for her won't propose.

TEMPTING JULIANA - London, 1816 - There's nothing Juliana Chase wants more than to see her loved ones happy. So why is everyone ignoring her good intentions and shaking up her sensible plans?

THE ART OF TEMPTATION - London, 1817 - Though Corinna Chase is more interested in pursuing her art than finding a husband, she can't help but take notice of the handsome Irishman who's moved in next door. When it soon becomes evident that her new neighbor isn't who he says he is, rather than expose him, she finds herself drawn into the hoax.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Books by Lauren Royal

Inside Flap

Lost In Temptation

- Dedication

- Prologue

- 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

- Epilogue

- Author's Note

- Acknowledgments

Tempting Juliana

- 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

- Author's Note

- Acknowledgments

The Art of Temptation

- Dedication

- Prologue

- 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

- Chapter 57

- Chapter 58

- Chapter 59

- Chapter 60

- Thank You

- Author's Note

- Acknowledgments

Bonus Material

For Terri Castoro,
critique partner extraordinaire.

Thanks for sticking with me
through thick and thin.

PROLOGUE

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.

CHAPTER ONE

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.

CHAPTER TWO

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.

CHAPTER THREE

"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."

CHAPTER FOUR

Alexandra sat at her gold-and-white Chippendale dressing table, gazing at the oval cameo she'd dug out of the bottom of her jewelry box. "It's pretty, isn't it?"

"Beautiful, my lady." The maid she shared with her sisters deftly pinned up her hair. "I've never seen you wear it before."

"It's been put away for a long time."

Alexandra hadn't been able to find the note that had come with the cameo that exciting day it arrived, about a year after Tris left for the West Indies. But she'd read it so many times, the words were burned into her memory. My dear Lady Alexandra, it said in a bold scrawl so distinct she could picture it even now,

Here is the gift I promised you from Jamaica. I expect it will arrive a year or two before myself, but I saw it in a shop and knew it for the perfect choice. The cameo reminded me of your profile portraits, and its subject reminded me of you. It is my wish that you'll wear it in the best of health and happiness.

Yours,

Tristan Nesbitt

The cameo, set in a beautiful white gold bezel with three tiny diamonds, featured a girl carved of mother-of-pearl in profile on an oval of black jet. She'd cherished it and been thrilled to think the pretty, curly-haired young miss on it reminded Tris of her. She must have read the words My dear and Yours a million times, wishing there were some way he could be hers. But after a year had passed, and then two, she'd given up those childish dreams and put both the cameo and the note away.

After another year, she'd taken his profile portrait from her wall and put that away, too.

And now, he wasn't even Tris anymore. He was Lord Hawkridge, a strange and distant man. But she couldn't help thinking that, now that he was a marquess, he was no longer unsuitable. Perhaps—

"Are you ready yet?" Corinna called from the doorway.

"Almost. Come in a moment." As her sisters entered, she threaded a delicate chain through the cameo's bale and quickly fastened it around her neck. Then she lifted a little pot of clear gloss. Watching in the mirror, she slicked it on her mouth.

"A Lady of Distinction doesn't approve of lip salve," Corinna informed her. "In The Mirror of the Graces, she says—"

"A Lady of Distinction can go hang," Alexandra interrupted. "Do you expect Lord Hawkridge might have stayed for dinner?"

"Oh, yes." Juliana straightened Corinna's pink satin sash. "Griffin has asked him to stay the night, so he can assist him with some sort of problem at the vineyard tomorrow morning."

So that was what Tris and Griffin had been so busy discussing while Alexandra was trying to keep the ratafia puffs from Lord Shelton. If Tris would be here through tomorrow, she thought with a little frisson of excitement, perhaps she might have time to make him notice her. But she was terribly inexperienced…

Did she have what it would take to tempt a marquess?

"And has Lord Shelton departed?" she asked with not a little trepidation.

His presence could ruin everything.

"Of course. He was invited only to take tea, after all." Corinna sat carefully on Alexandra's blue damask bedcovering. "He said he hopes you'll feel better soon."

"I'm absolutely recovered," Alexandra assured her. Even more so now that she knew she'd escaped the dreaded proposal. She handed her maid a blue ribbon. "Lord Hawkridge didn't seem to mind staying?"

"Not at all." Juliana smiled at her in the mirror. "I don't mind him staying, either. He's quite handsome, isn't he? In a rugged way, I mean."

"He's gorgeous." Corinna flung herself back on the bed. "I want to paint him."

"He's mine," Alexandra said quietly.

The room fell silent.

"You cannot be serious," Juliana finally said. "You're marrying Lord Shelton."

"I am not. I thought I made that clear this afternoon." Alexandra turned from the dressing table and glanced up. "Thank you, Mary. That will be all."

As her maid slipped from the room, Alexandra squared her shoulders. "I mean to marry Lord Hawkridge if he will have me." Juliana gasped, but Alexandra rushed on. "I hope you two will support me in this. I'm aware it seems rash, but the truth is, I've been in love with him since I was fifteen. Or years earlier. I'm not sure."

Corinna sat upright again, her eyes round as blue saucers. "Does he know?"

"Of course not. Last I saw him, he was a grown man of twenty-one and I was still in the schoolroom. He wasn't supposed to even notice me."

"He noticed us," Corinna disagreed. "He talked to us quite often, and he used to tease us mercilessly."

Alexandra sighed. "That wasn't the sort of noticing I was hoping for."

"In any case, he was a mere mister then," Juliana pointed out, "with no prospects."

"I never cared."

Juliana smoothed her yellow skirts. "Father would have cared."

"I know. And I accepted that then. But now everything's changed—"

"Good evening, girls." Griffin appeared in the doorway. "Father would have cared about what?"

The sisters exchanged glances before Juliana looked toward him and smiled. "Father would have cared to see one of us wed to Lord Hawkridge."

Griffin blinked. "Let us hear none of that. I didn't invite Tristan here as a potential suitor."

"Why not?" Corinna asked. "You've invited every other unmarried man in all of Britain."

"Not quite yet, but I'm working on it." He flashed her a crooked grin, then nodded toward a book on Alexandra's bedside table. "Have you been reading The Mirror of the Graces?"

"Oh, yes. Every night," she assured him, ignoring her sisters' muffled giggles.

Griffin had given them each a copy of the etiquette manual, authored by "A Lady of Distinction," in the hope that they'd learn to deport themselves in a manner conducive to winning fine husbands.

He was leaving no stone unturned in his quest to get the three of them married off.

"Excellent," he said. "I trust you're feeling better now?"

"Much better, thank you. Shall we go down to dinner?"

Downstairs, she thought as she trailed her siblings out of the room, Lord Hawkridge was waiting. Just realizing she would see him again made a pleasant hum warm her body.

And to think, only this morning she'd considered finding love to be an unrealistic, childish expectation.

Pretending indifference toward Lady Alexandra was one of the hardest things Tristan had ever done. And years of practice didn't seem to be making it any easier.

Dinner had been pure torture, chitchatting with Griffin about his trouble with the vineyard while all the while he could feel Alexandra's gaze on him. Now, their little party having removed themselves to the music room, he was sipping port at an impolite pace while Griffin's sisters provided entertainment.

Corinna had a pretty voice, and the music Juliana coaxed from her harp was nothing less than exquisite. But Tristan had eyes only for Alexandra. She'd removed her gloves, and her bare fingers, long and elegant, flew gracefully over the keys of the pianoforte. Though his ears told him the resulting tune was proficient rather than inspired, her playing had him enthralled.

She was wearing the cameo he'd sent her several years earlier, and he found himself entirely too pleased about that.

"Would you care for more?"

Tristan looked up to find Griffin standing over him with the bottle of port. "My thanks," he murmured, raising his glass.

Griffin settled beside him on the small gold brocade sofa. "Civilized, aren't they?" He gestured toward his sisters, all seated primly on dainty chairs with brocade seats and gilt backs. His chuckle was low enough not be heard across the room. "Whoever would have thought they'd actually grow up?"

Tristan smiled, but he'd always known Alexandra would turn out to be something special. A rather gangly girl, she'd grown into her looks during the years since he'd last seen her. Sweet curves now softened her slender frame. Her sooty-lashed brown eyes, which had always reminded him of warmed brandy, looked large in her delicately featured face. Her chestnut hair was the same as it had always been—so springy it seemed alive, refusing to stay pinned primly atop her head.

Any man would find her alluring.

But there was something else about her—something harder to put his finger on. Even as an adolescent she'd been responsible beyond her years, accomplished and more than competent…and yet, underneath, he'd sensed a melting romanticism, a yearning for love that the younger, more idealistic Tristan would have given anything to fulfill.

Then, as today, he'd sometimes sensed his feelings were returned—something in the way her eyes would soften when he caught her looking at him. But there had been no sense in pursuing anything. From the start, he'd known the Marquess of Cainewood would never allow his high-born daughter to wed the son of a common drunkard.

And nothing was different now.

True, his situation had changed, and his friend was the marquess now. But Griffin had new reasons to reject Tristan's suit—reasons even more damning than the ones Griffin's father would have objected to all those years ago.

Alexandra glanced over at him again, and a gentle smile curved her lips. He looked away and sipped. He would have to have a talk with her. He disliked discussing his circumstances, but honor compelled him to explain.

"What is life like at Hawkridge?" Griffin asked quietly.

Lonely, Tristan thought. He hadn't realized how lonely until now. But he wasn't looking for pity. "I keep busy," he said. "Doing very ungentlemanly things."

"Are you implying you work?" Griffin asked in mock horror.

"Incessantly, I'm afraid."

Griffin's laughter brought Alexandra's head up once more. She met Tristan's gaze, her eyes melting in that way that threatened his resolve.

But he wouldn't allow her to pierce his armor. Especially because, as her older brother, Griffin would see that nothing ever came of it.

"Hawkridge's restored vineyards are the least of my improvements," he said, turning deliberately to Griffin. "I'm building a gasworks. And I've found that careful land management produces significantly larger crops."

Griffin sipped slowly. "According to rumor, you've begun a new breeding program as well. Not just for horses, but common swine and sheep."

"Yes, I'm importing stock from distant estates. I ascribe to the theory that interbreeding produces weak animals."

"I look forward to learning more of this."

"I look forward to explaining it," Tristan told him with a smile.

Miraculously, it seemed that Griffin had remained his friend. Still more reason to steer clear of Alexandra. It wasn't worth ruining such a long-standing relationship over something that could never be.

When the song came to an end, instead of launching into another one, the sisters held a short, murmured conversation. Tristan saw Juliana nod before they all rose. As they started across the parquet floor, Alexandra's hand went up to touch the cameo she was wearing.

Yes, he had to explain things, difficult as that would be. Perhaps feigning indifference wasn't the hardest thing, after all.

"That was very nice, girls," Griffin said.

Although he knew his friend used the term with affection, Alexandra no longer struck Tristan as a girl. He looked away, staring blankly at the large gilt-framed mirror that hung above the white marble fireplace. The room seemed too hot. He tugged to loosen the cravat his valet had so carefully tied early that morning.

"Are you overly warm?" Juliana smiled sweetly. "Perhaps a walk along the battlements in the night air would help."

That sounded like an excellent idea. "I believe I shall take your suggestion," he said, beginning to rise. He needed to get out of here. He needed to think. He needed to plan carefully what he would say to Alexandra. Out of sight of her, and her beautiful eyes, and the cameo he'd given her dangling near her pert, filled-out breasts.

"I'm pleased you agree," Juliana said, still smiling. "Alexandra would be happy to accompany you."

CHAPTER FIVE

Alexandra was shocked at Juliana's bold suggestion, and even more shocked when Tris—Lord Hawkridge, she reminded herself—paused, then nodded rather grimly and said, "That would be delightful."

He didn't sound delighted.

"Tristan," Griffin said in a quiet tone laced with warning. But Lord Hawkridge ignored Alexandra's brother, rising and taking her elbow, and she was too excited to pay Griffin any heed. She'd always followed the rules and obeyed authority, but it seemed she was changing more and more by the minute.

Lord Hawkridge had agreed to walk alone with her outdoors. Whether he was actually delighted or not, it was almost too good to be true. Maybe she would prove able to make him notice her in the short time he'd be here.

In silence he steered her from the room. In silence they descended the staircase and walked outside into the quadrangle. In silence they crossed the groomed lawn.

After a while, the silence grew worrisome.

She couldn't help wishing he'd sounded happier when he'd agreed to this walk. Perhaps he'd only acquiesced to avoid embarrassing Juliana. Maybe he would rather have stayed inside with Griffin.

Though there was a full moon tonight, his gray eyes were unreadable. "My lord," she started.

"After all these years," he interrupted, "you're not going to start addressing me formally now, are you?" Having spent enough time at Cainewood to know his way around, he guided her uphill toward the keep, which sat atop an ancient motte—a mound of earth built to give the castle's defenders the advantage of height. "You called me Tristan when we were younger. Or Tris. I always liked that."

Had he? Feeling her cheeks heat at the thought, she was happy when it grew darker as they stepped into the tower.

He let her lead the way up the winding stone staircase, following close behind—as a gentleman should—in case she should stumble in the pitch-blackness. She put a hand to the rough wall for balance. "You weren't a marquess when we were younger."

"I'm still the same person."

She wasn't so certain he hadn't changed in seven years. Braver in the dark than she'd have been in the moonlight, she blurted the question she'd been dying to ask. "However did you become a marquess?"

Behind her, Lord Hawkridge sighed. "My father was a second son—a spectacularly unsuccessful one. It was my uncle—the marquess—who financed my schooling and university."

"So I gathered over the years." She glanced at him as they stepped through the archway and back into the pale illumination. "But your uncle had heirs, didn't he?"

"The requisite heir and a spare, yes." By unspoken agreement, they began strolling along the top of the wide, crenelated wall. "My uncle had married well, an heiress who came with a large plantation in Jamaica. Her family lived on other property they owned on the island, and though she and Uncle Harold had a good marriage, she pined to see them from time to time. Five years ago—while I was still there learning the ropes—she brought her sons home for a visit. None of them returned. Weeks after they were due to arrive, my uncle learned their ship had gone down in the Caribbean. Suddenly I was his heir."

"And then he died?"

"A year later, yes. That was four years ago, just after I'd returned to England. My own father had died a scant six months earlier, and I'd inherited his estate—which was little more than a mountain of debt. I was…in dire straits."

He hesitated as though he wanted to say more, but she waited a while and he didn't. "That was solved when you inherited from your uncle?" she prompted.

"Yes," he said, and hesitated again. Their footfalls echoed into the night. "But there's no need to call me Lord Hawkridge," he finally added, bringing the conversation back to where they'd started.

She was certain there was something else he hadn't told her, but it wasn't her place to press. "You've always called me Lady Alexandra. On the rare occasions you noticed me, that is." She glanced toward him and smiled—a fetching smile, she hoped. "Last time you saw me I was just Griffin's vexatious younger sister."

If only she could become more than that now. Shadowed in the moonlight, his features gave her little insight to his thoughts. A lock of his tousled hair had fallen onto his forehead. His eyes looked hooded, his mouth firm.

"I always noticed you, Alexandra."

No Lady. She should take offense, she supposed—they weren't close enough to warrant that sort of familiarity. Not anymore, in any case. But she wanted to be that close. And he'd said…

Had he actually said he'd always noticed her?

"Did you?" she asked breathlessly, even knowing he couldn't have meant it the way she hoped. I always noticed you. "Probably because I bothered you," she said with a shaky laugh.

"Not at all. You used to talk about the most interesting things. Deep things."

She'd always been somewhat of a philosopher, even as a girl. Her sisters were forever telling her she was too serious. She turned to the ledge and stopped, gazing out over the darkened landscape, the fields and the nearby woods. The River Caine glistened in the distance.

She felt rather than saw him come up to stand beside her.

"I hadn't expected you listened," she said quietly.

"Alexandra."

Something in his voice made her turn to him. "Hmm?"

"I listened to every word."

When he laid a hand over hers where it rested on the ledge, she realized she'd forgotten to replace her gloves after she stopped playing the pianoforte. And he wasn't wearing gloves, either. His hand felt warm and a little rougher than a true gentleman's hand should. Not that she'd ever touched another gentleman's bare hand.

The sensation was thrilling beyond words.

"Tris," she breathed, the only syllable she seemed capable of uttering.

He grinned, his teeth straight and white in the moonlight. "That's better."

Had she really called him Tris? She decided to gloss over that. "I…I don't think it's proper for you to be touching me."

"You're right. I most definitely shouldn't be touching you."

But instead of removing his fingers, he tightened them over hers, and his other hand came up to touch the cameo she wore. Near his fingers, her breasts tingled, and their crests seemed to tauten.

"You kept it," he said.

"Of course I did." She wouldn't tell him she'd put it away for years. "It was the best gift I'd ever received. I was so surprised when it arrived."

"I promised I'd send you something from Jamaica."

"No. You were supposed to bring me something."

"I couldn't," he said simply. And then, "Alexandra, there's something I must tell you."

"Yes?" she asked breathlessly.

"I've listened to you, thought about you, for a long, long time. I wanted you to know that."

Had he really said those words, the very ones she'd been longing to hear? Her heart seemed to swell in her chest. She was so excited, she barely heard what he said next.

"But I also need for you to know—"

"Oh, Tris! I always noticed you, too."

He winced, as though her admission had hurt him. "I'm almost sorry to hear that. For you, sweetheart. There are circumstances…"

Sweet heaven, he'd called her sweetheart.

But he seemed to be struggling for words. She waited. And waited.

"We're not meant to be together," he said at last. "Your brother would never—"

"This isn't my brother's choice." Now that she knew Tris had noticed her, she wouldn't let Griffin or Lord Shelton stand in her way. She wasn't known for being stubborn for nothing. "I shall have a talk with him."

He shook his head mournfully. "Even in the extremely unlikely event that Griffin might agree, I cannot allow—"

"Hush, Tris." She turned her hand over beneath his and gripped his fingers, hard. "I won't listen to this." She searched his eyes for a moment, looking for understanding and failing to find it. Then, without thinking, she reached up and swept that single renegade lock off his forehead.

His breath rushed out, and all at once, something changed in that deep gray gaze. He stepped closer, and his scent overwhelmed her—that clean-Tris scent she'd noticed earlier in the day. "Alexandra," he murmured, the pads of his fingertips grazing her cheek.

His warmth enveloped her, warding off the chill night air. He cupped her face in his hand and angled his head as he pressed closer, his large, rangy body all but pinning her against the ancient stone wall. Closer, closer, until she could feel his breath teasing her lips.

She held her own breath. In fact, she wondered fleetingly if she would ever find the strength to draw breath again. Then his lips touched hers, and all thought fled for a long, glorious moment.

His kiss was tender at first, no more than a brush of mouths, his lips softer than she'd expected. Then his mouth settled on hers more firmly, demanding her response.

She sighed and leaned in to him, raising her arms to wind them around his neck, threading her fingers through his slightly too-long hair. His tongue traced the line where her lips met. When she parted them in surprise, he took immediate advantage, sinking his tongue into her mouth.

Shocked, she tensed, but as he probed gently, a languid shiver rippled through her. She'd never imagined such an intimacy. He slid a hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head and tilting it to make their lips mesh more completely, and she allowed herself to relax, lost in a sensual haze.

He explored her mouth as though intent on learning her, on owning her, on claiming every nook and cranny. In turn, she touched her tongue to his, tasting him and letting all the new feelings wash over her.

Had she ever been kissed before? She'd thought so…during her one long-ago season, several overwrought, hopeful men had somehow managed to maneuver a few seconds of privacy, enough to press their lips to hers. But now she knew she hadn't really been kissed, not a true kiss like this.

None of those kisses had made her heart pound. None of those kisses had made heat gather low in her middle. None of those kisses had made her lean wantonly in to a man as she was doing with Tris now.

Her behavior was scandalous, really. But she couldn't seem to help herself. And Tris's obvious response was her saving grace, for surely he wouldn't kiss her like this without the most honorable of intentions.

Soon, she thought dizzily, his surprising, thrilling words still swirling about in her head…I've thought about you for a long, long time…soon, he would be her husband.

He shifted, wrapping his arms around her, one hand against her upper back and the other down lower, drawing her tight against his hard, warm body. He pressed little kisses to her cheeks and chin and neck, pausing in the hollow of her throat, making new, tingly sensations dance along her skin. Close as he was, she was certain he could hear the pounding of her heart.

"Tris," she whispered.

"Holy Christ," he grated out.

When his hands fell from her body, her eyes flew open to find his closed. It seemed an eternity before he opened them.

She gave him a trembly smile. "That was nice."

"No." He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair raggedly. "It was most certainly not nice."

"Well, not in that way, perhaps," she said, confused. She drew a shaky breath and let it out. "But that cannot really matter so long as we…"

"So long as we what?"

"So long as we…"

He hadn't proposed, and she couldn't bring herself to do it for him. But as she watched and waited, she saw understanding dawn in his eyes. And then she saw his jaw set as he stepped farther back. "A kiss doesn't equal a marriage proposal, Alexandra."

His voice shouldn't sound so cold and resolute. He'd felt the same feelings she had; she was sure of it. "But I thought—"

"I'm sorry," he interrupted, looking sorry indeed. "I cannot marry you. There are circumstances…damn, I knew I needed to think about how to explain this." She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "Please accept my sincere apologies. What I just did was unforgivable, but I can only promise it won't happen again. There's no chance I will ever take you for a wife."

CHAPTER SIX

"I see," Alexandra said and immediately turned to leave.

Though he knew he should elaborate, Tristan remained silent as he walked her back to her family. Along the wall walk, down the winding steps of the tower, and across the quadrangle, he cursed himself a dozen times. Alternately, he thought about how he should word his explanation. He needed to make her understand that his inability to offer for her hand fell squarely on his shoulders and had nothing to do with any inadequacy on her part.

And in between all of that, his mind kept flashing back to that one galvanizing moment when she'd reached toward him, when her fingertips had grazed his skin as she swept the hair from his forehead.

When, if ever, had a woman touched him so tenderly?

That single gesture had, quite simply, undone him. He'd been taken by surprise, found himself lost in temptation. Holy Christ, she'd never even been kissed before. The innocent sensuality of her response had devastated him.

He wouldn't—couldn't—allow anything similar to ever happen again.

On the steps in front of the double doorway to the castle's living quarters, he stopped and turned to her. "Alexandra—"

The door opened to reveal Griffin. "My sister doesn't look happy," he said flatly.

He—or perhaps Juliana and Corinna—must have been watching them approach through one of the picture gallery's tall, narrow windows.

Alexandra stepped decisively into the stone entrance hall. "I'm fine."

Griffin didn't look like he believed her.

Following, Tristan shut the door behind them. "Alexandra, I can explain."

"There's no need." She raised her chin. "I understand completely."

As Griffin moved closer to his sister, Tristan looked between the two of them: Alexandra, calm and composed—she would never be flustered for long, nor, Tristan expected, was she the sort of woman to succumb to fits of weeping—and her protective older brother. Theirs was a close-knit family; it seemed to make little difference that Griffin had been gone for so many years. Such closeness was so foreign to Tristan's own experience as to be nearly unimaginable.

He felt impotent in the face of their united front.

"I must explain," he repeated.

"You did," Alexandra said. "I shall have a word with Griffin and straighten this all out. Now."

Turning to Tristan, Griffin emitted a long-suffering sigh. "There's more port in the music room. Please help yourself."

Tristan heard the delicate notes of the harp wafting down the staircase. But he didn't need liquor or entertainment. What he needed was to go back to his secluded world—the world he should never have left.

"I believe I shall take my leave for Hawkridge," he said.

"No." Griffin stopped him with a hand on his arm.

Everyone seemed to be touching him today.

"You've promised to help me," Griffin added. "Stay, please. At least until you've seen the vineyard in the morning. I need you."

It had been a long time since a friend—or anyone not a dependent—had needed Tristan. He could damn himself for his weakness, but he found that irresistible.

"I shall retire, then," he said with a nod. "It's been a lengthy day. Good night." Before he could talk himself into leaving again, he headed for the great carved stone staircase.

Boniface appeared from the shadows. "Allow me to accompany you, my lord."

"Thank you, but I know the way."

The butler handed him a lantern. "I shall send a valet to you posthaste."

Tristan didn't want a valet. He wanted to be alone. He'd been relieved to escape his own very fine and competent valet that morning and ride to Cainewood in blessed solitude, assuming this would be a day trip. But he was a marquess now. Upon inheriting the title, the world believed he'd forgotten how to undress himself.

What he'd forgotten instead was his head. His manners. His bred-in-the-bone knowledge that Alexandra Chase would never be his.

And he'd made a bloody damn mess of things with his bloody inability to explain the bloody scandal that made any relationship between them impossible.

Holding the lantern high, he mounted the stairs, cursing himself. He cursed himself all the way through the picture gallery, across the arched dining room, and along the impossibly long length of the hammerbeam-ceilinged great hall. At its far end, he stomped down a corridor and slammed into the room he'd been assigned.

Within Cainewood's thick stone walls, even summer evenings were chilly. The makings of a fire had been thoughtfully laid on the marble hearth. No doubt a chambermaid hovered in the passageway, waiting for his summons to start it. In an act of defiance, he set the lantern on a gilded dressing table and bent to light the logs himself.

Straightening, he looked around and groaned.

With any luck, he'd be leaving in the morning, right after he inspected the vineyard. But in the meantime, this gaudy room was no place to relax.

Seemingly endless rows of guest bedrooms lined this wing, and he'd never been given this one before. Of course, he hadn't been a marquess before. The Gold Chamber, this room was called, and it was saved, a chatty chambermaid had informed him, for the castle's most honored guests. Having been decorated for a royal visit in some previous century, it was filled with heavy gilt furniture and draped in golden fabric. It dazzled the eye. And had him tiptoeing his way around.

He sat gingerly on a carved, gold-leafed chair to await the bloody valet. Hawkridge Hall, the mansion he'd inherited, had its share of impressive rooms, including one very much like this. He rarely went in there. He hadn't been raised among such valuable trappings. He was almost afraid to touch anything.

He shouldn't have touched Griffin's sister, either.

"Sit down, Alexandra."

Griffin waved her toward one of the study's leather wing chairs, then settled himself behind the big desk she still thought of as belonging to her father. Establishing his authority, she thought with an internal sigh. Well, it didn't matter. Everything had changed today. She was finished being the obedient sister, and she wasn't going to let Griffin pressure her into marrying Lord Shelton—or anyone besides Tris.

He rested his elbows on the mahogany surface, steepling his fingers. "What happened out there?"

After hesitating a moment, she squared her shoulders. "Tris kissed me."

"He did what?"

"You heard me. We wish to marry." Pressing her advantage while Griffin still looked shocked, she rose, moving closer to slap her hands onto the desk and lean toward him. "I don't want to marry Lord Shelton. I want to marry Tris."

"Tris," he echoed pointedly, abruptly leaning back in the chair. She was the only one who'd ever called his friend "Tris." He rubbed the nape of his neck. "He hasn't asked for your hand, has he?"

"Not exactly." Something in Griffin's eyes, in the tone of his voice, was making her uneasy. She leaned harder on her palms, closer to her brother. "He seems to think you won't approve."

"Damn right, and that's why he would never ask." He fixed her with a piercing green gaze. "The man's been accused of murder."

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Murder?" Alexandra's elbows gave out, and her energy seemed to drain on the spot. With some effort, she straightened. She couldn't have heard Griffin right. "Murder?"

"Murder. His uncle—the last Marquess of Hawkridge—died under very suspicious circumstances."

Slowly Alexandra backed toward her chair. "What circumstances?"

"The man went to bed with a mild fever and failed to awaken the next morning. Poison, it was whispered, and Tristan was with him at Hawkridge at the time. Since his father had recently drunk himself to death and left him in heavy debt, penniless and well nigh desperate, there are those who believe his timely inheritance of his uncle's title, property, and massive fortune proved rather too convenient."

"Poison." She lowered herself gingerly to the leather. "I don't believe it for a moment."

"Neither do I," Griffin said with a sigh. "He was never convicted—there was no solid evidence—but many still think him guilty of the deed. What we personally do or don't believe has no bearing on the fact that Tristan is unsuitable as a husband."

Alexandra smoothed her dress over her knees while she tried to remember to breathe. If what Griffin said was true, she had to agree that wedding Tris was out of the question. Although she could live without the social whirl, if her family aligned themselves with him by any bond so strong as marriage, their own good name would be ruined. Juliana and Corinna would find it impossible to make good matches for themselves…and despite Alexandra's new resolve to be less blindly obedient and traditional, she wasn't selfish enough to doom her sisters to bleak futures as a consequence of her own marriage.

If what Griffin said was true.

"I don't believe it," she repeated. "I don't believe any of it. How did I never hear of this? It must have been an enormous scandal."

"It was. So major a scandal that Tristan has remained cut off from the polite world. He never claimed his seat in the House of Lords. He abandoned his friends rather than subject us to society's criticism. Didn't you wonder why he ceased coming around for visits?"

"You were in Spain, Griffin. He could hardly have come around to visit me."

"I came home for short periods over the years."

She shrugged, though even that small movement seemed exhausting. "The last time I saw him, he was headed to Jamaica."

"For two or three years, not seven. Did you never hear the murmurings, the nasty rumors? Well, of course you didn't," he answered himself. "You were hidden away here in the countryside wearing black." Pushing himself up from the desk, he moved closer to lean down and wrap her in a hug. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "But you cannot marry Tristan."

When he pulled back, she took a big breath and nodded up at him. She'd never been one for tears, but she couldn't remember feeling closer to shedding some. "I don't want to marry Lord Shelton."

He sat in the chair beside hers. "You wanted to this morning."

"Well, I've changed my mind. I realize now that I cannot be happy with him. Please don't make me—"

"I would never make you marry anyone. Anyone in particular, that is." Something akin to panic flooded his eyes. "You do still want to marry? In general, I mean."

Under different circumstances, she might have laughed. "Yes, I still want to marry." She couldn't imagine what she would do with herself if she didn't. From birth, her mother had trained her to oversee a household and its accounts, to care for an estate, to raise children of her own.

She didn't have a passion like Corinna's painting, or, like Juliana, a compulsion to meddle in other people's lives. She just wanted to live her own. "I only wish…"

Though her wish remained unspoken, her brother knew what she wanted to say. "Wishing won't buy you anything," he said and then added, "He shouldn't have kissed you," looking totally disgusted. "I'll send him away. Immediately. You won't have to face him at breakfast."

"No. Please don't. Juliana said you need his help."

"Yes, I do need his help." With an agitated motion, he unstoppered the crystal brandy decanter that sat on the small table between them. "But I don't need him seducing my sister."

"He didn't. I swear it." She watched him pour two glasses, one much fuller than the other. "Honestly, Griffin, it was only a kiss. I'm sorry I even mentioned it."

"There's nothing only about a kiss. At the very least, I will have a serious talk with him." He handed her the glass with less brandy.

She stared at it stupidly. "I've never had brandy."

"Then it's about time you did. Drink up, little sister. You need it right now."

This was certainly a day for firsts. She swallowed a gulp and coughed.

Griffin laughed. "You're supposed to sip it." Cupping the glass, he took an appreciative sniff, then a small sip. "Like that."

Cradling her glass in imitation, she drew deep of the heady scent. She sipped carefully, feeling the spirits' heat trail down her throat and warm her inside.

"Nice?" he asked.

"Very nice." She took another taste. "Go easy on Tris. Please. I asked for that kiss."

His eyes widened. "Did you?"

Not in the way he was assuming, of course, but she knew Tris wouldn't have kissed her of his own accord. Knew now, in hindsight, that he'd agreed to walk with her because he'd wanted to tell her about the scandal, wanted to explain why he couldn't ask her to be his wife.

But she hadn't let him talk. Instead, in her desperation to win him, she'd touched him, linked her fingers with his, skimmed his hair from his forehead. What had happened afterward was natural, not a seduction on Tris's part.

Or at least not a planned one.

She sipped again, feeling very much seduced regardless. And unbearably sad, knowing that nothing could possibly come of it.

Griffin reached to pry the glass from her hands. The empty glass. A corner of his mouth curved up in a sympathetic half smile. "I think you'd best get a good night's sleep."

She looked longingly toward the decanter, then sighed. The brandy was much stronger than the wine she was used to, and she couldn't even drink much of that. Her head was already buzzing, and more spirits wouldn't solve anything. "You're right. Just promise you won't send Tris away until he's done what you asked him here to do."

"Very well. But—"

"And promise you won't make him feel uncomfortable here, either."

"I suspect he'll feel uncomfortable around you no matter what I—"

"And promise you won't tell him I told you he kissed me."

"Would you let a man complete a sentence?"

She laughed. A heavyhearted laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "Only if you're going to say what I want to hear."

"I pity the man who finally marries you." Griffin drained the rest of his brandy and set down his glass. "Of course, we have to find a man before I can pity him."

"We can wait for the season—"

"Good God, no." He looked horrified at the thought. "Securing two husbands next year is a daunting enough task." Steepling his hands, he tapped his fingers against one another thoughtfully. "I know," he said, suddenly stilling. "We shall host a ball, and I will invite every unmarried gentleman of my acquaintance. At least twice as many men as ladies…that will ensure that no man is monopolized by another female, and you'll have ample chance to meet all of them."

Feeling bold with the brandy in her, Alexandra rolled her eyes. "You've no idea the preparation that goes into hosting a ball."

"Well, of course not. We didn't host balls on campaign." He poured himself another drink. "I do know how to play the proper host, though. And I have you to do the planning—"

"Me? I've never planned a ball!"

"You cannot tell me Mother never had you assist with the planning. We shall hold it in a month, I think. The season will be well over by then, and Charles will have been gone a full year by then, too, so no one will be able to claim we didn't wait a decent period."

"A month? I cannot plan a ball in a month! Invitations should go out more than a month in advance. Mama spent all year planning Cainewood's annual ball." Realizing she'd as much as admitted she did know something of what it took to plan a ball, she rushed on before her brother could make a smug comment. "We'll need two months, at the very least."

"Six weeks, then." Griffin raised his glass, admiring the way the candlelight illuminated the amber liquid. "You're nothing if not efficient, Alexandra. I'm certain you can plan a ball in six weeks."

"Six weeks." Pacing the music room and shaking her head in disbelief, Alexandra popped another ratafia puff into her mouth. They certainly didn't seem to be working any magic. "He wants us to plan a ball in six weeks."

"We can do it." At her easel, Corinna sighed happily. "A ball! We'll all need new evening dresses."

"Alexandra isn't concerned about our wardrobes at the moment," Juliana chided. She rose from her harp and went to stop her older sister's frantic pacing, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "I cannot believe Griffin is after another husband for you already. You haven't even recovered from the loss of Tristan yet."

Normally Alexandra would protest that she couldn't have lost Tris when she'd never had him, not to mention they'd renewed their acquaintance mere hours earlier. But it did feel like a loss. "I don't believe he committed murder."

"Neither do we," her sisters chimed in unison.

"He doesn't have it in him," Juliana added. "Griffin had no right to forbid you to marry him." Juliana always wanted to see everyone happy. "You should elope; you could run off to Gretna Green—"

"Don't be a goose." Alexandra moved away from her sister and back to the ratafia puffs. "For one thing, Tris hasn't asked me to wed him. For another, have you thought about the effect such a marriage would have on your own prospects? Our good name would be ruined. You and Corinna would never find suitable husbands."

"Perhaps that wouldn't happen," Juliana said. "You cannot pretend to know how society would react—"

"Oh, yes, I can. Look how they've treated Tris all these years!"

"In any case, you shouldn't sacrifice your own happiness for us," she concluded loyally, looking to Corinna for agreement.

Corinna swallowed hard but nodded. "We shall survive, one way or another."

"Geese. I'm surrounded by geese." Alexandra resumed pacing, now wishing there were real ratafia in the ratafia puffs. Was she forever doomed to exercising enough common sense for all three of them? "I won't marry a man if the two of you will suffer as a consequence."

The look that passed between her sisters set her teeth on edge. If they were plotting to conspire against her, it wouldn't be the first time. Juliana made a hobby of meddling in people's lives, and Corinna had played her willing accomplice more than once. But Alexandra was determined to undermine them, never mind that their hearts were in the right place.

"Tris won't marry me in any case," she informed them. "He told me there's no chance he'll ever take me for a wife."

Juliana and Corinna exchanged another glance. "He's hardly had time to propose," Juliana started.

"That doesn't signify." Alexandra feared her protests were falling on deaf ears. "He made his intentions—or non-intentions—perfectly clear. So don't go getting any ideas in your head. A single kiss doesn't mean—"

"A kiss?" Corinna interrupted. "He kissed you?"

Juliana jumped to Alexandra's defense. "I'm sure it was just a good-natured peck on the cheek. There's nothing so wrong with that."

"That's not what it says in The Mirror of the Graces," Corinna informed her. "A Lady of Distinction claims that 'good-natured kisses have often very bad effects and can never be permitted without injuring the fine gloss of that exquisite modesty which is the fairest garb of virgin beauty.'"

"Must you remember every word you read?" Alexandra asked with a huff.

"I cannot help it if I can see pages in my head after I've read them. And in any case, I didn't say I believed it. The Mirror of the Graces is dreadfully straitlaced."

Alexandra had had quite enough of this nonsense. She was tired and brokenhearted, and she wanted to go to bed. "Well, it wasn't a good-natured kiss, anyway," she said, leaving her sisters gaping as she quit the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Breakfast the next morning was a damned uncomfortable meal. Tristan couldn't help but notice Alexandra wasn't wearing his cameo, and he wasn't sure whether he found that a relief or a disappointment. He spent the entire hour avoiding her eyes while feeling her gaze on him.

He'd never realized a gaze could be so heavy.

And he'd never been quite as relieved as when Griffin pushed back from the table and said, "Let's go."

Unfortunately, that relief was short-lived. After calling for their horses, Griffin waited in stiff silence while Tristan wondered what he should say. But it was a crisp, sunny morning, and once they were on their way to the vineyard, it felt good to be astride in the fresh air. Good and familiar.

"Race you," he challenged.

Griffin slanted a single look at him before digging in his heels.

They hadn't designated a stopping point, but it didn't matter. Tristan leaned over his mount, bunching his muscles along with the animal beneath him, enjoying the rush of cool wind, the pounding rhythm. Beside him, Griffin kept pace; they could both afford expensive horseflesh.

What Tristan couldn't afford was to feel this distant from the only friend he had. They were neck and neck, yet farther apart than when they'd lived on separate continents.

When the horses were blowing, they slowed to a walk and rode silently for a while.

"You can still ride," Griffin conceded.

Looking toward him, Tristan raised a brow. "And I wasn't in the cavalry."

"Keep your hands off my sister."

"I will." He wondered how much Alexandra had revealed. "I'm sorry."

"I know," Griffin said.

Just like that, the tension eased. Such was the way of old friends. But Tristan felt very fortunate that their friendship had survived his indiscretion.

It had been a terrible mistake. They were all lucky the two of them hadn't been caught. In Alexandra's world, a kiss was often as good as a declaration, an observed kiss sometimes enough to compel two people to marry.

And Tristan had no intention of marrying—not Alexandra or anyone else.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"It's forgotten." Griffin raised his face to the sun. "I'm certain it won't happen again."

They rode in silence a few more minutes, but it was a comfortable silence this time. Tristan felt his clenched muscles slowly slacken and the stiffness ease from his neck.

"Why did your brother plant this vineyard so damn far from the house?" he finally asked.

"You think I understood Charles? Ever?"

"He was a dandy, if ever I met one. But he left this place in decent shape, didn't he?"

"Though it pains me to admit it, yes. He was good at what he did." They rode over a crest, but the grapevines still weren't in sight. "What made you decide to restore Hawkridge's vineyard?" Griffin asked. "Given its age, it must have been an arduous task."

Tristan shrugged. "It wasn't so much damaged as neglected. Grapevines are hardy, for the most part."

"Not mine, apparently."

"We shall see. In any case, I viewed Hawkridge's vineyard as a challenge. It was planted more than a century ago, in the early 1680s."

"By whom? Do you know?"

"Oh, yes. Not only who, but why. The Hawkridge records are impeccable. An earlier marquess—one Randal Nesbitt—saw taxation rising under Charles II. With the extra duties imposed on French wine, he thought to try to produce his own. According to the accounting, his father-in-law was something of a gardening devotee and helped to establish the vines."

"And they survived all this time."

"Under the brambles, yes. I'll do my best to make sure yours survive, too."

At last, the vineyard loomed before them, tidy rows of staked vines lining a vast hillside. Tristan gave a low whistle. "It's large."

"Charles never did anything halfway."

"He did his research. They're spaced nicely and on a south-facing slope, both of which are ideal."

"But they're not thriving."

"Let's see why that may be."

As they rode closer, Tristan could see his friend was right: The vines' tendrils were drooping, the young leaves were wilted, and there was no fruit in sight. He swung off his mount and crouched by a particularly pathetic example, digging his fingers into the soil.

"You're getting dirty," Griffin said.

"You never got dirty fighting a war?"

"I wasn't a marquess then."

"Bloody hell, you're turning into your brother."

"That didn't come out right," Griffin protested. "I only meant that I didn't ask you here to do manual labor."

"You want to grow crops, you have to expect to get a little dirty." Tristan scraped away at the roots. "I may be a marquess now, but I was a land manager first—and always will be." He stood, pulling the whole vine up with him.

They both stared at the scrawny thing.

"The roots are stunted," Tristan finally said, stating the obvious.

"Do you expect Charles planted them the wrong time of year?"

"We'll never know. You say these are three years old?" Tristan thought back. "There may have been drought conditions the season they were planted."

"Drought? Here in England?" Griffin gestured to the blue sky, where seemingly ever-present rain clouds were gathering on the horizon.

"If you're unaware of the reality of drought, you clearly weren't trained to farming."

"You can say that again," Griffin muttered dryly.

"Those clouds?" Tristan flung a hand in their direction. "They may dump several inches on the next town yet leave the ground here bone-dry. English weather is nothing if not random and unpredictable. And drought or not, it seems Charles neglected to see his new vines received enough water."

The look on Griffin's face showed plain disbelief that his brother could have done wrong. "I've never heard of irrigating vineyards."

"Established ones, no. It's commonly held that some water stress is optimal for producing fine wine. Irrigation affects both the size and the quantity of the fruit, but wine grapes shouldn't be allowed to grow as large as table grapes—the sugar concentration is more important than overall yield."

"Well, then…"

"That has nothing to do with cultivating young vines. The soil surrounding new roots should be kept damp until they're deep and established. My best guess is Charles neglected to do that here."

"Is it too late to do something to save them?"

Tristan considered. "Perhaps," he decided. "But maybe not. Deep watering may cure the shallow roots even now. The vines are still young—it's worth an attempt." He scanned the landscape, focusing on a glistening ribbon in the distance. "We can pipe water from the River Caine."

Griffin shook his head. "The river is lower than this hill. Even I know that water runs down. Logistically—short of carting it by hand—there's no way to get it up here."

"Have faith, my friend." Tristan grinned. "You've summoned the right fellow."

"Come again?"

"I've just built a hydraulic pump to supply my new gasworks direct from the Thames. A water ram pump. You've heard of them, I presume?"

"Of course. We often talked of mechanical pumps while on campaign."

Already deep in thought, Tristan ignored the good-natured sarcasm. "We'll need a drop," he mused, embracing the challenge. "If there's no waterfall nearby—a few feet is all that's required—we'll have to situate the pump in a pit and pipe the river water down to it."

"And the pump will force the water back up?"

"An amazing distance—thirty feet or more in height. It's a brilliant design; wish I'd thought of it myself."

"Will the force be sufficient to propel the water this far overland?"

He gauged the span to the river. Half a mile or so, no more. "That won't be a problem. You'll want to water very heavily, an entire day so the flow penetrates the soil to a goodly depth. Then repeat when the ground begins to dry. A week between sessions," he decided, his brain racing as he formulated the plan. "We'll run a pipeline along the top of the slope with caps every few feet. You—or your people," he amended, watching Griffin's face, "will cap and uncap different sections every day, so by the end of the week the entire vineyard has been deeply watered. Then begin again where you started."

"For how long?"

"I'm not sure. A few months, if you're asking me to guess. You'll have to keep checking. When the taproots have reached three feet or so, you'll shut off the pump." Pleased with the plan, he nodded to himself. "I'll stay until it's all in place."

"That won't be necessary," Griffin rushed to assure him. "If you explain how to build the pump—"

"I don't believe I can. It looks like a simple enough design, but the parts must be adjusted perfectly. The first pump I built was a colossal headache. I've thought of a better design since then, so I believe this one will be easier, but for someone unfamiliar with the basic concept—"

"How long will it take to set this up?" Griffin didn't sound happy. "Run the pipeline? Build the pump?"

Tristan hesitated, knowing Griffin's real question was the one left unstated: How long will you be here torturing my sister?

Old friends or not, Griffin didn't really want him to stay.

But Tristan wanted to help—this was the sort of challenge that excited him. He wanted Griffin to have the satisfaction of making a success of his brother's failure. And he wanted to prove he was a good enough friend—a strong enough man—to avoid temptation where it wasn't appropriate.

"It depends," he answered slowly. "Have you a foundry nearby to cast the pump's parts from my drawings?"

"Yes."

"A cooperative foundry, willing to drop everything at your request to take on this project?"

"I'm the marquess," Griffin said dryly.

"There is that." Tristan had learned he had power as a marquess as well, regardless of his state of disgrace. "Will you hire a goodly sized crew to construct the pipeline?"

"Of course," Griffin snapped.

"A week, then. We can have this in place in a week."

"I suspect it will take longer, but even a week isn't insubstantial." Griffin measured him a moment. "You'd take a week out of your life to build a pump and run pipeline that will be used a scant few months? Knowing it may not even achieve the desired results?"

"You want to save your brother's grapevines or not?"

Griffin hesitated only a beat. "I want to save them."

"Then we'll do what needs to be done." Tristan knelt to reseat the vine and pat the soil into place around the roots. "I'll draw up the pump design today, then return here tomorrow to take measurements." He climbed back up on his black horse, holding the reins with muddy fingers. "And choose a spot to site the pump."

"Thank you," Griffin said.

Although he hadn't felt this needed—this wanted—in a long time, Tristan gave a casual shrug. "This is what friends are for."

CHAPTER NINE

"Lady St. Quentin," Alexandra said that afternoon in the drawing room, adding the name to their guest list in her careful, tutored script. "We cannot forget her."

"I'd like to forget her." Corinna stood and stretched and, leaving her easel, wandered over to where Alexandra sat at their mother's pretty rosewood writing desk. "She's a busybody."

Seated on one of the blue sofas, Juliana looked up from the menu she was creating. "Do you think we should serve beef or lamb?"

"Both." Corinna peered over Alexandra's shoulder. "Holy Hannah, how did this list get so long? I was unaware we even knew so many people."

"How many?" Juliana asked.

Alexandra pulled out a third sheet of vellum. "A hundred and thirty-eight, so far."

Juliana's eyes widened. "Griffin was away for seven years, and he's hardly had time to become reacquainted with anyone. Where did he come up with all these names?"

"Griffin has always been friendly," Corinna said in a tone that made the statement more like a complaint than a compliment. "Consider all the men he's managed to bring around to meet us already. My hand is hurting just thinking about writing all these invitations."

"Think about the new evening dress you're going to make him pay for instead," Juliana suggested.

Corinna grinned. "It's going to be yellow. With embroidery and seed pearls."

"I sent a note to the mantua-maker this morning," Alexandra said. "She should be here in a week."

"Excellent. I can scarcely wait for her to arrive." Corinna plopped onto a salmon velvet chair. "What shall we say on the invitations?"

"There's proper, accepted wording, I'm certain." Alexandra pointed her quill at her youngest sister. "You're the only one of us who's finished reading The Mirror of the Graces. What does A Lady of Distinction have to say?"

"Nothing. A Lady of Distinction is distinctly opinionless concerning invitations. She discusses dress and deportment only. We're supposed to choose the colors of our new evening apparel by candlelight, you know. For otherwise, she says, 'If in the morning, forgetful of the influence of different lights on these things, you purchase a robe of pale yellow, lilac, or rose color, you will be greatly disappointed when at night it is observed to you that your dress is either dingy, foxy, or black.'"

"Black!" Juliana rolled her eyes. "As though a gown of pale yellow might ever appear black."

"A Lady of Distinction is a twit," Corinna said.

"None of this is helping with the invitations." Alexandra frowned. "Mama always knew what to write."

"She had a book with proper examples of all correspondence," Corinna reminded her. "Remember that slim volume with the dark green cover?"

"Oh, yes!" Juliana exclaimed. "I think I saw it in the library last week."

"Will you fetch it, then, please?" Alexandra asked. "We'd best get busy writing if we're to give everyone proper notice."

"Proper," Corinna muttered as Juliana rose and left the room. She went back to her easel and dabbed a brush in blue paint. "Everything must be proper."

Less than two minutes later, Juliana returned. "I think you'd best fetch it yourself, Alexandra. It's up too high for me to reach."

Alexandra was busy adding yet another name to the list. "Use the ladder."

"The ladder is at the far end of the room." Juliana sat on the sofa and picked up her menu. "And it's dreadfully heavy."

"The ladder is on wheels." Corinna set aside her paintbrush. "Was there ever anyone more lazy? I shall fetch the book. Where in the library is it located?"

"Lower level, at the top of the third bank of shelves on the right. The middle bookcase." Juliana scratched something out on the menu. "But I think Alexandra should go. She's taller."

"Only by an inch."

"I think," Juliana repeated meaningfully, "that Alexandra should go."

"Ohhh," Corinna said. "Is it up that high, then? Alexandra, perhaps you should go."

"We could have written a dozen invitations by now." Alexandra pushed back from the desk. "Third bank of shelves on the right? I shall return directly."

With a long stride that A Lady of Distinction would surely disapprove of, she hurried through the picture gallery, past the music room and the billiard room. Her sisters, she thought as she entered the two-level library, wasted entirely too much time on petty disagreements.

She strode down the red-and-gold striped carpet, then stopped short. Precisely in front of the third bank of shelves on the right, at a round mosaic table, sat Tris.

She mentally revised her last thought: Her sisters wasted entirely too much time on conniving plots.

An inch taller, indeed.

Pencil in hand, Tris was engrossed and hadn't noticed her. While he erased a line and carefully sketched another, she watched. Even drawing a picture, he looked like a man of action. Lean, wide shouldered, his skin kissed by the sun. Like last night, a lock of hair flopped over his forehead.

Like last night, she wished she could push it back.

It was pointless, she reminded herself—any feeling for him was pointless. But she remembered the exquisite intimacy of his kiss. The wonderful warmth of his body. Her own body melting against that wonderful warmth.

He looked up, then bolted to his feet. "Lady Alexandra."

Lady. So they were back on formal terms. It was for the better, she decided, hoping he couldn't divine her earlier thoughts by the heat that had crept into her cheeks. "Sit, please. I didn't mean to bother you. I just came in to get a book."

He didn't sit. "May I help you?"

"It's right behind you." Walking over, she slid between him and the shelves. The books were covered by doors of brass mesh in mahogany frames. In order to open them, she had to step back. "Pardon me," she murmured, wishing he would move.

Then, when he did, wishing he hadn't.

"It's right here," she said, rising to her toes to reach the top shelf.

"Let me help you." The words were soft by her ear. He reached around her and up, his front grazing her back. He was as warm as she remembered, and his very male scent seemed to surround her. Her breath caught in her throat.

It took everything she had not to lean back against him.

"This green one?" he asked.

"Yes." The single syllable came out as a breathy sigh.

"Here you go," he said, sliding it free.

She twirled around, almost in his arms. Almost.

But if she expected to see her own lust mirrored in his eyes, she was doomed to disappointment. With a polite smile, he handed her the book. Then he returned to his chair and lifted his pencil.

Apparently, while her knees had been threatening to buckle, he'd only been getting her a book.

"Thank you," she said from behind him, feeling schoolgirlish and silly.

"You're quite welcome." He erased another line.

She clutched the book to her chest as though it could protect her from unwelcome emotions. "What are you drawing?"

"A water ram pump. I'll be giving these sketches to the foundry so they can cast the pieces. When I've built it, it will pump water from the river to Griffin's vineyard."

Peering over his shoulder, she saw two versions of the metal contraption: a view of the outside, and, below that, a cutaway view showing the inner workings. "That's very clever," she said.

He shrugged. "I've tampered with the design some, but it's not as though I invented it. A gentleman in France came up with the idea."

"Well, it's still clever of you to be able to draw it—and build it." She waited for a response, watching him shade a portion of the sketch. "I must get back to my sisters," she said when it became clear he was going to remain quiet. "I'll…I'll see you at dinner."

"Of course."

Of course. It was as simple as that. She sidled out from behind him and began walking away.

"Alexandra," he called softly.

No lady this time. She stopped and turned to find he'd risen again. "Yes?"

"I want to apologize for last night. I should have explained."

"I understand. And I know you tried. Your failure was as much my fault as yours—"

"Regardless, I had no right to kiss you. I beg you to accept my apology. It won't happen again."

Why did hearing that cause a heaviness in her chest? It was the only prudent choice. But that didn't stop her from wishing things were different. From wishing the rest of society had the faith in him that she did.

"I don't believe the rumors," she told him. "You don't have it in you to commit murder."

"I appreciate your confidence." His gaze remained steady, cool. He was very good at masking his feelings. Either that, or she'd only imagined those feelings last night.

She'd never considered herself a very imaginative sort of person.

He sat again, a silent dismissal. With an internal sigh, she turned to leave—and saw Griffin striding toward her .

He glanced at Tris, grabbed her by the arm, then marched her into the picture gallery, and, for good measure, through the door to the billiard room.

"I don't want to see you alone with him. Ever."

In her current state of thwarted passion, her brother's overprotectiveness was more than vexing. She wrenched her arm free. "I was only getting a book."

"Just keep clear of him, will you? With any luck, we'll complete this project in a week or so, and then he can leave."

"And in the meantime, am I supposed to avoid entire rooms in my own home?"

"If that's what it takes."

"You could trust me a little." In a huff, she leaned against the oak billiard table.

"Stand up straight," Griffin said. "You can throw the table off balance."

She snapped upright, her fragile emotions threatening to snap, too. Following her father's death, her foppish brother Charles had enjoyed lording it over his younger sisters. And now Griffin. "Stop telling me what to do."

"I'm only trying to protect you—one of my many responsibilities, in case you've forgotten. I'd appreciate your cooperation."

"We don't need you to watch over us. After Charles died, it took three months for you to arrive. We did just fine without you then, and we can do without you now."

Matching temper lit his eyes. "You want me gone? How convenient, since I'd just as soon not be here, either." With an angry twist of his wrist, he sent an ivory billiard ball across the green cloth that covered the table's wooden surface. "My friends just defeated Napoleon without me." The ball bounced off a cushion and hit another ball with a crack. "Perhaps I should rejoin them."

"As you said, you have responsibilities now. Beyond me, beyond Juliana and Corinna."

"I had responsibilities then, too," he said, referring to his years as an officer. Years when, she supposed, he'd become used to everyone following his orders.

But if he was hoping for an apology, he was hoping in vain. She'd had enough of other people deciding what was right for her. "Sadly, you cannot leave."

"You want me to leave?" He raised his gaze from the table and watched her, waited for her to answer.

"No," she said at last on a sigh. Suddenly, she felt beyond weary. All the fight drained out of her. The truth was, although Griffin might be less than an ideal guardian, she couldn't imagine her life without him. She'd missed him dreadfully the years he was gone. "I don't know what I want," she said.

He sighed, too. "I don't know what I want, either." In a complete change of mood, he stepped forward and chucked her under the chin. "Life hasn't treated us well the past few years, has it?"

"Perhaps not, but I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself." She gave him a shaky smile. "As concerns Lord Hawkridge, you've nothing to fear, I promise you. Your friend has become a proper gentleman overnight."

If part of her regretted that fact, a larger part knew it was for the best.

"I'm glad to hear it." Griffin smiled back, a relieved smile, then took himself from the room.

Alexandra sent another ball across the table with a force that outdid her brother's. It bounced off two cushions and rolled neatly into a pocket.

If only her life would roll into place that perfectly.

CHAPTER TEN

Two days later, Griffin woke on the wrong side of the bed. Or at least that was what Tristan surmised, given the man hadn't strung more than three words together during their ride out to the vineyard.

Leading their horses by the reins, they walked along the riverbank, discussing their final plans prior to setting them in motion. "We'll site the pump here," Tristan said, "belowground with a grating over the opening. Ten feet in depth. That will give us the drop we need to start the water flow through the mechanism." The day before, he'd staked off an area roughly six feet square. "Four straight walls. You'll want to line them with brick to prevent erosion, but that can wait."

Griffin nodded soberly. "I'll instruct my men to start digging the pit immediately. Is that your drawing of the pipeline?"

Tristan handed him the sketch. "It's a fairly straight shot from here to the top of the rise."

"And these dotted lines are where you've divided the vineyard into seven areas for irrigation?"

"Each serviced by a section of the pipe that runs along the ridge."

"Capping and uncapping each section as needed." Griffin traced a finger along the path. "The water will run straight down the slope. It should work."

Tristan swung up onto his gelding. "Of course it will work. We planned it perfectly," he quipped, hoping to goad his friend out of his bad temper.

Squinting up at him in the morning sun, Griffin didn't look convinced.

When he held out the drawing, Tristan leaned from the saddle to retrieve it. "We'll make it work," he added.

"We?" Griffin asked.

"Think of it as a learning experience." Tristan folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. "Race you back," he challenged, taking off before Griffin was mounted.

Long minutes later when their horses tired, they slowed to a walk. Their friendly competition had served to cut the time of their journey. Tristan had hoped the invigorating ride would also serve to boost his friend's brooding mood, but as they continued on in silence, it seemed instead that his low spirits might be contagious.

As the crenelated walls of the ancient castle came into view across the downs, Griffin's fists clenched on his reins. "Impressive, isn't it?" he said in a bitter tone that contradicted his words.

"Magnificent." Tristan slanted him a glance. "But you don't feel like it's yours, do you?"

"No," Griffin said flatly. "It was never meant to be."

"Hmm." Tristan debated whether to sympathize or knock some sense into the man. The latter was tempting. "Is that why you hesitate to learn how to manage it?"

"I'm learning," Griffin protested in an ill-tempered tone. They rode a while longer in silence before he added, "Very well, damn you, I've been hesitating."

The first step was acknowledging the truth, and God knew Tristan had climbed all the steps. Dragged himself up them, one at a time. "You haven't been home long. I expect I hesitated, too, when I first inherited Hawkridge."

"Four years, now. Tell me, do you feel like it's yours?"

"I do." He hadn't felt that way at first, but he'd made Hawkridge his, put his own brains and sweat into its improvement. "Cainewood will feel like yours, too, someday. You'll have a family here—"

"Whoa." Griffin held up a hand. "I need to find husbands for my sisters before I even think about myself."

"Why?"

"Why? A gentleman doesn't put himself first. Besides, I've no interest at present—"

"I meant, why are you set on marrying them off so quickly?"

Griffin shifted in his saddle, staring straight ahead. "At their ages, they're all but on the shelf already, never mind it's through no fault of their own."

Tristan just looked at Griffin until he turned to meet his gaze.

"Very well," Griffin finally admitted. "I want my old life back. And while I continue to be responsible for the three of them—"

"You'll never have it," Tristan interrupted.

"Have what?"

"Your old life back. Your sisters have nothing to do with it, and the sooner you accept that fact, the happier you'll be. If you would find a special lady—"

Griffin's laugh was so harsh it was nearly a bark. "The sort of woman I'd be interested in at present wouldn't go by lady. I'm too occupied figuring out how to run this hulk of a place to entertain any thoughts of settling down. I prefer the relationships I had in my military days: quick, passionate, and not expected to last."

"Good luck finding that here in Jolly Olde England," Tristan said with an amused snort. "Unless you're willing to pay for it, that is."

"It could well be worth the blunt," Griffin muttered.

Tristan shrugged. "There's a particular house in Windsor…"

"I say!" his friend exclaimed with sudden good humor. "So you haven't been a monk these four years past."

No, he hadn't. But then, neither had he and Griffin during their university years. The two of them had always known where to find the nearest brothel.

"You'll have to introduce me," Griffin added.

"As you wish," Tristan agreed, although, he suddenly realized, he hadn't made his way to Windsor in a good twelvemonth. Or maybe longer.

As their horses clip-clopped over the wooden drawbridge and into Cainewood's quadrangle, Griffin shot him a speculative glance, his sour mood apparently vanquished. "I shall look for a special lady for you instead. One who isn't my sister."

"No ladies." Since scandal had tarnished his name, Tristan hadn't courted any women at all. "I wouldn't ask my worst enemy to share my current life, let alone anyone special."

"Whatever happened to that girl you left behind in Oxford?"

"We were talking about your love life, not mine." When his friend remained closemouthed, Tristan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. "Doubtless she's married with several brats. She made it clear she had no interest in waiting while I gallivanted around the globe."

How nonchalantly he could say that now. At the time, he'd thought he'd never get over her. He'd sailed for Jamaica with a dull, empty ache where his heart should have been.

"And the woman you wrote of from Jamaica?"

"What is this, an inquisition?" They dismounted, Griffin once more expectantly silent. "She decided against leaving the islands for England," Tristan explained in an offhand manner.

The truth was, she'd agreed to marry him, then left him at the altar the day before he sailed.

The women he loved always left him.

After a while, he supposed, as a groom took his horse and he and Griffin crossed the lawn toward the door, a fellow grew accustomed to the pain. And if not, it didn't matter—because it wouldn't be happening again.

Hell would freeze over before he gave his heart to another woman.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"What's going on here?" Griffin asked a few days later, poking his head into the drawing room.

"We're choosing new evening dresses." Alexandra held up a swatch of fabric. "Would you care to help?"

"In the dark?" Entering, he blinked. "Why in blazes have you closed the draperies?" He strode toward one of the windows.

"No!" Juliana cried. "We must see the fabrics by candlelight."

"Whose bacon-brained idea was that?" Griffin turned to the mantua-maker.

Madame Rodale laid a plump hand on her ample bosom. "Not mine, my lord, I assure you," she said in her fake French accent.

"It was A Lady of Distinction's idea," Corinna informed him.

"A lady of what?"

"A Lady of Distinction. The author of The Mirror of the Graces."

"The book you bought for all of us," Juliana reminded him as she pawed through a box of lace. "To help us catch husbands. A Lady of Distinction says we must choose our dress fabrics by candlelight, because otherwise we might select a pale yellow in daylight that appears black by night."

"A pale yellow look black? Can the woman be serious? I cannot believe I bought a book written by a woman who's so obviously such a—"

Griffin broke off, apparently unable to come up with a word to describe her that was acceptable in mixed company.

"Twit?" Corinna suggested.

"A twit, yes. Perhaps you girls shouldn't read that book, after all."

"Oh, thank heavens," Alexandra breathed.

Juliana nodded. "That twittish Lady of Distinction also says we should never paint our faces, and we should wear only modest clothing at all times."

"Does she?" Griffin smiled. "Keep reading, then."

All three sisters groaned.

"What do you think of this yellow?" Corinna held a square of fabric to her cheek.

"Pretty, but bright," Alexandra said. "A Lady of Distinction favors pastels."

"It's called jonquille," the mantua-maker put in. "And it's très fashionable."

Corinna gave a happy sigh. "I shall have it, then."

"How can you even see it?" Griffin complained loudly.

"Griffin?" Tris barged into the drawing room. "We must leave soon, if I'm to—" Locking gazes with Alexandra, he cut off. "Pardon me," he said quickly and turned to leave, much to her relief.

Grabbing him by the upper arm, Griffin pulled him back into the room. "Do sit down. You, too, can help my sisters choose their new evening dresses."

"Choose dresses?" Tris echoed dubiously. But he sat, arranging his rangy form on a sofa.

Alexandra would have sighed if she wasn't afraid it would draw too much attention. In the past week, for her own comfort and to mollify her brother, she'd done her best to avoid Tris. Happily, that had proved a simple matter, since he'd been feverishly working to solve Griffin's problem.

Tris had taken to rising at dawn and breakfasting before Alexandra, an early riser herself, even ventured forth from her room. He spent most of his daylight hours in the temporary workshop Griffin had set up for him off the quadrangle between the laundry and the dairy, effectively hidden from where her family lived on the two upper floors. And when he wasn't in the workshop building the pump, he was visiting the foundry that was casting the parts, or out in the fields directing the construction of the pump's housing and pipeline. Alexandra rarely saw him except at dinner.

Though all of that made things a little easier, she was impatient for him to finish and return to Hawkridge. For now, she decided, she would simply ignore him.

At least he was focused on Griffin at the moment, rather than her. "Damn, it's dark in here," he said.

A twinkle in Griffin's eye was apparent even in the dimness. "Did you not know," he drawled, "that dress material is best selected by candlelight, lest something pale yellow in the daytime appear black by night?"

"Black?" Tris crossed his arms. "What sort of addlepated—"

"We can open the curtains now," Juliana interrupted. "We've all chosen our fabrics. Look at mine." While Griffin went to pull back the draperies, she held up a swatch of the palest pink. "It's called blush."

"It's lovely," Tris said. Although Alexandra was ignoring him, she couldn't help but notice he looked amused at the goings-on.

"And Alexandra," Corinna announced with a long pause for dramatic effect, "will be wearing amaranthus."

"Amaranthus?" If anything, Tris appeared even more entertained.

"A bright shade of purple with a pinkish tint." As a painter, Corinna was good at describing colors. "Show him, Alexandra."

Alexandra didn't want to show Tris anything. She wanted to smack her sister, but she supposed A Lady of Distinction wouldn't approve. Instead she reluctantly held forth a piece of the silk, which shimmered in the newly admitted sunlight.

"Hmm," Tris said.

Corinna grinned at her sister while addressing the room in general. "Can you believe it?"

"Believe what?" Griffin asked.

"That she would wear such a color. She always wears blue."

"Does she?"

"Her room is blue, the ribbons on her bonnets are blue, her shoes are blue—"

"Are they?" Griffin asked, looking perplexed. He stared at Alexandra's blue shoes where they peeked out from beneath her blue skirts. "I hadn't noticed."

"Oh, he's such a man," Juliana said to no one in particular.

Corinna shrugged. "Madame Rodale showed Alexandra a stunning swatch of bishop's blue—"

"I'm weary of wearing blue," Alexandra interrupted. "I wish to wear a different color. Many different colors," she amended. "A new color every day."

The old Alexandra would have opted for blue, but then the old Alexandra would have spent weeks or months languishing after Tris as well. And she was quite over him.

She just wished he'd go home.

"You all made lovely choices," Tris said. "But, Griffin, we really must be off."

"Tristan has finished the pump," Griffin explained. "We spent the morning overseeing its installation. A perfect installation, I might add."

"We hope." Tris didn't look quite as confident as her brother. "Now that it's been running a few hours, I'd like to inspect it once again before I leave."

"You're leaving?" The words tumbled out of Alexandra's mouth before she had a chance to think.

"This afternoon, assuming everything continues well."

"Oh," she said. He was leaving. Her wish was coming true.

So why did she feel as though all the air had quite suddenly been sucked right out of her?

Juliana slanted her a glance. "The pump must be very impressive," she said to Tris. "May we all come along and see it?"

His gaze slid to Alexandra and back before he answered. "There's really not much to see."

"We could bring a picnic!" Corinna gestured outside the bright windows. "It's a beautiful day."

"Yes, please." Juliana turned to Griffin. "We haven't picnicked in months. As a matter of fact"—she paused for effect—"we haven't done anything at all as a family in months."

Juliana sounded so sincere, Alexandra wondered if perhaps she truly did want to picnic, as opposed to using the request as a ploy to get her and Tris together for an afternoon.

But on second thought, both her sisters looked entirely too animated and expectant. It was definitely a ploy.

A ploy their brother was falling for.

"Perhaps we could picnic," he said, looking to Tris.

Tris raked a hand through his hair, messing it up as usual. "I was planning a quick ride out, a quick look, and a quick ride back." A picnic would mean a carriage, considering they'd have to bring baskets and blankets and other assorted paraphernalia. None of which brought to mind the word quick. "I was hoping to get home before dinner."

"You could have dinner back here before you leave." The look Griffin shot his friend was a mixture of pleading and apologetic. "The days are long this time of year, so you'll still have sunlight should you ride home later." When Tris shrugged, Griffin turned to Alexandra. "What do you think?"

Her poor, misguided brother was just trying to make his sisters happy. Which meant there was no way she could get out of this without looking like a cantankerous crab, even though agreeing would mean hours shut up in a carriage with Tris.

Well, at least they wouldn't be alone, she told herself, forcing a smile to curve her lips. "Why, I think it sounds delightful."

"Mesdemoiselles." Madame Rodale cleared her throat and held up a large scrapbook filled with fashion plates. "You have yet to select your designs."

Griffin strode over and took the book from her hands. "They can choose during the drive. You won't mind, will you?" He smiled, turning on the charm. "If you'll but wait a few hours, I promise I'll make it worth your while."

Madame, who was old enough to be his mother, blushed to the roots of her graying hair. "Very well," she murmured, forgetting her fake French accent.

Griffin's charm could be lethal. No wonder he had so many friends.

"It's all settled, then." He turned his smile on the rest of them. "Girls, you have half an hour to wheedle a picnic lunch out of François and change your clothes should your feminine sensibilities require that. What does one wear to a picnic? A carriage dress? A walking dress?"

"A garden dress," Alexandra informed him, forgiving him his masculine ignorance.

When he was nice like this, she wanted to kick herself for telling him he should leave.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"That was delicious." In the shade of a large elm atop a rise overlooking the grapevine-covered slope, Tristan leaned back on his elbows, stretching his legs out on the red blanket Griffin's sisters had packed along with the picnic lunch. He glanced into the empty basket and feigned good-natured surprise. "What, no famous Chase sweets to complete the meal?"

Sitting across from him, Corinna finished her last bite of cheese. "Griffin didn't give us enough time."

"Don't go blaming me," Griffin protested. "As though you, of all people, would volunteer to spend hours in the kitchen."

"My talents don't lie there." She put her dainty nose into the air. "A Lady of Distinction said that whatever is worthwhile to do, is worthwhile to do well."

"She was talking about dancing," Juliana said with a roll of her eyes. She looked to Tristan. "May we see the pump now, please?"

"Certainly, at least what little there is to see of it." He rose to his feet and stretched, gazing down to where Alexandra had her own dainty nose buried in Madame Rodale's book of fashion plates.

She'd barely looked up to eat; in fact, she hadn't looked up at all during the long drive out here in the carriage. She'd positioned herself safely between her sisters and kept her eyes on the scrapbook, discussing each engraving in such detail it had made him want to scream.

While it was true he'd done his best to avoid finding himself alone with her, there was no reason for them to ignore each other in company. Once, years ago, he'd considered Alexandra a friend, one of few girls he could relate to as a person as well as a female. Perhaps she hadn't seen it that way—she seemed to think he hadn't noticed her when they were young. But he'd always watched her, and listened, and responded—in a completely appropriate, respectful way, of course. And he'd thought of her as a friend.

Though they'd never be together in the way his body craved, he wanted that friend back.

He leaned down and shut the book. "Are you coming along?"

She looked up, startled.

"We're leaving to see the pump," he elaborated, his face still close to hers.

"Oh." Her pupils grew large and dark in her brandy-brown eyes. Clearly flustered, she glanced around him as if noticing for the first time that everyone else was standing. Her sisters were donning their hats. "Oh, yes. Of course I'm coming along."

"Excellent," he said, straightening and offering a hand to help her up.

She hesitated before putting hers into it, and when she did, he thought he felt a tremble run through her. He knew for a fact that something disturbing hit him—right in the gut. Thankfully, the contact was brief.

It was a good thing he was leaving tonight.

The walk from the vineyard to the river was pleasant in the sunshine. Alexandra hurried ahead to join her sisters. From Tristan's vantage point behind them, the three women were a study in contrasts. By far the shortest, Juliana walked in the middle, flanked by her taller siblings. Juliana's straight, dark blond hair was swept up in a flawless style, Corinna's mahogany waves draped elegantly down her back, and Alexandra's springy dark curls seemed determined to escape their pins.

They gracefully made their way across the downs in high-waisted frocks, Juliana and Corinna in white and Alexandra in pale blue. From the fragments of chatter that drifted back, he surmised they were discussing their evening gown selections yet again. Although she'd always dressed and groomed herself beautifully, he'd never known Alexandra to be so obsessed with clothing.

In fact, he was certain she wasn't. A competent female like Alexandra had more important things to occupy her mind.

"The men have nearly finished testing all the stations that will water the different areas," Griffin said, tearing Tristan's attention from the renegade curls on the back of Alexandra's neck. "Everything seems to be working perfectly."

"You're not surprised, are you?"

"That it would work? No. You always did a thorough job of it, even back in our schooldays. But I am surprised it came together so quickly. I didn't believe you when you said you could do it in a week. I owe you my apologies—and my thanks."

"You had a cooperative foundry."

"Regardless, I appreciate your attention to the matter. And your…shall we say lack of attention to my sister."

Tristan's gaze went to Alexandra's slender form. Her laughter floated to him. "I made a promise," he said.

A promise to keep his hands off. But he hadn't promised to abandon their friendship, and he was determined to renew it.

By the banks of the River Caine, all five of them gathered around the square pit Griffin's men had dug, gazing down through the grille at the noisy gray metal pump. Rhythmic hissing sounds shimmied up through the air.

"I told you there's not much to see," Tristan said. "The workings are all hidden inside. I hope you're not too disappointed."

"It's very impressive," Juliana disagreed tactfully. "How does it work?"

"That pipe there runs from the river down to the pump." Everyone stepped back while he opened the hinged grating. "It provides the water, and the downward motion of that water flowing into the pump creates the energy that the pump uses to send it back up." He descended a ladder into the pit and stood there looking up at the rest of them. "This slender valve took me longest to adjust," he said, indicating a shank that moved up and down with rapid precision. "It pulsates fifty to seventy times per minute—roughly once per second. Each of those pulsations provides half a pint of water."
With each pulsation, a bit of water squirted out. "It's losing water," Corinna said.

"Not much, and that's part of the design, not a leak. The vast majority of the water is sent into the main chamber here." He laid a possessive hand on the vibrating machine. "Inside, there's a flap to keep the water that goes up from coming back down, and air in the top forces it through the outlet and into the pipe that runs uphill to the vineyard."

Although Tris kept talking, Alexandra wasn't really listening anymore. She was thinking about how the pump looked exactly like the pictures he'd drawn in the library. He'd created this, and it worked to get a job done even when no one was there watching it.

Awed, she gazed down at him in the pit and thought about how he was so very intelligent. Intelligent and handsome and hardworking. And honorable, too—never mind that he'd kissed her.

She wanted him to kiss her again.

It was a good thing he was leaving tonight.

"Your lordship?" When a gravelly voice interrupted her thoughts, she looked up to see a man addressing her brother.

"Yes?" Griffin replied.

"The caps on one of the stations aren't working properly."

Griffin looked inquiringly at Tris.

"Go on," Tris said, climbing back up the ladder. "I won't be here to solve any problems tomorrow."

Griffin nodded. "I'll meet you all back at the blanket."

Alexandra watched her brother head for the vineyard with the man. "Griffin can handle it," she said when their voices had faded away.

"I have no doubt." Tris hopped out of the pit and turned to lower the grille. "Your brother is a very competent man. He led troops all over the Peninsula."

"Sometimes I forget that," Juliana said as they started back at a leisurely pace. "Sometimes he makes me furious."

"Sometimes you make him furious, too, I'd wager." Tris softened that with a smile. "Did you ladies finally choose your dress designs?"

"Oh, yes." Corinna gave a little skip. "Mine will be covered with embroidery and pearls."

Juliana hugged herself. "Mine will be off the shoulder, with puffed sleeves and silk flowers tacked along the hem."

"And yours?" he asked Alexandra.

"Oh, it will be very pretty."

She didn't feel like discussing her dress. A dress Tris would never see.

Other men would see it. Wearing it, she would smile and flirt and dance, and one of the other men would end up her husband. She knew she should be excited about that, but at the moment she could hardly think straight with Tris walking beside her.

It was a good thing he was leaving tonight.

Juliana met her gaze, her eyes sympathetic. Alexandra looked away. To the north across the hedgerows, fields were planted, but the rolling land beneath their feet was covered only by untamed grass. The air smelled fresh. A kestrel hovered overhead in search of prey.

"Will there be a famous Chase sweet to finish my last dinner?" Tris asked.

"Perhaps." Corinna looked to be considering.

"Strawberry tarts." Suddenly enthusiastic, Juliana turned to him. "Do you fancy strawberry tarts?"

"Very much so—"

"François rarely keeps strawberries in the larder," Alexandra pointed out.

"No matter," Juliana said cheerfully. "There's a patch of them over there."

Corinna looked to where she indicated. "Wild strawberries!" Perhaps she had little talent for making sweets, but she certainly enjoyed eating them. "And this late in June, they ought to be perfectly ripe." She sighed, looking down at her white garden dress. "A pity we have nothing to put them in." Their skirts would surely stain should they use them to carry fresh fruit.

"We have the empty picnic basket." Juliana grabbed Corinna's hand. "Let's hurry and fetch it."

Disconcerted, Alexandra watched her sisters run ahead. "That's not very ladylike," she muttered to Tris. "A Lady of Distinction wouldn't approve."

"Is that why you're not going with them?"

"No. I'm…I cannot pick strawberries. They make me itch."

"Even if you just touch them?"

She nodded. "If I eat them, my tongue swells and my throat starts feeling tight."

And Juliana had known that, of course. Juliana had taken advantage of that to leave her alone with Tris. Juliana, who always knew what was best for everyone—one had only to ask her to be informed of that—had been trying to maneuver the two of them together all week.

Tris reached to touch her arm on the bare skin below where her blue puffed sleeve ended. When she jumped, he dropped his hand. "I'm glad you cannot pick strawberries."

Her arm tingling, she stopped walking and turned to him. "You're glad they make me itch?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

The little hairs on her arm were standing on end. "Talk to me about what?"

"Although we cannot ever be together as we might wish—" He cut himself off when she opened her mouth to interrupt, raising two fingers to briefly touch her lips. "There's no sense in denying what we both know."

Now her lips tingled, too. "There's no sense in discussing it, either."

"But that doesn't mean we cannot talk at all, about anything. I always considered you a friend, Alexandra. I don't want to lose that, too."

Tristan watched her fight with herself, watched her swallow hard, watched her eyes go from glassy to clear as she came to a decision. "I'll be your friend," she said at last. "Always."

He took her hand and squeezed it. "I'm so glad to hear that."

He expected her to pull her hand away. Instead she squeezed his back, so hard he wondered if her slim fingers might break. Then she didn't let go as they continued walking back to the abandoned picnic site.

They strolled silently for a while, simply holding hands. Such a small, innocent connection. But although he'd shared his whole body with many a willing female, he was more aware of Alexandra's hand in his than he remembered being aware of any physical sensation, ever. And he knew it was the same for her.

"Tris?" she finally said.

"Hmm?"

"Do you believe there's only one perfect person for each of us in this world?"

He smiled to himself. This was the sort of philosophical question she used to bring up when they were younger. "Perhaps some of us have no perfect person."

"Be serious," she said.

He had been, but obviously she didn't want to hear that. "No. My father believed there was only one for him, though. I don't think I ever quite forgave him for that."

"What do you mean?"

"He wasn't always a drinker and a gambler," he said, wondering vaguely why he was telling her this, "although I barely remember him as anything else. But my uncle assured me he'd once been a kinder man, and responsible."

"What happened?"

"When I was seven, my mother left us."

Her eyes widened. "She didn't die? She just left?"

"Yes, she just left. Went to America—"

"With another man?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I expect there's more to the story than anyone bothered telling a lad of seven." Over the years, he'd never asked. Perhaps he'd feared the truth. And when his father and uncle died, the facts had died along with them. "One day my mother was gone, and Father said she had gone to America. She took my sister with her. Susan."

"Tell me about her," she said softly.

She must have heard the wistfulness in his voice—an unintended wistfulness that had taken him by surprise. After all these years, he'd figured he was past feeling pain from old memories.

He took comfort from her fingers laced with his. "Susan was four years older, and my half sister, really—from my mother's previous marriage. The odd thing is, though I missed Mother something fierce, missing Susan hurt even more."

"Sweet heaven." She squeezed his hand. "You must have loved her very much."

"With all my heart. Worshipped her, to tell you the truth," he admitted sheepishly. "She was more a mother to me than my own mother, and I couldn't understand why she would leave me. Now I realize she probably wasn't given a choice."

"Have you ever tried to find her?"

"They both died. Of smallpox. We received a letter a year later. That was when my father became blue deviled and never recovered. It reached the point where he eventually squandered all of his inheritance, endangering the viability of his estate and the people who depended upon it. Who depended upon him."

"You were one of those people."

"I wasn't talking about myself, but yes, I suppose I was." He didn't like to think of himself as a victim. There was nothing to be gained by placing blame; it was better to get on with life. "You see—to get back to your original question—my father loved my mother, and I collect that until he saw that letter, he hadn't given up hoping she might return. But once he learned of her death, he was so convinced love would never happen for him again that he never bothered trying to find it."

"Did you want another mother?"

The sympathy in her tone all but killed him. "Desperately, when I was young—all the other boys had one, after all. But perhaps it's just as well that my wish never came true," he added to make her laugh. "With my luck, she would have turned out to be a mean stepmother like Cinderella's." When she did laugh, his heart warmed. "Do you believe there's only one perfect person for each of us?"

"No," she said in a way that made it clear she'd thought on the subject before. "I've seen many of my family's acquaintances lose spouses and find someone new. Ofttimes they seem happier."

"Maybe the first person wasn't the right one and the second one was."

"Perhaps, in some cases. But I still don't think there's only one in the world for each of us. What would be the odds of finding him or her? God wouldn't make it that difficult for us to be happy."

He knew she was thinking about finding someone besides him. The stab of hurt he felt at that was unexpected—and entirely inappropriate. He hoped she'd find her one true love, or two or three should she think that possible. With all the grief she'd suffered in the past few years, she still saw happiness in her future. Bless her for that.

Life had taught him to be more cynical.

As they came in view of the vineyard where her brother knelt by the pipeline in the distance, she slid her fingers from his and gave him a soft, apologetic smile.

He was very glad they were friends again.

But it was a good thing he was leaving tonight.

Griffin made dinner that night into a celebration, toasting Tris and their success with champagne. Conversation flowed along with the bubbly wine. Her tongue loosened by spirits and Tris's offer of friendship, Alexandra was very much a part of it.

But while she watched everyone else eat Juliana's strawberry tarts, a melancholy mood began settling in. When Tris's horse was saddled and waiting, she defied her brother's wishes and walked Tris downstairs.

The stone entrance hall felt cold this evening; the carved beasts that topped the newel posts looked fierce and forbidding. Although it was still light out, the sun had shifted, throwing shadows through the open oak doors.

They both paused on the threshold. "I don't know when next I'll see you," she said.

"I wouldn't count on it being soon. I don't go about in society."

"You could visit again. You and Griffin are still friends."

Tris's gaze flicked to that friend, who stood on the staircase watching them like a hawk, his fingers gripping the gray marble handrail. "I won't be visiting for a while, I expect."

"Not until I'm married," she said to the floor.

In spite of Griffin's vigilance, Tris reached out and lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to his. "I wish you a happy life, Lady Alexandra."

Captured in his intense gray gaze, she remembered him saying the same words years ago.

And as then, she had no reply.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The next month passed in a whirl of preparations for the ball. Though Alexandra had spent the first few days in a forlorn blur, she'd long since recovered from that. She wasn't the sort of woman to mope around. After all, a mere four days from now, the great hall would be filled with the most eligible men in all of England. Surely one of them would sweep her off her feet and make her forget Tris.

In fact, due to her own determination, she'd half forgotten him already. She was hardly thinking about him at all as she slogged through the household bills and prepared them for sending to Griffin's solicitor.

"Mrs. Webster is overpaying for meat again," she muttered, referring to their housekeeper.

Corinna mixed two colors of paint on her palette. "Griffin can afford it."

"That's not the point." Pushing back from her mother's rosewood desk, Alexandra wandered pensively to one of the drawing room's windows. Outside, the morning was gray and dreary. Her reflection in the glass looked rather dreary, too. "I shall have to have a talk with her and set her straight."

Juliana looked up from her copy of La Belle Assemblée. "You should be paying attention to other matters now, Alexandra."

"Everything for the ball is in place."

"I meant personal matters."

She turned from the window. "Like what?"

"You'll want to present yourself—"

"Your skin, yes. A Lady of Distinction says a flawless complexion is key." Adding a dab of white to the hue she was creating, Corinna nodded toward Juliana's magazine. "I read in there that if you hang a sprig of tansy at the head of your bed, a few inches above the pillow, you won't be bitten by any bugs as you sleep."

"Not her skin. Her skin is beautiful." Juliana shook her head. "Her deportment. She needs to practice enticing men."

"Practice?" Alexandra scoffed. "I've never had trouble enticing men—I simply haven't been afforded the chance." She certainly hadn't had any trouble enticing Tris into that kiss. But since Juliana seemed to draw men like moths to a flame, she couldn't help but be intrigued. "What sort of practice?"

"For example, smiling in the mirror. You should have many smiles, you know, for many different occasions. And if you wish to make men fall at your feet, you need to practice the look."

"The look?" Alexandra and Corinna asked together.

"The look." Setting down her magazine, Juliana rose and faced them. "First you locate the man you wish to entice. Then you command his gaze."

Her sensual, blatant stare had both her sisters swallowing hard. "And then?" Alexandra prompted.

"Look down, bowing your head slightly to display your lashes against your cheeks—lashes you will have darkened, no matter what that twit lady says—and then sweep your eyelids up, gaze at the man full on again, and curve your lips in a slowly emerging smile."

When she demonstrated, both her sisters sighed.

"Where did you learn that?" Corinna asked.

"I was born knowing it." Juliana plopped back on the sofa and picked up the magazine, idly flipping pages. "But I have no doubt you can master it with enough practice."

Corinna stared hard at Alexandra, shut her lids, opened them again, and grinned.

"Not like that!" Alexandra rolled her eyes. "She's right—you need practice."

Likely they both needed practice. There were no mirrors in the drawing room, so while Corinna gave up and frowned critically at her unfinished painting, Alexandra turned back to the window to use her reflection there.

Command his gaze, look down, then sweep your eyelids up—

She blinked at the scene beyond the glass. Astride a black horse, a man was galloping toward the castle. A man she'd have recognized at any distance.

Juliana heard her soft gasp. "What is it?"

"He's here again." As he rode around the side of the castle out of view, Alexandra turned from the window. "Tris has returned."

"Did you bring the pump?"

Tristan smiled. "Good morning to you, too."

"I'm sorry." Griffin had the good grace to look chagrined. "I'm a mite distracted these days." He ushered Tristan inside, letting Boniface shut the door behind them. "I appreciate your response," he said, then waited a beat before repeating, "So, did you bring the pump?"

"I haven't started building it yet," Tristan said, following his friend up the staircase.

Griffin glanced openmouthed over his shoulder. "I sent the note to you a full week ago."

"As I wasn't at Hawkridge, I received it only yesterday. I do have other properties." As they approached the first floor, something drew Tristan's gaze over the gray marble handrail.

Alexandra, watching from the picture gallery.

Suddenly he remembered why he hadn't wanted to return.

In the month since he'd last seen her, she had come to him in his dreams, and there he'd touched her as he hadn't in life. He'd danced with her, their bodies pressed close. He'd released the pins from that mass of curls to comb her hair with his fingers. He'd tasted her skin and breathed in her scent and explored her sweet curves with his hands. Her laughter had lifted his heart, and her smiles had soothed him, and when she'd grown serious, as she was sometimes wont to do, she'd seemed to understand him as no woman ever had.

And here, in the flesh, she was even more appealing than that woman who haunted his dreams.

And every bit as unattainable, he reminded himself fiercely.

Her sisters were with her. "Good morning, ladies," he called from the landing.

"Good morning," they replied in chorus, looking shocked to see him.

Griffin wasn't allowing time for pleasantries. "Come on up to the study."

Demonstrating a deplorable lack of resolve, Tristan's gaze lingered on Alexandra before he resumed his climb. "Didn't you tell them I was expected?"

"I hadn't the foggiest idea when you'd arrive," Griffin hedged. "Particularly when I failed to hear from you. I figured it would take you at least a week to build the pump—"

"Quite a bit longer to do it from home. The foundry here has the molds from my newest design." In the study, Tristan claimed his favorite chair. "Were your sisters unaware you contacted me?" he pressed.

"The ball is only four days from now," Griffin said in an apparent non sequitur.

But Tristan understood. "Ah," he murmured. Obviously Griffin was hoping that, in only four days, Alexandra would be betrothed and therefore safe.

Safe from him.

Well, she was safe from him already. He'd spent a month apart from her and had survived just fine. Perhaps he'd dreamed of her sometimes, but his life was tranquil and productive, and he had no intention of upsetting hers by trying to be anything more than a friend.

He accepted the glass of brandy Griffin offered. "I'm not here to seduce your sister."

Griffin busied himself pouring another glass. "No. You're here, once again, to help me solve a problem." He sat and met Tristan's gaze. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Tristan took a sip. "Why do you need a second pump? Your note was more than vague as to your requirements. Ram water pumps are known to be very reliable, but if the first one malfunctioned, most likely I can repair it. And instruct you—or one of your men—so you can fix it yourself next time. I should have demonstrated the workings before I assembled it. I won't make that error again."

"The first pump is working fine. Read this." Griffin rose momentarily to swipe a letter off his desktop. "It's from my cousin upriver."

Tristan set down his glass and took the paper. Judging from the careful, fancy script, Griffin's cousin was decidedly female. Dear Lord Cainewood, Tristan read silently,

I write on behalf of my brother, Lord Greystone, who finds himself in London and unable to communicate. In his absence, his estate manager approached me concerning flooding in our southernmost fields. Upon investigating the matter, I have discovered this is a result of water runoff from your property, apparently due to an irrigation program you have initiated. I must insist that this irrigation cease, as the resulting marshland is detrimental to our crops.

My thanks for your immediate attention to this matter.

Yours Sincerely,

Lady Rachael Chase

Tristan remembered Griffin's cousin Rachael; she was a quite distant cousin, if he recalled correctly, her family several generations removed from where their line intersected with Griffin's. But as they shared the same surname and lived close by, Rachael and her younger sisters had been great friends with Griffin's sisters and spent many a day here at Cainewood.

"So formal," he murmured. "Couldn't she come to you directly?"

"I haven't seen her in seven years."

Tristan looked up in surprise. "Have you not paid calls since returning from the Peninsula?"

"The Greystone Chases were in London for the season; they've returned only recently." Griffin rubbed the back of his neck. "Upon receiving Rachael's letter last week, I rode out to assess the problem. Her conclusion was not in error. The way the land is contoured, all the runoff from my vineyard is creating a stream that drains onto Greystone's estate. Twenty-four hours a day, I'm essentially pumping water onto his land. The only solution I could see—short of ceasing the irrigation—is to direct all that water into another pipeline and pump it back to the River Caine."

"It's downhill. You should be able to dig a simple canal to direct it back to the river."

"Unfortunately, from where it's collecting, the only way to avoid running it through Greystone property is to direct it uphill before it can go down. Hence the need for the second pump."

"Sounds as though you've investigated this fairly thoroughly. But before I invest time in building another pump, I'd like to ride over and inspect it myself."

"Naturally. How quickly do you think you can build the pump and have it delivered?"

"Are you suggesting I build it at home? That could easily take a month." Perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration, but though Tristan realized Griffin wanted him gone well before the ball, building the pump at Hawkridge wasn't the best solution. "The foundry there is deucedly slow compared to yours, plus they would have to start from scratch to cast my newer design. As I said earlier, the foundry here has the latest molds. Assuming they haven't destroyed them, that is—we shall have to check on that."

"How long if they saved them?"

"Depends more on their schedule than mine. But given the correct parts, I can build and adjust the thing in a day, two at the outside. I know this design inside out now. How fast can your men construct another pipeline?"

"Depends on how much I pay them," Griffin said with a pragmatic smirk. "If you think the pump can be ready and installed by Thursday, I will see that the pipeline is finished then as well."

"The ball is Friday?" At Griffin's nod, Tristan stood and began to leave. "Sounds like there's no time to waste. Let's go look at the site and have a word with the foundry," he said, opening the study's door.

Three startled faces were on the other side. The sight of one of them—Alexandra's, to be precise—robbed his breath like a punch to the gut.

Not a proper reaction to a friend.

Griffin snorted at his sisters. "You can hear better if you put an empty glass to the door."

"We weren't listening," Corinna protested in entirely too innocent a tone. "We were just…on our way to change our dresses."

"Yes," Juliana said. "We're wearing morning dresses, and we need our walking dresses now."

Tristan couldn't help but notice Alexandra wasn't saying anything. With her mouth, at least. Her eyes, focused on him, spoke volumes. Clearly she found his unexpected visit unsettling.

Hell, so did he.

"Where are you planning to walk?" Griffin asked.

"To the village," Corinna said.

"We baked lemon cakes earlier this morning," Juliana added, "planning to make some calls."

"Go on, then." Griffin waved a hand. "As I expect you heard, Tristan and I are likely to be gone for the next few hours."

Tristan watched Alexandra accompany her sisters through the high gallery, her skirts swaying gracefully to match her gait. When she disappeared into the corridor that led to their bedrooms, he released a silent sigh.

Or maybe it hadn't been silent. "What?" Griffin asked, looking at him sharply.

"Nothing." He shouldn't have come back here. "What the devil is the difference between a morning dress and a walking dress?"

"Damned if I know." Griffin started down the stairs. "You think I understand anything to do with women?"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SMALL LEMON CAKES

Take half a pint of milk and heat to boiling then pour over a like amount of bread crumbs and leave until heat has abated. Melt 8 spoons of butter and to this add grated rind of lemons, a fair measure of sugar and three eggs well beaten. Mix all together and pour into buttered cake-cups and bake until browned.

Medicine for the heart. These cakes will brighten the most melancholy of days.
—Belinda, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1811

Tristan's assessment of the drainage problem had proved in concert with Griffin's, and they were both relieved to find the foundry had saved the molds. If all went to plan, the pump would be installed by Thursday, and Tristan would be well gone before the first guests arrived for Friday evening's ball.

Riding home beneath gray skies, they congratulated each other. For once, everything seemed to be going right.

But no sooner had they passed under the barbican than Cainewood's big double doors opened and Boniface stepped out. He hurried down the steps and toward them across the quadrangle. "You've a caller, my lord. Lady Rachael Chase."

Griffin swung down from his mount. "She must have come to see my sisters. Have they not returned yet?"

"No, my lord, they've not. But she asked to see you. Something about an unanswered letter?" The stern frown didn't sit quite right on the butler's pretty face. "She's been waiting for well over an hour."

As Boniface returned to his post, Griffin swore under his breath. Tristan dismounted and followed him toward the doors. "You must have received Lady Rachael's letter a week ago or more. Did you never reply?"

"I wanted to make certain my solution would work before I explained it."

Tristan had to take the steps two at a time in order to keep up. "So you simply ignored her?"

"Her brother, the owner of the affected land, is currently away in Lon—" Griffin stopped short as they stepped inside. "Good afternoon, my lady."

"Lord Cainewood?" Perched on one of the entrance hall's heavy walnut chairs, Lady Rachael rose slowly to her feet, gazing slack-jawed at Griffin, as though he looked quite different from what she'd expected.

Or much better.

Tristan supposed his friend had filled out and gained a few inches in height over the last decade. Not to mention honed some muscles in the military. But then, Lady Rachael didn't look much like Tristan remembered her, either. Although she wasn't his type—he preferred a subtler sort of beauty—he did have eyes in his head, and he could see that she had grown into a stunning example of the fair sex.

At last she closed her mouth, then opened it again. "I trust you received my letter?"

"I did, indeed." Griffin blinked at her, looking rather entranced himself. "Did Boniface not fetch you refreshment?" he asked, neatly sidestepping the topic at hand. He released an elaborate sigh, as though his servant's lack of hospitality far outweighed his own neglect. "It's so difficult to get good help these days. Don't you agree, Tristan?"

"Mr. Nesbitt," Lady Rachael acknowledged graciously while still staring at Griffin. In fact, it looked as though the two had locked gazes permanently. She licked her lips. "It's a pleasure to see you again after all these years."

Amused, Tristan executed a small bow. "The pleasure is mine, my lady."

"Mr. Nesbitt is Lord Hawkridge now," Griffin informed her. "The Marquess of Hawkridge."

"Of course." She finally turned to Tristan, her expression an odd mixture of apology and curiosity. "I'd forgotten about that."

Tristan would just as soon she hadn't remembered, since he was certain it was the scandal she was recalling. He wished she'd go back to staring at Griffin. "It's a long story—" he began.

"My sisters will explain everything, Lady Rachael," Griffin interrupted. "You came to visit them, didn't you?"

"I came to see you, as your butler has informed you." Recovering her composure, she lifted her reticule off one of the ornate iron treasure chests. "Shall we discuss this somewhere private?"

"Very well," Griffin said and guided her up the staircase, his feet obviously dragging.

Tristan had some trouble dredging up sympathy, given his friend had brought this on himself. Besides, he figured there were worse things than having to answer to a gorgeous woman like Lady Rachael. "I shall arrange for refreshment to be brought to you in the study," he called after them lightly. And with that, he took himself off, leaving his friend to the mercy of his lovely cousin.

There were no servants hovering about, so Tristan made his way toward the side door that led to the household offices and kitchen, hoping to find Boniface, or perhaps the housekeeper or cook. Then, hearing footsteps and feminine voices drifting from the quadrangle, he turned back.

Boniface reappeared from nowhere and opened the door to admit Alexandra, Juliana, and Corinna. "Welcome home, my ladies."

"Good afternoon, Boniface," they chimed in chorus, belying the gray day in cheerful straw bonnets and pale pastel dresses. Walking dresses, Tristan presumed, though for the life of him he couldn't figure what made them such. They were high-waisted and slim-skirted, like all the other dresses he'd seen them wear this summer.

"Lord Hawkridge," Juliana said in surprise. "Have you and Griffin returned already?"

"No, you're seeing a mirage," Corinna quipped.

Juliana laughed. Alexandra didn't.

"What have you there?" Tristan asked, indicating the baskets they all carried.

"Lemon cakes," Juliana said. "Or what's left of them."

"We've just come from the village," Corinna elaborated. "We were visiting with the ill and infirm."

"All of the tenants and villagers look forward to our sweets," Juliana added. "Would you care for one?" Her gaze flicked from him to Alexandra and back as she reached into her basket and handed him a cake. "They're reputed to cure melancholy."

Did he look that distressed? "How kind of you, then, to bring some to the ill." He bit into the lemony confection and smiled, wishing Alexandra would say something. "I was just on my way to procure some refreshment for your cousin, Lady Rachael. Perhaps she'd enjoy some of these."

"Rachael is here?" Corinna squealed. "Where is she? Did Claire and Elizabeth come along as well?"

"I don't believe she brought her sisters with her. She's with Griffin, in his—"

"Griffin?" She frowned. "Whatever does she want with him?"

"Oh, it has to do with some flooding on her land. I think." He laughed, remembering the way they'd interacted. "Has Lady Rachael previously shown an interest in your brother? Or he in her?"

"What sort of interest?" Juliana looked intrigued. "She was little more than a child when he left for Spain."

"She's not a child now."

"Of course she isn't." Juliana handed Alexandra her basket. "Take this, will you? We'll see that refreshments are brought to the drawing room for when Rachael is finished with Griffin."

After a silent moment, she nudged Corinna with her elbow.

"Oh, yes," Corinna said. "Do take mine as well." After shoving her basket at Alexandra, she followed Juliana upstairs.

Alexandra shifted the three baskets awkwardly. "Well," she said as her sisters disappeared.

One word, Tristan thought. It was a start. "They do have a habit of leaving the two of us alone together, don't they?" Doing his best to appear nonchalant, he polished off the rest of the cake.

She crossed to one of the iron treasure chests, set down the baskets, and busied herself combining the remaining sweets into one of them. "They mean well," she said, facing away.

Walking closer, he watched her in the large, rectangular looking glass that hung above the treasure chest. "What do you expect they're hoping will happen?"

Though her cheeks went pink, she met his gaze in the silvery surface and answered in her forthright way. "I expect they think you might kiss me again."

"I won't," he said quietly.

"I know," she said and turned to search his eyes.

They were steely and determined as always. Alexandra supposed she should be grateful for that—it meant at least one of them would keep a clear head.

Since she'd spotted him riding to their door earlier that morning, she'd suffered a riot of emotions: surprise, happiness, annoyance, and confusion. Confusion reigned supreme. She'd been looking forward to the ball, to meeting new—eligible—men. In the past month, she'd thought she'd succeeded in relegating Tris to that role in her life labeled friend.

But a single glimpse of him had cured her of that illusion.

Though she knew it was wrong, her lips fairly ached for the caress of his. Her gaze left his eyes and wandered down to his mouth, which she remembered as being softer than she'd expected. A lock of his hair had flopped over his forehead as usual, and she reached to sweep it away.

He caught her gloved hand. "That won't work this time."

"I know," she repeated.

Their hands dropped together. Slowly his fingers moved up her arm until he was touching bare skin. He grasped her there. "You don't want me to kiss you, do you?"

"Of course not," she said quickly, knowing that was what he wanted to hear.

"Good," he said. "Because I cannot marry you, Alexandra. I cannot marry anyone."

She couldn't marry him, either—not and live with herself when her sisters would pay the price. But surely there were ladies available who didn't have families to consider. She couldn't bear to think of Tris alone all his life. "Do you not wish for an heir?"

His fingers gripped her forearm tighter. "There are other ways a man can leave his mark—perhaps mine will be made in agriculture or mechanics. Marriage and children aren't my fate."

"Fate." He was standing so close, his very scent seemed to surround and overwhelm her. "Do you believe in fate?"

"Absolutely. One cannot be happy until one accepts one's lot in life."

She wondered if she'd ever be happy, then. He certainly didn't look happy. "Is it so wrong to hope for more? To work for more?"

"Of course not." Absently, it seemed, he slipped a thumb beneath the edge of her glove and caressed the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist. "But it's wrong to expect more as your due."

She could scarcely think straight with him touching her like that. But she remembered how, after completing university, he'd felt he had no choice but to work for his uncle. And now, it seemed, he felt he had no choice but to accept loneliness as his lot in life.

That fact made a lump rise in her throat.

"I don't believe in fate," she told him. "Or settling. I believe in striving to make things better." She laid her free hand over his on her arm, and he glanced down, looking startled to find he'd been touching her.

But he didn't pull away.

"Promise me," she said, "as your friend, that you'll search for a way to be happy."

"I am—"
"Promise me."

He didn't. Instead, following a tense silence, he leaned closer and kissed her on the forehead. "You're too sweet for your own good," he said and walked away.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rachael certainly seemed more businesslike than he remembered, Griffin thought, facing her from behind the safety of his heavy desk. Businesslike and beautiful, standing there with one hand firmly on a cocked hip, her silly little reticule dangling from her other wrist.

Why the devil didn't women wear pockets?

He picked up her letter and gazed at it, then back to her. "When I read this, I was picturing you as a twelve-year-old with a plait hanging down your back."

She raised one perfectly arched brow. "I never wore plaits."

He certainly couldn't picture her wearing plaits now. Rachael was half a year younger than Alexandra, which meant she'd been fourteen the last time he laid eyes on her. The transformation from that girl to this woman of almost twenty-two was nothing short of astonishing.

The lavender dress she wore clung to her body, made of some thin fabric that did nothing to disguise her feminine curves. Her eyes were large and the color of a cloudless sky—a hue Corinna would describe as cerulean—and beneath that startling blue gaze, her lips looked like she'd just licked them. Her chestnut hair was done up in a ladylike style, but the loose tendrils around her face weren't tightly curled as was fashionable, instead falling in long, soft waves that hinted at tresses he imagined were heavy and luxuriant.

His fingers itched to unpin the mass so he could see if he was right.

He had never seen a woman in a day dress manage to look so…sultry.

"Did you bother reading that letter?" she asked in a voice much huskier than Griffin remembered.

He swallowed hard. "Of course I read the letter. I invited Lord Hawkridge here as a result. He's assisting me in rectifying the problem."

"In what way?"

"We're diverting the water back to the river by means of pipes and a pump. The new system should be in place by Thursday."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Why?" He frowned. "Because I'm flooding your brother's land."

"I meant, why did you begin irrigating in the first place? Have we not enough rain on this blessed island?"

"I'm attempting to save my brother's vines."

When her forehead crinkled, even that looked charming. "Vines?"

"Grapevines, to be precise. I'm raising grapes, with an eye to starting a winery. Or perhaps I should say Charles was raising grapes, and as his successor, I'm doing my best not to kill them."

"Oh." She sobered. "I was sorry to learn of Charles's passing."

"So was I," he said dryly.

She moistened her lips, watching him speculatively. "You don't fancy being the marquess?"

"I wasn't trained for it. Given the trouble I have sustaining the lives of mere grapes, you may pity the unfortunate tenants and villagers who rely on me for their keeping. Sit, please," he added, indicating one of the leather wing chairs.

She did, setting her reticule on the small table beside it. He sat, too, with some relief, as he'd begun wondering if his knees might give out.

He leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers, watching her over them, his jaw tense. If she dared to lick her lips just one more time, he might be tempted to leap over the desk and kiss away that delicious sheen.

But he couldn't, because she was his cousin. And cousins were offered marriage proposals—not indecent proposals. One didn't kiss one's cousin unless one were prepared to ask for her hand.

Which was completely out of the question. He had no intention of marrying anyone until after all of his sisters were settled.

Years after they were settled.

"I'm sorry about your parents," he said.

"It's been six years."

"That doesn't mean it cannot hurt."

Rachael felt tears spring to her eyes and ruthlessly blinked them back. "I haven't cried in forever," she said. "Damn you for making me start now."

If Griffin was shocked at her language, he didn't show it. He just kept gazing at her—no, she decided, devouring her with his eyes. It was infuriating. He was an irresponsible scapegrace, and she wasn't sure whether she wanted to slap him or kiss him.

She couldn't remember ever being so attracted to someone who made her so spitting mad. She couldn't order her thoughts. Her mind kept bouncing back and forth, one second thinking about how unreliable he was and the next second noticing he was as handsome as sin personified.

The reckless, gangly youth she remembered had grown tall, dark, and sleekly muscled. His eyes were a pure leaf green; his jaw was strong and square; his smile was slightly crooked and entirely too engaging.

And he was her cousin.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I didn't intend to bring up old feelings."

"It's time for me to deal with them," she admitted. "None of us have, if you want to know the truth. We lost Mama and Papa so quickly—a carriage accident is such an unexpected shock. Even the staff seems loath to believe they're gone. A chambermaid cleans their rooms every day just the same as if they still lived there. Nothing of theirs has been touched."

"If keeping part of them with you makes you feel better—"

"No. It doesn't, not truly. It just keeps us from facing the truth." She drew a deep breath. "I've decided to empty their suite before Noah comes home in September. He was so young at the time—only fourteen—that it never occurred to us to move him into their rooms. It was too early for him to accept the responsibilities of an earl."

"You were only fifteen," Griffin pointed out.

"But I felt much older than Noah. It seemed natural for me to take over for him while he finished growing up. Now, though, he's twenty, and it's past time for him to come into his own. The master suite should rightfully be his. It's time to let go of the illusion. They're only things, anyway, yes? Not so significant."

She couldn't believe she was asking for his opinion, his approval. Griffin, of all people.

But something loosened in her chest when he gave her one of his gentle, lopsided smiles. "Yes, they're only things. You won't forget your parents, Rachael. You can keep some of their more special items…and regardless, they'll always live in your heart."

Damn if the tears weren't threatening again. "When did you get so wise?"

"Oh…" He pulled out a very old gold and sapphire pocket watch that she remembered had belonged to his father. "About two minutes ago."

He'd always been able to make her laugh.

Damn him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Rachael!" Alexandra and her sisters rushed across the drawing room to welcome their cousin.

"Whatever did you want with Griffin?" Juliana asked after they'd hugged.

"It's not important." Graceful as always, Rachael slid onto a sofa. "He's already solving the problem."

"We've been wondering when you'd return." Alexandra sat beside her. "How was the season?"

Rachael shrugged. "I'm still unmarried. Not for lack of offers, mind you," she added with a grin.

Sitting next to Juliana on the opposite sofa, Corinna frowned. "Were none of the men suitable?"

"Indeed, there were an earl and a baron among them. Worry not, dear, you'll find no shortage of adoring gentlemen when you head for London next year. It's only that none of them seemed right…for me."

All four of them released heartfelt sighs.

Juliana poured tea and handed Rachael a cup. "Is Noah getting frustrated?"

"Noah?" Rachael laughed. "If Noah had his way, I'd never marry at all. Who would run his household while he's out playing the rake? Not Claire or Elizabeth, I can assure you!" She turned to Alexandra. "Who will run your brother's household when you marry?"

"Juliana and Corinna." Alexandra looked to her sisters. "Mama trained us all in the housewifely arts."

Corinna paled; evidently she hadn't considered the ramifications of Alexandra marrying. "But we haven't the aptitude that you—"

"We shall do whatever's necessary," Juliana interrupted. "Besides, we won't have to concern ourselves if we find a wife for Griffin."

"As usual, Juliana knows what's best." Rachael's eyes danced with good humor. "If she wasn't here telling everyone what to do, the entire world would go to hell."
"Rachael." Juliana heaved an ever-suffering sigh. "It's not the thing for a lady to talk like that."

Rachael sipped, looking every inch the lady despite her language. "For all intents and purposes, I've been an earl for the past six years—with all the aggravations and frustrations thereof. I'm entitled to curse should I care to."

Juliana never allowed anyone the last word. "A potential husband may not think so."

"I'd have no respect for a man who couldn't look beyond a spot of unconventional language."

Alexandra hid a smile behind her own teacup. "Griffin wouldn't care about that."

"Pardon me?" Rachael's lovely sky-blue eyes widened. "Whatever compelled you to say such a thing?"

"Tris. Lord Hawkridge. He told us you and Griffin seemed quite taken with each other."

"Well, Tris—Lord Hawkridge—is wrong!" A telltale flush stained Rachael's cheeks. "Why, Griffin might as well be my brother. We grew up together."

Corinna passed her a plate of sweets. "You haven't seen each other for years, though, have you? I'd say you finished growing up apart."

"He's my cousin."

"There's nothing in the marriage laws to prohibit the union of cousins," Juliana said quite reasonably. "Cousins wed quite often."

"I would never marry a cousin."

The words were stated with such vehemence, Alexandra's teacup rattled as she set it back on her saucer. "Whyever not?"

"Do you remember my cousin Edmund?"

"The monster?" Corinna asked.

"Don't call him that!" Rachael closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and sighed. "Edmund was a very sweet child. He just…didn't look right."

"He didn't think right, either," Corinna said. "He couldn't even really talk. He only…"

"Grunted," Rachael finished for her. "Yes."

Alexandra poured more tea. "Edmund died when we were young."

"Yes. Yes, he did." Rachael moistened her lips. "Perhaps you never knew that he was my aunt's child. My mother took Edmund when her sister died. Aunt Alice's husband didn't want his son."

"How dreadful," Juliana said.

"Yes. Everything concerning Edmund was sad. Aunt Alice lost many children before having him, and the doctors told her that the miscarriages, and poor Edmund's condition, were most likely because her husband was also her cousin."

The sisters were silent a moment. "Her first cousin, I'd wager," Juliana finally said. "Griffin isn't nearly so close a relation."

"That doesn't signify." Rachael bit into a lemon cake and changed the subject. "What does your family cookbook claim these are supposed to do?"

"Cure melancholy," Corinna said. "But to look at Alexandra, they aren't working."

Rachael turned to Alexandra. "Are you melancholy, dear?" She seemed relieved to have the attention focused elsewhere. "According to the last letter I received from you in London, you were expecting to soon be engaged. Has Lord Shelton failed to propose?"

Juliana took a cake for herself. "He'd propose in an instant if she'd let him within speaking range. But one look at Tristan, and she banished Lord Shelton forever."

"Tristan?" Rachael echoed, looking shocked. "You cannot be seriously interested in him."

"Why not?" Alexandra asked cautiously, afraid she knew the answer.

"He's tainted with scandal! Everyone knows he's been accused of murdering his uncle."

"I didn't," Alexandra pointed out. "How is it we never discussed this?"

"I don't know." Rachael reached for another cake. "It happened years ago, didn't it? It must have been one of those seasons when I was in town and you were stuck here…but that doesn't signify, does it? Whether we discussed the scandal or not, it did happen—and in light of that, you cannot consider Lord Hawkridge's suit."

"There's no suit." Alexandra clenched her hands in her lap. "Tris refuses to even entertain the thought of marriage."

"Good for him. He's retained some honor, at least."

Alexandra's eyes widened at her cousin's tone. "You cannot think he committed murder? He wasn't convicted."

"Not in the House of Lords. But in the hearts and minds of the people who matter—"

"Rachael! You know Tris. He cannot have done something so heinous."

"I don't know him. Not anymore. It's been years—"

"He hasn't changed," Alexandra insisted. "Not that much."

Rachael's lips curved in a faint smile. "You always have been the most loyal person I know."

"My loyalty isn't misplaced. Not in this case, anyway."

Rachael considered, then nodded. "Very well. But that still doesn't make him marriageable."

"My sisters don't seem to agree." Alexandra turned to Juliana. "You left us alone again. You're trying to push us together, and don't try to deny it."

Juliana didn't. "Is it working?" she asked instead.

"Yes," Alexandra admitted miserably. "But he hasn't kissed me again."

"He kissed you?" Rachael breathed. "And you allowed it with no intention of marriage?"

Alexandra measured her cousin for a long moment. "You've had four seasons. Have you never been kissed?"

"Well…" Rachael's cheeks flushed a delicate pink, then deepened when Alexandra looked pointedly at the fourth finger of her left hand. "No, I didn't marry any of them."

"Any?" Corinna burst out. "How many men have you kissed?"

Rachael fisted the hand with the ringless finger. "They were only kisses!"

"Exactly," Alexandra said with not a little satisfaction.

Corinna snatched another lemon cake. "I must be the only unkissed girl in all of England."

"Not the only," Juliana disagreed with a sigh.

Alexandra sighed in sympathy. "You'll both have your seasons. But only if I don't marry Tris. So it's in your best interests to let him finish what he came here to do and leave…without being caught in a compromising position with me, thanks to you."

"But what about your interests?" Juliana insisted. "You don't care so much for society—you'll be happier married—"

"I won't be happy if you're not. And how many times do I have to tell you that Tris has no intention of marrying me regardless of your plans?" She took a lemon cake, too. "Perhaps at the ball I'll dance with someone who will sweep me off my feet."

Rachael smiled. "Waltzing always makes me fall halfway in love."

"Waltzing?" Alexandra repeated, alarmed. "There will be no waltzing. We don't know how to waltz."

"Of course there will be waltzing! There hasn't been a society ball without waltzing since 1812."

"We've had no dance lessons since 1812—people in mourning don't dance." Juliana looked panicked. "There's no time to send for a dancing master—the ball is in only four days. Good gracious, how will Alexandra find a husband if she doesn't know how to waltz?"

"This isn't just about me," Alexandra snapped.

Rachael bit into another lemon cake and shrugged. "One way or another, you will all have to learn how to waltz."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The gray day had finally delivered on its promise, and rain pattered on the drawing room's windows. "Lord and Lady Charlford will be delighted to attend," Alexandra read off a sheet of heavy cream-colored paper. Seated on one of the blue sofas, she set the acceptance note facedown on the empty space beside her.

At the desk, Juliana flipped through the guest list. "Charlford," she murmured. "Ah, here they are." She made a mark. "Next?"

Griffin peeked into the room. "Is she gone?"

"Who?" Alexandra asked innocently.

Her sisters snickered.

"Rachael," Tris clarified, walking in. He moved the stack of responses aside so he could sit next to Alexandra. "Griffin would just as soon avoid her."

Griffin grunted as he plopped down on a chair.

"Rachael? You're afraid of little cousin Rachael?" Juliana walked over from the desk to hand her brother the last of the lemon cakes. "Here, this will cure your melancholy."

"I'm not melancholy," Griffin growled before biting into it anyway.

Tris's thigh pressed alongside Alexandra's skirts, and she could swear she could feel his heat burning through them. Not only that, she could still feel the imprint of his lips on her forehead from earlier. Right in the center above her eyes.

This would never do. The euphoria she'd experienced upon sighting him this morning was rapidly turning to despair. If only he hadn't returned! She should be looking forward to the ball, not fighting this impossible attraction.

Rubbing her forehead hard, she rose and wandered over to see Corinna's latest painting. On the unfinished canvas, a young couple lounged, sharing a cozy picnic. Corinna often painted landscapes, but Alexandra couldn't remember her ever including people.

She watched her sister create the dappled shade beneath a tree. "That's not one of your usual subjects."

Corinna looked up from her easel. "Do you like it?"

"Very much," Tris said, suddenly standing beside Alexandra. "The two of them look like they're in love."

Corinna glanced at him and Alexandra before focusing on her scowling brother. "Griffin's in love," she teased.

"I am not," he mumbled around a mouthful of lemon cake.

She swirled her brush in gray paint. "Rachael took a fancy to you, too."

He swallowed, half choking. "She did?" They all burst out laughing while Griffin slowly turned red. "I'm sure she said nothing of the sort."

Alexandra started inching her way back to the sofa. "Of course she didn't, but we could tell."

"We're girls," Juliana added.

"As though I hadn't noticed with all your dressmaker's bills." Griffin swallowed the last of the sweet. "It doesn't signify, in any case. I cannot have an affair with Rachael."

Leaning against the painted stone chimneypiece, Juliana crossed her arms. "Of course you cannot. That would ruin her. You'll have to marry her instead."

"I don't intend to marry anyone at present." He gestured to the pile of letters Alexandra had left on the sofa. "Are those the responses?"

"Yes," she said, grateful to have an excuse to move farther away from Tris.

"How many have accepted our invitation?"

She reclaimed her seat and picked up the acceptance notes, straightening the stack on her lap. "More than a hundred."

"Including Rachael," Corinna added with a mischievous smile.

Alexandra thought her sisters had meddled quite enough. "Oh, do leave Griffin alone. Rachael made it clear she'll never marry him, anyway."

Though Griffin looked curious, he remained stubbornly mute. The rain sounded louder as they all waited.

"What did she say?" Tris finally asked for him.

"She will never marry a cousin."

"Just that?" Griffin burst out, apparently unable to help himself. "Just she will never marry a cousin?"

Juliana took the chair beside him. "Do you remember her cousin Edmund?"

Griffin shook his head.

"The monster," Corinna reminded him.

"Don't call him that!" Alexandra burst out at the same time Griffin said, "Oh, yes," wincing at the memory.

He looked to her. "We all called him the monster."

"Well, he wasn't one. He was a sad little boy. And Rachael will get very upset if you call him that in front of her."

"Tell me about him," Tris said, sitting again by Alexandra.

Heat still seemed to be radiating off him. "Edmund looked very odd," she said, scooting away a little bit.

"Ugly," Corinna elaborated. "Malformed."

"I was trying to be nice, but yes. And he couldn't talk. He only grunted." Alexandra rubbed her forehead. "He died very young."

"His mother and father were cousins," Juliana said. "The doctors suggested perhaps that was to blame for Edmund's condition. And Rachael said that's why she'll never marry a cousin."

Griffin nodded thoughtfully. "When we were young, Edmund scared me out of my seven senses. I can understand why Rachael would be frightened of giving birth to such a mon…such a child." He released a tense breath, looking relieved. "Obviously, marrying her is out of the question. I don't know that her fears are founded, but given her feelings, that hardly makes a difference."

"There are others who believe close marriages aren't wise," Tris added in support. "I concur with the theory that interbreeding produces weak animals."

Corinna snickered. "Griffin and Rachael aren't animals!"

"But they are…in the strictest definition."

"Look at our own Mad King George," Griffin pointed out. "A product, you must admit, of copious interbreeding."

"What a picture," Corinna said. "You and Rachael interbreeding copiously—"

"Do shut up," Griffin interrupted in a tone that was dangerously polite. "Tell me what you've planned for the ball."

Alexandra rubbed her forehead again. "The invitations went out last month, requesting guests arrive at eight. We've procured a band of music from Chichester, and we'll place them in a corner of the great hall—"

"Not the minstrel's gallery?" Griffin broke in.

"No," Juliana said. "That's too far removed from the dancers. We want the musicians to take requests and interact with the guests. We'll have dancing until one o'clock, when a handsome supper shall be served. After supper, the dancing shall resume until dawn, and, for those who stay the night, we shall serve breakfast between eleven and twelve."

"And how many of our hundred-plus acceptances are from men?"

"Most of them!" Corinna cried. "We'll have a much greater number of unmarried gentlemen than unmarried ladies."

"Excellent." Griffin looked pleased.

Tris reached for some bread and cheese, leaning against Alexandra in the process. "Your ball sounds like quite an ambitious undertaking."

Juliana turned to him with a smile. "We've yet to receive your response, Lord Hawkridge."

"I don't attend balls," he said quietly, sitting back and brushing Alexandra again.

"Tristan will be leaving before the ball." Griffin stretched his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. "Everything's all set for Friday night, then?"

"No." Alexandra rose abruptly and went to the desk, bringing the response notes with her as a pretense. She sat and tucked them away in a drawer. "Rachael alerted us to a problem. We don't know how to waltz."

"Then we won't waltz," Griffin said easily.

"We cannot not waltz," Juliana said. "Everyone who is anyone waltzes. It's the thing."

"The thing is, we don't know how. One of you shall simply have to explain to the musicians—"

"I know how to waltz," Tris interrupted. He stood and walked over to the desk. "I can teach you all," he offered, absently rearranging items on the surface.

"Wonderful!" Juliana clapped her hands. "Tonight?"

"Griffin and I must finish planning the pipeline tonight—we have men arriving first thing in the morning for instructions. We can dance tomorrow, while I'm waiting for the parts to arrive from the foundry."

"What will we do for music?" Corinna asked. "If we're all dancing at once—"

"We can hum," Juliana said.

"We cannot all be dancing at once," Alexandra pointed out, moving the inkwell back to where she liked it. "Tris is the only man."

"I take offense to that," Griffin said in a tone laced with pretended outrage.

"You don't know the dance."

Tris lifted a quill. "He can dance while he learns. But we'll need a third man." Looking contemplative, he stroked his chin with the end of the feather. "I know. Boniface."

"Boniface?" Juliana scoffed. "Butlers don't dance."

Tris raised a brow. "Butlers do as they're told." He reached with the quill to tap Griffin on the nose. "Go inform him. You're the lord around here."

Griffin batted the feather away and stood. "I'm doing this only because I want to see Boniface's expression when I tell him," he claimed in a transparent attempt to retain his dignity.

"I want to see his face, too," Juliana said and quickly followed him. "Corinna?"

"Wouldn't want to miss this." Corinna dropped her palette and ran after them both.

A Lady of Distinction would find her sisters quite vulgar, Alexandra thought. Releasing a long sigh, she rubbed her forehead.

"Have you the headache?" Tris asked, looking solicitous.

"No."

"But you keep—"

"No." She wasn't going to tell him she felt phantom lips caressing her brow.

He shrugged and smiled. "They left us alone again."

"I was just leaving." She rose and started toward the door, then, sensing him on her heels, whirled to face him. "Would you please stop following me around?"

"I haven't been—"

"Yes, you have. All afternoon, you've shadowed my every step."

"Have I?" He looked puzzled, as though he truly hadn't noticed.

"Yes. And you keep touching my things." Not to mention touching me, she added mentally, plucking the feather from his fingers.

Rain pattered while he stared at his empty hand as though he hadn't noticed he'd been holding the quill, either. Taking it with her, Alexandra left him there and hurried off to the solitude of her room.

Men could be so oblivious.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHOCOLATED SPONGE CAKES

Take a measure of sugar and a like amount of butter and mix together well. To this add two beaten eggs and then flour in the same amount as the butter and sugar. Put together with a little milk to make soft and pour into your pan. Put in your oven for half an hour until well risen, then cut into little squares, cover with chocolate icing, and decorate with white icing strands to make them look like little presents on a plate.

Mere acquaintances have been known to call on me hoping to find these offered.
They look like tiny gifts and are reputed to be irresistible!
—Katherine, Countess of Greystone, 1769

Boniface's pretty face was even prettier with red cheeks.

"Take her hand, Boniface," Tris said patiently, demonstrating with Corinna. "You can do it."

Even with their hands gloved, the butler held Alexandra's fingers so hesitantly she had to cling to his to hold on.

"Put your other hand around her back."

Though Boniface complied, Alexandra could barely feel his fingers grazing her spine.

"Music, please."

All three sisters began humming.

"The basic figure is a full turn in two measures using three steps per measure. Like this." Tris swept Corinna into the dance, the two of them turning so fast she was forced to rise to her toes. She stopped humming. Her laughter echoed through the cavernous great hall.

Alexandra hummed through gritted teeth.

Griffin and Juliana took a few tentative steps, then seemed to grasp the idea. "Oh, this is fun!" Juliana cried, leaving Alexandra humming alone.

She changed to la-la-la's. Boniface still stood there, limply attached to her, his blue eyes wide with apprehension. Unlike most families, the Chases didn't ban their servants from marrying, and Alexandra had sometimes wondered why he chose to remain a bachelor. Now she knew.

By all appearances, he was terrified of women.

"Shall we dance?" she prompted, abandoning the music. It was still raining—it had rained all night—and the drops sounded louder in the sudden silence. "Hum!" she commanded her sisters, turning back to Boniface when they took over. "Well?" she asked.

He nodded mutely, remaining riveted in place.

Tris frowned as he twirled past. "Go on, man. Give it a try."

"It's delightful!" Corinna called encouragingly.

Seeing her sister in Tris's arms, a stab of jealousy caught Alexandra by surprise.

At last, Boniface took a few jerky steps, and she lurched with him, trying her best to stay attached. She hardly noticed the three times he trod on her feet, busy as she was watching Tris guide her sister in whirling circles around the planked wood floor. He danced with admirable grace, looking handsome and debonair and absolutely delicious.

She could pretend that she didn't want him following her or touching her or talking to her. But that didn't make it true.

She wanted him as much as ever.

"Enough," he finally said, saving Alexandra's toes. They all stopped humming. "Change partners. No, wait—allow me to fetch another sweet first." He walked over to where Alexandra had set up a few refreshments on a side table, taking his sixth bite-sized chocolate-covered cake. "These are truly excellent."

"So you've assured me," she said with a little smile.

He snatched another one and ate it quickly before returning. "Now we switch partners." To Alexandra's disappointment, he went to Juliana. "Griffin, you take Alexandra. Boniface, I think you'll find Corinna an accomplished waltzer already."

Corinna beamed. Boniface's face turned even redder, if that were possible. Alexandra and her sisters resumed providing the music, and everyone began dancing.

Griffin held her a bit awkwardly, but at least his hands were firmer than the butler's. Tris shouted occasional words of encouragement and correction. He and Juliana glided by, making the dance look effortless—and sparking envy that seemed to spread from Alexandra's heart clear out to her fingers and toes.

She wondered if she'd actually turned green.

"Stop watching him," Griffin muttered.

She focused up at the hammerbeam ceiling. "La-la-la."

His fingers gripped hers tighter. "You think I don't notice the way you look at him?"

"La-la-la."

"Three days from now, this room will be full of eligible men, all vying for your hand."

"La-la-la."

"I hope you'll fall in love with one of them."

The great hall looked plain and empty today, but on Friday evening it would be crammed full of people, blazing with torchlight, and twinkling with the jewels adorning their guests. Guests who had been invited expressly to provide her with the chance to meet someone special.

And her brother wanted her to find love. He wasn't bent on marrying her off to the first man who offered.

She stopped singing. "I hope so, too."

"I'm glad to hear it." Griffin smiled…until her gaze wandered again to Tris. "Pay attention to your dancing, will you?"

"I think I'm improving." She looked back to her brother. "You're a great deal better than Boniface."

"That's not saying much," he muttered as the butler stumbled by with Corinna.

"Switch!" Tris called, heading toward the cakes. While everyone else shuffled partners, he ate two more.

Then finally, just when Alexandra felt like she'd been waiting forever, he slipped an arm around her waist and took her hand. As he locked her body into the proper position opposite his, he locked his eyes on hers, too.

Pure lust rippled through her. And through him as well—she'd swear it. He couldn't look at her like that and not feel as she did, not sense the current that ran between them.

And then he began to dance. He moved so smoothly, she didn't have to think about what her feet did. All by themselves, they seemed to know the steps. She forgot to hum.

His smile seemed as intimate as a kiss—that second kiss she was craving but knew she would never get. "Now you can follow me around," he said playfully, "instead of me following you."

"I'm sorry about yesterday. I was in an odd mood."

"I understand."

The fact that she believed he did understand didn't make her feel any better.

His gray eyes watched her so intently, she feared she might lose herself in their depths. She couldn't have torn her own gaze away if she'd wanted to. She fit perfectly in his arms, the two of them moving together as though they'd been born to share a dance floor. Where his hand rested on her back, heat seemed to penetrate his glove and her dress, warming her all over.

The song came to an end. Corinna and Juliana stopped humming. The incessant rain pounded on the hammerbeam roof. Tris kept dancing, his gaze still fastened on Alexandra.

She felt rather than saw Griffin's glare. "Switch!" he called, shoving himself between them. He handed Tris a sweet. "Time for another chocolate cake, isn't it?"

"Thank you," Tris said and stepped back, allowing Boniface to take his place.

For the next minute or two, Alexandra danced in a daze. Boniface had improved slightly. He actually held her hand, and he trod on her toes only once.

"Switch!" Tris called.

Alexandra noticed Juliana sweetly hand him a cake as she joined him. Sometimes her sister grated on her nerves.

"Why are you frowning?" Griffin asked, holding her a little too tightly. "You're supposed to pay attention to your partner."

"Thank you for the advice. You could write a book and call yourself A Gentleman of Distinction."

"Stop watching him," he growled low.

"I'm studying his technique. He's good, isn't he?"

"How would you know?" He swung her farther away. "You've never seen anyone waltz before in your life."

"Switch!" Tris called.

Not to be outdone by Juliana, Alexandra rushed to grab one of the little cakes before meeting him. Her sisters laughed, but the smile Tris gave her made her knees turn to jelly.

Yet when his arm came around her, his sure guidance kept her twirling in perfect rhythm. She felt giddy, lightheaded. As their gazes held, she wondered whether to attribute that to the motion or to him.

Him. Definitely him.

Wishing he'd never let go, she searched for a neutral topic of conversation. "If you never go out in society, when did you learn how to waltz?"

"Directly after my uncle died, when I first inherited the marquessate."

Before the scandal broke out, then. "Did a dancing master teach you?"

"No." When she just looked at him, he added, "A woman taught me."

If she hadn't turned green before, she surely did now. "A woman? Who?"

It was possibly the rudest question she'd ever asked.

"It doesn't signify," he said, somehow managing to sound both evasive and blithe. "Just someone who hoped to dance with me at many balls."

He spoke in past tense, Alexandra consoled herself. Quite obviously, that woman's hopes had ultimately been dashed. But she hated her, regardless.

Even though she couldn't remember hating anyone before.

"Switch!" Griffin yelled, sounding so annoyed she was glad her next partner was Boniface instead of him.

She gave the butler a big smile. "You're surely improving, Boniface."

"Thank you, my lady." He stumbled. "Pardon me."

"No, no, you're doing fine." Since he didn't seem to be leading her, she led him instead. "Just think, you'll be able to waltz at the next servants' ball."

"I think not, my lady. I don't believe waltzing is my forte."

"Oh, bosh," she said, although she agreed. "You're doing just fine."

"Switch!" Tris called.

Griffin started twirling her with a little more gusto than necessary. "What were you two talking about so intently?"

"Boniface fears that waltzing is not his forte."

"Not Boniface. You and Tristan."

"Goodness, Griffin. That was a good two minutes ago. I cannot remember the conversation, but I'm certain it wasn't anything significant."

"He was holding you too close."

"No, he wasn't. You're not holding me close enough. There's a reason some people think the waltz is a scandalous dance, I'll have you know."

"Switch!" Tris called. While Alexandra headed to fetch him a chocolate cake, he added, "You're all doing splendidly."

"Good," Griffin said. "Because we're all finished."

Alexandra turned to protest, her gaze swinging past her brother and over to Tris. As she met his eyes, she felt that connection slam into her once again.

Her knees started shaking.

Sweet heaven, Griffin was right. Tris had been holding her too close. And she'd been encouraging him, not to mention flirting and acting jealous.

All wrong, so wrong. Tris was wrong for her, wrong for her family, wrong for her sisters.

She took the plate of remaining cakes and held it before her like a shield. "I'll go put these in the dining room," she said, keeping her tone as casual as possible. When Tris gave the sweets a longing glance, she released a tense laugh. "Don't worry; we'll save them for you. They'll go well with your port after dinner."

She didn't breathe until she'd escaped, leaving the sweets on one of the dining room's side tables and her heart in the great hall.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

With only a day and a half left before the ball—and less than that before Tris departed—Alexandra was finding it hard to sleep. Still lying awake in her bed well after midnight, she sighed and lit a candle, leaned back against her pillows, and slid a copy of Mansfield Park off her night table.

Then sat with it unopened on her lap.

Unless one could count fleeting glances, she hadn't seen Tris in the two days since the dance lesson. He'd ordered his meals brought to the workshop, where he was building the second pump. But his rush to finish didn't really explain his avoidance.

Nor did it explain why, the few times she'd caught sight of him, she'd walked the other way.

It seemed silly and childish—and wrong somehow—and each time it happened, she swore to herself it would be the last. But after all, it took two to play the game. She suspected that, like she, he'd been surprised by the strong connection they'd felt while waltzing. Surprised and dismayed. For both their sakes, nothing like that must ever happen again.

If only things were different.

According to Griffin, although the incessant rain had delayed completion of the new pipeline, the pump was ready, and Tris would be leaving after they installed it tomorrow. A full day before the ball, just as planned. Griffin was jubilant, but her feelings on the matter ran to melancholy mixed with relief.

Well, she told herself sternly, staring into space wasn't going to change anything. With another sigh, she opened her book. But she hadn't read two paragraphs when her attention was claimed by the prolonged creak of a slowly opening door.

Apparently she wasn't the only one finding sleep hard to come by this night.

She heard furtive footsteps, followed by a soft knock and murmured conversation. Her sisters, she was sure of it. Puzzled, she waited for them to fetch her too, but instead their voices receded down the corridor, leaving her feeling very much alone.

In the next quarter hour, she read the same page of Mansfield Park countless times while wondering what Juliana and Corinna were up to and why they hadn't invited her to their middle-of-the-night rendezvous. Now hurt warred with all her other emotions. Only pride kept her from seeking them out.

Until she heard movement in the dining room, which was directly below her chamber. A thud, as though perhaps someone had stumbled. And other muffled noises.

Curiosity overcame pride.

Without thinking too much, she set her book aside and climbed from her blue-draped bed. She tied a wrapper over her nightgown and, taking the candle, tiptoed from her room past her sisters' open doors and downstairs.

Walking through the picture gallery toward the dining room, she considered what she should say when she found Juliana and Corinna. Should she act wounded or surprised? Disapproving or conspiratorial? Would she join them or suggest they return to their beds?

She'd play it by ear, she decided, depending upon their attitudes. Hopefully, they'd all have a good laugh. That could go a long way toward releasing some of her tension.

Anticipating a little sisterly mischief, she rounded the corner into the dining room.

And stopped short, bobbling the candle in her hand.

Her sisters weren't there. Instead, Tris stood with his back to her, barefoot, wearing a long dressing gown of rich burgundy brocade belted loosely around his waist.

Though he was more than decently covered, the sight of him in such intimate clothing made her mouth go unnaturally dry.

Standing by a gothic mahogany side table, he was devouring what remained of the little chocolate cakes she'd left there yesterday morning. The embroidered cloth she'd laid over them sat crumpled on the floor.

He had yet to notice her. Recovering her composure, she laughed softly and walked closer, determined this time not to flee in the opposite direction. "Sneaking sweets, are you?"

The last cake in his hand, he turned to her. "Alexandra."

Placing the candle on the side table, she knelt to retrieve the cloth. "We missed you at the last few meals. But you could have asked if you wanted more." She straightened, setting the cloth on the table, too. "I'd have sent them to you in the workshop."

He tilted his head, giving her a look so calculatedly innocent—his smile vague, his eyes deliberately blank—that she laughed again. "I'm going to tell everyone you're a sweet thief."

The cake fell from his fingers and landed with a little plop on the carpet. "Alexandra," he repeated and reached for her, dragging her into his arms.

Though stunned, she went willingly. Her heart seemed to roll over in her chest as his mouth came down on hers. His lips were soft, but also demanding, insistent. His tongue sought hers in a gentle dance of desire, and a shiver of pure want rippled through her.

Although she hadn't thought it possible, this kiss was even more thrilling and intimate than their first one. It wasn't new to her, so she didn't hesitate this time. Instead she allowed herself to sink into the experience, responding to his desperate tenderness with breath-stealing explorations of her own. His mouth felt like hot, wet silk. He tasted of sugar and chocolate and Tris, a blissfully sweet combination.

One of his hands cradled the back of her head while the other splayed flat against her back, pressing her against his hard body. She wrapped her arms around him, scandalized to discover he wore nothing beneath the dressing gown—nothing besides skin so warm it radiated heat through the fine fabric. She skimmed her hands over his back, feeling muscles earned by the hard work of a man who was much more than an idle aristocrat.

Much too much for her.

Reluctantly, she pulled away. "We cannot," she whispered.

The look he gave her was so odd and intense, it seemed to go right through her.

"I—I need to go back to my room," she stammered. When he didn't reply, she added, "I'm sorry," even though she wasn't sure what she was apologizing for.

He nodded, his lips curving in a sad almost-smile.

"We should both go back to our rooms," she said more firmly. "Good night."

"'Night," he echoed and turned to exit the far end of the room.

Almost against her will, she followed him to the doorway and watched him slowly traverse the long length of the torchlit great hall, standing there until he disappeared into the dark corridor that led to the guest chambers.

He didn't look back.

She released a long, shuddering breath before retrieving her candle and starting upstairs. All the way down the picture gallery, the little flickering light reflected off the canvases on the walls—all her solemn, disapproving ancestors.

She shouldn't have allowed Tris to kiss her again.

But now that he had, all she could think was that she wanted more.

She didn't remember actually going upstairs, didn't remember walking through the high gallery or down the corridor past her sisters' rooms. She was settled beneath her covers before she realized their doors had been closed and they must be safely back behind them.

So much for some sisterly mirth to release her tension and help her relax. She blew out the candle and listened to the rain, wondering if she'd ever sleep well again.

"There's our thief!" Alexandra proclaimed loudly when Tristan arrived late for breakfast the next morning.

Spreading marmalade on toast, Juliana tittered. "What can you mean?"

"Do you see the plate of chocolate cakes that isn't on that sideboard? Tris sneaked in here and finished them in the middle of the night."

Though Tristan was weary and distracted—thinking about how to fix the pump he'd discovered damaged this morning—he vaguely wondered why Alexandra was suddenly so friendly and cheerful when they hadn't so much as talked in a day and a half. He dropped onto the chair a footman pulled out. "I did what?"

"Don't try to act the innocent," she accused gaily. "I caught you red-handed. Or perhaps I should say brown-crumbed."

"You did?" He raised a hand to his mouth and absently wiped away nonexistent crumbs. "Very well, I confess. I cannot resist your sweets."

Her sisters both laughed. Griffin frowned. And Tristan wracked his brain.

Despite his "confession," he had no memory of leaving his room in the middle of the night. While plastering a smile on his face, he groaned inwardly, more distressed by this news than he'd been by the broken pump.

Apparently, he was sleepwalking again.

All of his life, Tristan had been an occasional sleepwalker. For years, he'd suffered through mornings where people informed him of his own doings the night before—often comical doings, none of which he ever remembered. After some of these episodes, his schoolmates—Griffin included—had teased him mercilessly.

As he'd grown, the episodes had become fewer and farther between—eventually far enough between that he was able to discern a pattern. He was most likely to sleepwalk when under pressure of some sort. As an adolescent and even more so as an adult, the infrequent occurrences seemed to be brought on by emotional stress.

After several years of peaceful nights, he'd decided he must have outgrown the odd habit. But now it was back. Since he wasn't personally affected by Griffin's irrigation problems and had no great concerns of his own, that could mean only one thing…

He was more attracted to Alexandra—and frustrated by his inability to do anything about it—than he'd allowed himself to believe.

He needed to install this pump and go home. For good. Social isolation had its drawbacks, but it had afforded him a peace he could only hope to reclaim.

"You rose late," Griffin commented.

"To the contrary, I've been awake for hours." Tristan held out his cup for coffee. "I've been in the workshop. We won't be installing the pump today."

"Why not? It operated perfectly during the test last night—"

"Well, someone—or something—bent the shank. The valve no longer works. I don't expect you have any wild animals about the premises?"

"Nothing capable of—"

"Juliana and I are finished," Corinna interrupted. "May we be excused? Madame Rodale has arrived for our final fittings."

Looking distracted, Griffin waved a hand. "Go." When Alexandra didn't follow, he turned to her. "Aren't you going with them?"

"I'll join them in a moment," she said quietly and looked to Tristan. "Are you feeling quite well this morning?"

He noticed she was wearing his cameo again and wondered about that. "As well as I expect one can when one's work has been destroyed." Not feeling hungry, he put down his fork. "The piece will have to be recast, and the entire pump taken apart to reinstall it. This will set us back a day, if not more. I've thought of going home and returning, but…" He trailed off, not wanting to sound selfish.

"That would cost you another two days of your life," Griffin finished for him. "Besides, I promised Rachael the job would be finished."

"Then you'll be here for the ball," Alexandra said, looking dazed.

Tristan hadn't attended a ball in four years, and he didn't intend to start now. "I may still be here at Cainewood, but I won't be attending." He rose and turned to Griffin. "You might think about placing a guard at the workshop when I'm not there—being a lumber room, it has no proper door. However this came about, we'll want to make certain it doesn't happen again."

In a dark mood, he headed off to the foundry.

CHAPTER TWENTY

In contrast to Tristan's mood, the atmosphere in the drawing room was jubilant. The rain had finally stopped, and summer sunshine streamed through the windows; if the weather held but a day, they'd have a beautiful evening for the ball.

Madame Rodale and her two assistants swarmed about, making last-minute tucks here and tiny adjustments there. While Alexandra slipped into her new dress, Juliana and Corinna chattered excitedly, admiring each other's choices.

"You look beautiful." Corinna tweaked one of Juliana's short, puffed sleeves, which were decorated with knots of pale pink ribbon. "That blush color is so becoming on you."

"A Lady of Distinction would approve." Juliana grinned. "Now, as for your bright jonquille…"

"I adore it." As Corinna twirled, her skirts belled out, pearls shimmering all over the sheer top layer. Entwined with strings of yet more pearls, a drapery of lace went all around the bottom. "Doesn't Alexandra look lovely, too?"

Trying to smile, Alexandra settled her skirts into place. The dress certainly wasn't blue; shimmering in the morning light, the pinkish-purple amaranthus hue looked almost shocking. The hem was embellished with white velvet roses and a wide rouleau of amaranthus. Below that, a row of dangling white tassels alternated with sparkling white beads, nearly skimming the floor.

She'd never felt so pretty. But she could no longer hold her tongue.

"You two did it, didn't you? I heard you leave your rooms last night, so don't try to deny it."

"Deny what?" All innocence, Corinna adjusted her tiny, tight yellow bodice.

"That you ruined Tris's new pump." Alexandra didn't wait for confirmation. "And all for naught, as it turns out. He's determined to avoid the ball, and nothing you do will convince him otherwise. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

Though Juliana didn't try to play coy, she didn't look ashamed, either. "We did it for you. We thought if Tristan attended—"

"Our other guests won't welcome him. Stop dreaming, will you? I'm not going to marry him, and nothing you do will change that." Nothing Tris could do would change that, either. Not even middle-of-the night kisses that made her melt. "Now, Griffin is paying for this ball for the express purpose of finding me a husband. I'm planning to do my best to have a proper attitude and make the most of it."

The sound of applause came from the doorway. "I missed the majority of that speech," a voice came from behind them, "but I heartily approve of the last part."

They all turned to see Griffin.

At the sight of them, his eyes all but popped out of his head.

"Aren't our dresses exquisite?" Performing a few happy waltz steps, Corinna turned in a circle.

"Um, yes. Pull your sleeves up, Juliana, will you?"

She tugged at them, but the dress was designed to be off the shoulder. "They won't go."

One by one, he eyed their dresses' waistlines—as high as possible to enhance pert young busts—and their low-cut, cleavage-baring necklines—if one could call them that, since they weren't anywhere near their necks.

"You're all going to cover"—at an apparent loss for words, he patted his own chest—"with one of those scarf things, right?"

"A fichu?" Madame sniffed. "I think not. These are evening gowns, my lord."

"They don't look like the pictures my sisters showed me."

"Those pictures were but a starting point, my lord. By the time the fashion plates make it here from France, they're already somewhat out of style."

"We wouldn't want to be wearing last month's fashions," Juliana added. "These dresses are the thing."

"Am I to understand that this month's thing is for fashions to display your entire—"

"Griffin. Good news. The foundry will have the new part cast by the end of the day." Tris walked in, scanned the room with a low whistle, and settled on Alexandra. "Holy Christ, you ladies will put every other woman to shame."

"My sisters won't be wearing these dresses," Griffin said.

"Of course they will." Tris tore his gaze from Alexandra and turned to his friend. "While I take apart the pump, you'll want to head out to the vineyard and see that work on the new pipeline is resumed."

"Very well." Griffin turned to leave, then swiveled back. "I'm not paying for those dresses," he warned. "Not until they're made decent."

Madame Rodale gave a little French-sounding "hmmph."

"You'll pay for them," Tris disagreed. "Don't you want men to find your sisters attractive? Irresistible? Marriageable?"

"Not if they're men like…"

"Like us?" Tris suggested helpfully.

Griffin's "hmmph" put the mantua-maker's to shame. "I need to get to the vineyard," he muttered and left.

"Madame has finished with my dress and Corinna's," Juliana announced. "We'll just go to our rooms and take them off." Grabbing Corinna's hand, she pulled her out the door.

Madame's two pasty-complexioned assistants fluttered around Alexandra, pinning her dress here and there. Tris stood watching. Wondering what she should say now that he'd kissed her—wondering if he'd kiss her again—she shifted uncomfortably.

"Stand still," Madame said. "Else Mariette might poke you."

She stiffened and met Tris's gaze. "Don't you need to work on the pump?"

"You're beautiful."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Of course, you're always beautiful—it has nothing to do with the dress." He spoke conversationally. "You'd be beautiful in a shapeless burlap bag. And you'll be beautiful when you're a hundred years old, because your beauty comes from inside. It's what makes me want to be your friend."

She didn't say anything, because she didn't know what to say.

"I want to apologize," he continued, "for the way I treated you the last time we were together—"

"Are you finished?" she interrupted, addressing the assistants. The two girls were standing back, watching her and Tris as though they were performing a most fascinating play.

"Oui," Madame said briskly. "Remove the dress carefully, please, and bring it down the corridor to the armory, if you will." Since the armory was just an empty room with rusty weapons all over the walls—Alexandra figured it hadn't been renovated since before the Civil War—Griffin was allowing them to use it as their sewing room. "Come along, Mariette, Martina. We have much to do before tomorrow."

Tris waited until their footsteps had receded down the corridor. "Do you expect their names are really Mariette and Martina?"

She laughed, loving his irreverence. "No, I think their names are Mary and Martha."

They shared a smile before he sobered. "As I was saying…"

"Yes?" She'd never seen him look quite so uneasy.

"The last time we were together, I didn't treat you much like a friend."

"No, you didn't," she agreed quietly. He'd treated her as much more.

And he'd kissed her.

"I didn't look at you the way one looks at a friend."

"I didn't look at you like a friend, either." They'd looked at each other like lovers; there was no other way to put it.

And he'd kissed her.

"I held you too close."

He certainly had; she could still feel his body against hers. His almost-naked body.

And he'd kissed her.

"I'm sorry for all of that," he concluded. "I still wish, more than anything, to remain friends."

She blinked. That was it? He still wanted to be friends? For him, nothing had changed last night?

Of course, nothing had changed for her last night, either—on the surface, that was. Marriage still wasn't an option. But clearly they'd crossed a certain line. Surely, regardless of the fact that they couldn't act on their mutual feelings, they could acknowledge them and admit that they were more than simple friends.

"I can scarcely even imagine going back to a distant, polite friendship," she said carefully.

"I'm so pleased you agree," he said, looking relieved. "The hours and days we've spent avoiding each other…I shouldn't like to go back to that ever again." He released a pent-up breath. "There are many definitions of friendship. We're both adults. Certainly we can control—"

"What about the kiss?" she burst out.

He blinked. "That was weeks ago. More than a month. I thought we'd agreed to forget it." Watching her, his gray gaze narrowed warily. "What about it?"

"What have you been talking about, then?"

"What do you mean, what have I been talking about? The dance lesson, of course. I held you too close, and that precipitated our latest—"

"What about last night?"

"What about last night?"

"You kissed me again last night," she said, exasperated. "Am I expected to forget about that, too? Or shall I assume kissing is part of your definition of friendship?"

He visibly paled, his jaw going slack. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Evidently he had expected her to forget it.

"What do you mean, am I sure?" She remembered each moment of that kiss like it had ended a mere instant earlier. Just thinking about it, she could feel his arms around her, his lips slanting over hers. She could taste the hint of chocolate. "How could I forget such a thing?"

"I meant…" He hesitated, apparently fumbling for words. "I meant, are you sure you wish that to be part of the definition? Because frankly, I don't think it should be." The color had returned to his face, and unlike a moment ago, he sounded quite certain. "I don't think I could handle that. I don't think I could stop with kissing."

Part of her was shocked at the implication, but she couldn't help being flattered, too. And although she'd never considered kissing to be part of friendship, she had to admit the idea was tempting. After all, despite his stated opinion, kisses didn't have to go further. Hadn't she told her sisters they were "only kisses," not meaningful in and of themselves? And Rachael had said the same thing.

"I'm sorry," he continued, interrupting her musings. "I seem to be apologizing quite often these days, but I assure you, I mean it. I hope to remain friends, but I won't be kissing you again."

"I wish you would," she said under her breath as he walked out.

Holy Christ, he'd kissed her in his sleep.

Descending the stairs two at a time as he headed for the workshop, Tristan couldn't decide which was worse: the fact that he'd done such a thing, or the fact that he'd missed out on really experiencing it.

The only thing he was certain of, he thought as a footman threw the front doors open wide, was that he needed to go home. He'd take the pump apart today and put it back together with the new piece tomorrow. Adjusting the damn thing again would eat up the better part of the day, but that would keep him busy while everyone else was occupied with the bloody ball. Saturday morning he'd install the pump and leave with a sigh of relief. He was counting the hours.

And hoping he'd find the strength not to kiss her again.

I wish you would.

Had she meant him to hear that? No matter—he had. And—friendship be damned—the thought that she might want him regardless of his reputation was enough to make him run the opposite direction.

Anything beyond friendship would prove a disaster for them both—he was sure of it.

"My lord? Are you in need of something?"

Tristan blinked, realizing he was standing stock-still in the middle of the quadrangle. Servants crisscrossed the lawn, carrying baskets of laundry and buckets of water, slanting him curious glances as they went about their business.

"No," he told the footman. "Thank you for your concern."

He headed for his temporary workshop, a dim, doorless room meant for storing lumber, but empty this time of year. After lighting a few candles around the pump, he stood waiting for his eyes to adjust.

No wonder she'd put on his cameo this morning—she thought something had changed. To her, that kiss had been meaningful.

He wished he could remember it.

And he wished, for the hundredth time—or maybe the thousandth—that their circumstances were different. That he wasn't a social outcast. Because he wanted her in the worst way, but he knew, without a doubt, just how much their association would affect not only her sisters, but herself.

She was sweet and loyal, but also so damned idealistic. And naïve. Idealistic and naïve the way only a sheltered female raised in a peer's household could be. All the sorrow she'd faced in her young life didn't change the fact that she'd grown up in the bosom of a large, loving family—a family that was unquestionably part of society's elite. She'd never known isolation, never faced disapproval, never walked into a room and felt the chill of icy gazes that stared right through her. Never had whispers behind her back sound louder than the voices in her own head.

And now that he'd kissed her again, he feared the voices in her head might be telling her an alliance between them could be possible.

Cursing under his breath, he set to removing the first bolt. Damn this ridiculous affliction. Not only had it suddenly reappeared, it seemed to be getting worse. He'd never before kissed anyone while sleepwalking—at least as far as he knew. Usually he just ambled around for a bit—at least as far as he knew—although he'd been known to dress himself and go outdoors on occasion. Once in a while he'd had reports of other activities, but he'd never done anything in his sleep that wasn't a trivial, everyday action.

At least…as far as he knew.

Sometimes he wondered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MARCHPANE FRUITS

Take a Pounde of almonds, Blanched and Beaten in a stone mortar, till they begin to come to a fine paste, and then add a Pounde of sifted Sugar and make it into a perfect paste, putting to it now and then the white of an egg and a spoonful or two of rose-water. When you have Beaten it sufficiently, separate into balls and colour as for fruit, red for apples and cherries, yellow for lemons, orange for oranges, purple for grapes, and the like. Shape small pieces of your coloured Paste into fruits and leave out to dry.

These festive fruits are lovely for parties and elegant enough for a ball. Or anytime at all, for like all sweets, they are truly delicious.
—Kendra, Duchess of Amberley, 1690

There were no wallflowers at Cainewood Castle's ball.

Griffin's strategy had proved an unqualified success. So many more men than women were in attendance that even the plainest girl had barely a moment to sit and rest. And in their new dresses, the Chase sisters were anything but plain.

The three of them had been claimed for every dance, and though it was barely two hours into the long evening—only ten o'clock—Alexandra's feet were already beginning to ache. Since she was now involved in a rather staid country dance, she tried her best to ignore the pain—and the dull gentleman who was her partner—and take a moment to savor the results of her hard work.

The great hall hadn't looked so beautiful since before her parents died. The enormous Gobelin tapestries on either end of the hall had been cleaned and rehung, their colors more vibrant than Alexandra remembered ever seeing them. The ancient planked floor gleamed with polish, and the huge chamber was ablaze with light from torches mounted between each of the arched stained-glass windows. But what really made the room glitter was the people—all the guests in their gorgeous dresses and handsome evening suits. The ladies' necks, wrists, and hands sparkled with jewels, and diamonds winked from many a man's cravat.

The music came to an end. "Thank you for the dance," the gentleman said with a bow. Lord Haversham, or Haverstock, or Haversomething…she really couldn't remember.

She smiled and curtsied. "It was my pleasure."

A row of red velvet chairs beckoned along the oak-paneled wall. She was heading toward one of them when Lord Shelton intercepted her.

"May I have this dance?"

"I'd be delighted," she told him, ordering her feet to stop complaining. After all, she'd been dreadfully rude the last time she saw Lord Shelton, refusing to serve him ratafia puffs. She could hardly dismiss his invitation to dance. But when he offered his arm to lead her back to the dance floor, she took it and felt nothing. Nothing.

She could scarcely believe she'd once contemplated marrying him.

Thankfully, the musicians didn't strike up a waltz, but another country dance. As she took her place across from Lord Shelton, she had to admit he looked handsome in his formalwear. Pale and blond and very, very English. But she still thought his scent was too flowery.

"I'm pleased to see you've recovered," he said. "You suffered from quite a lengthy illness."

Was that the excuse Griffin had used to keep him away? Bless the man. He was a fine brother indeed. "Thank you. I'm feeling quite myself now," she assured her former suitor.

"May I call on you Monday morning, then?"

Oh, drat. "I'm afraid I have prior plans." Surely she'd need to wash her hair.

"I should like to resume our courtship."

So she'd surmised. "I expect you should speak with my brother," she said, mentally composing her apology to Griffin.

"I shall," Lord Shelton replied.

The steps then separated them for a spell, and when they came back together, Alexandra launched into a lively discussion of the weather. After she'd exhausted that fascinating topic, she steered the conversation to talk of the latest fashion in gloves and the best way to keep household account books. When the dance—which seemed to last at least half an hour—mercifully ended, she headed toward the chairs again, only to be stopped by Griffin this time.

"Alexandra, I have an old acquaintance for you to meet."

"My feet wish for me to sit. They're protesting my treatment."

"You can sit tomorrow."

Groaning inwardly, she put a smile on her face. The purpose of tonight, after all, was for her to meet men. Just because she hadn't fallen head over heels for the last dozen didn't mean the next one might not catch her fancy.

Besides, she owed Griffin, though he had yet to learn it. "Lord Shelton will be approaching you. He wishes to resume his suit."

"What am I to tell him? You're obviously in the bloom of health."

"Oh, you'll come up with something." She smiled as a man approached. "Is this the gentleman you wish me to meet?"

Griffin scowled at her, then switched on the famous charm as he turned to greet his friend. "Lord Ribblesdon, I'd like you to meet my sister, Lady Alexandra."

"A pleasure," the man said, bowing over her gloved hand. "Would you honor me with this dance?"

"I'd be delighted," she assured him.

Though Lord Ribblesdon wasn't as handsome as Tris, he was attractive, his hair dark and his eyes a pleasant blue. The musicians were starting a quadrille, so they formed a square with three other couples.

From another square nearby, Juliana grinned. "The look," she mouthed silently.

Alexandra had completely forgotten. Now she dropped her gaze and then raised it, curving her lips in a slight smile as she met Lord Ribblesdon's eyes.

Looking a bit dazzled, he smiled in return. "Your home is beautiful."

"I like it. I've always felt Cainewood is a special blend of old and new."

"You would like my estate, too," he said, and proceeded to describe it in exquisite detail as they danced.

After a few minutes, she glanced at the tall-case clock that sat against a wall. Ten twenty.

Lord Ribblesdon droned on, describing his octagonal breakfast room, which apparently boasted an unusual chandelier. Next he waxed enthusiastic about a pond on his property that was filled with notable fish.

Why did these dances have to go on so very long? An hour passed, and she glanced at the clock again.

Ten twenty-five.

Catching Griffin's gaze across the hall, she gave him a tight smile. He shrugged and nodded, looking around for another candidate. She figured he'd been successful when he positioned himself at the edge of the dance floor to wait for her.

"I need to sit," she told him when the dance that would never end finally did. This time she headed for the small room where they'd set up refreshments and took a chair there. "Ahh," she breathed as she dropped onto it.

He snatched a few marzipan fruits and brought them to the table with two cups of punch. "What was wrong with him?" he asked, sitting beside her.

"The same thing that's wrong with every other man here tonight. They have nothing to say of significance." She munched on a miniature apple, hoping the sweet almond paste confection would revive her. "They talk only about themselves. Or their property."

He devoured a piece of marzipan in two bites. "Their goal is to impress you. What else should they talk about?"

"Why should they think I'll be impressed by the number of acres they own or the new horse they just bought at Tattersall's?" She drained the cup of tepid punch, telling herself it was refreshing. "I trust you wouldn't introduce me to anyone of insufficient means or a man after nothing but my dowry. I don't particularly care what these gentlemen own; I'd much rather know what they think."

"About what?"

"Life. The state of the kingdom. Walter Scott's latest book. Anything."

"Have you asked them?"

"No," she admitted to both her brother and herself. She hadn't. She'd let the men lead both the dances and the conversations, but perhaps it would be best to take the latter into her own hands. "I'll try that. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Ah," he added, rising. "Here comes Lord Sandborough now."

The next dance was a waltz, and Lord Sandborough was a superb waltzer. If it felt a bit odd to be held by a strange man, at least he was a dashing one. He had golden hair and merry green eyes, and his evening clothes hung nicely on his well-proportioned frame.

As they glided over the floor, she decided that, yes, she could imagine marrying this man. She considered giving him the look, but instead she cast about for a good question, finally remembering one she'd asked Tris. "Do you believe there is only one perfect person for each of us in this world?"

"Indeed." He smiled, displaying nice teeth. "And I'm certain my person is you."

He didn't even know her! Suddenly he wasn't so dashing. Stupidity—not to mention insincerity—had a way of tarnishing a person's appearance.

Griffin introduced her to five more men, one after the other, and she danced on her aching feet with all of them. Three of them claimed she was their perfect person. Lord Jamestone said yes, he believed there was only one perfect person for each of them in this world, but alas, his lady had died. Though he assured her he was willing to settle for second best, for some reason she couldn't see herself in that role.

The fifth man apparently couldn't wrap his mind around the question. He simply declared that his mother had often assured him nobody was perfect. Alexandra assumed that was because he was very imperfect indeed.

She couldn't recall his name, but privately christened him Lord Sapskull.

Though the long great hall could be accessed from the dining room on one end and a corridor leading to the guest chambers on the other, it also had its own impressive entrance in the middle, complete with a grand staircase from the quadrangle. As the dance with Lord Sapskull came to its blessed end, three late guests appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Rachael!" Alexandra cried, hurrying to meet them. "And Claire and Elizabeth!" One by one, she wrapped Rachael and her sisters in welcoming hugs.

Her own sisters appeared, too, and the hugs were repeated.

"We're sorry," Rachael apologized. "I was certain we'd be your very first arrivals, but a carriage wheel broke on the way."

Though their estates adjoined, Cainewood Castle was at one end of Griffin's property, and Rachael's home was at the far end of Greystone. It took a good two hours to ride between them in a carriage, even one with all its wheels intact. "I understand," Alexandra assured her. "You'll stay the night, won't you?"

"Absolutely." Rachael's smile was impish. "We wouldn't want to miss the breakfast. Seeing how everyone looks in the morning is much more amusing than the actual ball."

They all shared a laugh. "All of you look lovely," Juliana said.

Claire, the middle sister, grinned. "Since Noah wasn't home to consult, we decided he would want us to have new dresses." She twirled in hers, white lace over pale violet satin with a neckline every bit as low as Alexandra's. Her unusual amethyst eyes danced, and she'd teased some of her curly raven hair into little ringlets that framed her face. At nineteen, Claire was already an accomplished flirt. "Do you like it?"

"How about mine?" Elizabeth, a year younger, wore blue and green stripes. They went well with her green eyes and the sleek dark hair she'd swept up into her feathered headdress. She dipped into a deep curtsy worthy of royalty. "My lady."

Alexandra laughed as she took her hand to help her rise. "You're more than ready for presentation at court." Along with Alexandra's sisters, Elizabeth would be coming out next year. "And you're both stunning."

But neither of them could match their eldest sister. A dress of poppy-red muslin sprigged with gold clung to Rachael's slim curves. Double rows of gold lace embellished the bodice and hem, and a broad band of gold lace circled the high waistline. Her hair was tucked into a headdress of gold and poppy satin, and the loose strands that framed her face weren't curled like her sisters', but left to fall in soft waves.

"May I paint you in that dress?" Corinna asked reverently.

"When Noah gets home, perhaps I'll be able to find time to sit."

"By the lake, I think," Corinna said, staring into the distance in that way she did when she was envisioning a painting.

Glancing around, Alexandra smiled to herself when she spotted Griffin staring at Rachael. He swiftly turned away, making her laugh again.

"What?" Rachael asked.

"Nothing." Alexandra knew she wouldn't appreciate his interest. "I expect dozens of men are waiting to dance with you all, so let me take your reticules and put them in the ladies' retiring room."

She took their three pretty little bags and started across the hall toward the small side room they'd designated for the ladies' use. A succession of feminine gasps followed by the low hiss of whispered murmurings made her stop and look over her shoulder. Her gaze swept the great hall, searching for the cause of the commotion.

At the far end of the room, Tris stood, his chin held high.

Her first thought was that he'd look better in gray, to match his eyes. Her second thought was that he couldn't possibly look any better.

His tall, lean form was breathtaking decked out in clothes for the ball. The formal suit was rather dated—the dark blue tailcoat would always be classic, but his white knee breeches were five years out of fashion, as were the ruffled white cuffs that peeked from beneath the coat's sleeves. Tris wouldn't have brought evening apparel along with him, so the outfit had likely belonged to her father or her brother Charles. He must have asked a valet to scare it up. But since several other country gentlemen hadn't bothered to update their wardrobes to the latest London offered, he didn't really look out of place.

Yet if the reaction of their other guests was any indication, he didn't belong here—and his clothing had nothing to do with it.

It wasn't that anyone confronted him. To the contrary, they all backed away, clearly snubbing him by keeping their distance. By the time she reached him—at the same moment as Griffin—he stood very much alone.

"You'd best turn up your noses," he drawled in a dry tone, "else your guests may conclude you think me worthy of more than the cut direct."

"You are worthy," Alexandra returned hotly.

Griffin was much more composed. "I thought you were determined not to attend."

Tris shrugged his elegantly clad shoulders. "I changed my mind. Quite obviously a dismal decision." His steely gaze skimmed the disapproving crowd. "It seems they have long memories."

Alexandra seethed at the sight of so many women whispering behind their fans. "How can they 'remember' something that never happened?"

"Regardless of the events leading up to it—or the lack thereof—the scandal happened, I can assure you." Tris managed a cool smile, which Alexandra imagined was for the benefit of their other guests. "It was very real."

"It was very wrong." She wasn't sure which made her more angry: her rude guests or Tris's nonchalant acceptance of their attitude. "Come dance with me. I wish to show them we're not swayed by their misplaced disapproval."

The slight shake of Griffin's head clashed with his plastered-on smile. "I don't expect that would be wise."

Tris nodded in agreement. "I shall take my leave before the two of you—and your dear sisters, by association—are tainted by my tarnished reputation." He swept them a proper bow. "Good evening."

The guests turned, almost as one, to watch him leave. Instead of escaping down the corridor to his room, he walked, head held high, across the great hall and out the grand entrance. Alexandra supposed he wanted everyone to think he'd left Cainewood, rather than guessing he was staying. But what would he do? Hide in the workshop all night?

The noise level rose as the other guests gossiped in earnest now—behind Tris's back. Alexandra looked to Griffin, gripping the three reticules so tightly her knuckles turned white. "They're all going to think we sent him away."

"All things considered, that's not such a bad thing."

"He's the best man here tonight."

"You wound me," Griffin said, clutching his chest as though she'd just put a knife through his heart.

Normally that would make her smile, but she was too upset. "He's your oldest friend. Where's your sense of loyalty?"

"Right here," he said, pointing down at the planked floor. "In this very room, with you and your sisters and your futures. Sometimes," he added between gritted teeth as he smiled at two guests approaching them, "we are forced to rank our loyalties, whether we like it or not."

"Lord Cainewood!" Lady St. Quentin, a rail-thin older woman who was a fixture at every country party, hurried closer. She had a pinched face, and her brows were too arched, making her look perpetually astonished. Her beady gaze swept curiously over both of them. "Could you believe the nerve of that man? You did the right thing sending him packing."

When Alexandra might have opened her mouth, Griffin shot her a look of warning. "Let us forget this unpleasantness, Lady St. Quentin. It's over. And I see you've brought your son."

"I was hoping for the honor of a dance," her son said in a quiet voice, almost as though he were making up for his mother's loud one. Pale and long-faced, with a knife-edged nose and small eyes, he didn't compare to Tris.

But then, no one in the great hall compared to Tris. The more men Alexandra danced with, the more she realized that although they were all perfectly acceptable, none of them were ever going to measure up to the man who held her heart.

Yet she had to keep an open mind, because anything more than friendship with Tris was impossible. If she wanted to be a wife and mother, she was going to have to settle, like Lord Jamestone, for second best. And if the thought of that made the marzipan congeal in her stomach, she was determined to ignore it. This was, after all, her family's ball, their long-awaited reentry into society. It should be a happy occasion.

She put a smile on her face and looked up at Lady St. Quentin's son. She wouldn't marry him—it was rumored the St. Quentin finances were poor, and in any case, the thought of Lady St. Quentin as a mother-in-law was enough to make her quail. But she didn't want the old prattlebox questioning her manners, either. The son seemed nice enough, if a bit of a milksop; certainly she could be polite.

"I should be delighted to dance with you," she told him with a wider, more determined smile. "Let me just dispose of these reticules, and I shall return posthaste."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When the elegant supper was all but finished and the majority of the guests had forsaken the dining room to resume dancing, Rachael moved to an empty chair beside Alexandra's. "Are your feet thanking you for sitting?"

Alexandra drained the final sip of the half glass of wine she'd allowed herself. "I've danced with so many men, my feet are numb now."

"How fortunate."

"How about yours?"

"I've danced with my share of your guests, but you had a three-hour headstart. Mine still hurt." Rachael reached to touch Alexandra's cameo. "This is very pretty."

It wasn't nearly as pretty as the diamond necklace that graced Rachael's neck, Alexandra thought, or the glittering jewels that adorned the other ladies. But she'd wanted to wear it tonight. "Tris sent it to me from Jamaica."

"You used to wear it all the time, didn't you? I remember it now." Rachael's smile was a little too understanding for Alexandra's comfort. "Have your numb feet led you to a future husband?"

"Not yet. Have your aching feet led you to anyone special?"

"Alas, they haven't."

"Alexandra!" Juliana hurried into the room, followed by Corinna. "Griffin is looking for you. Several more men have requested introductions." She turned to Rachael. "Have you danced with Griffin yet?"

"I'm not a whit interested in dancing with Griffin. But I will say he's managed to bring together an impressive array of eligible men for your sister's consideration." Rachael's eyes twinkled as they shifted to Alexandra. "You don't mind sharing with the few other ladies here, I'm hoping?"

Alexandra laughed. "No, I don't mind. I need only one for myself."

And that one, she feared, was outside tinkering in a lumber room.

"Griffin hasn't found time to dance at all," Corinna said.

"That's a pity." Rachael leaned forward and pulled off her poppy red shoes. "My feet are killing me."

Juliana frowned. "You should go into the ladies' retiring room to do that. A Lady of Distinction wouldn't approve."

"A lady of what?" Rachael asked, rubbing one of her stockinged feet.

"The author of The Mirror of the Graces. Griffin gave us all copies so we can learn manners that will win us husbands."

"I've never heard of that book." Rachael switched to massage her other foot. "But if a man won't take me the way I am, I expect I wouldn't want him anyway."

"Rachael would spit on A Lady of Distinction," Corinna informed her sister with some relish.

Figuring she'd better go find Griffin, Alexandra groaned as she got to her feet.

"Not numb anymore?" Holding her shoes in one hand, Rachael rose with an exaggerated wince. "I'd best see what Claire and Elizabeth are up to," she said as they all moved toward the door. "I don't think they ate three bites between them; they couldn't wait to get back to the dancing."

Griffin spotted the four of them the minute they entered the great hall. "There you are," he said, leading a handsome, dark man toward his oldest sister. "Alexandra, this is Lord Shipworth."

As Alexandra made the appropriate responses and went off with the prospective suitor, Rachael tried to sidestep away. Juliana caught her by the arm. "Rachael thinks it's a pity you haven't found any time to dance," she told Griffin. "She wishes to rectify that situation."

"I don't—" Rachael started before catching herself. Although the last thing she wanted was to dance with her cousin, refusing to his face would be dreadfully rude. "I don't…want to put on my shoes."

"Then don't," Juliana said gaily, taking the red slippers from her limp fingers. "Just dance in your stockinged feet. You've never feared scandal before."

"I damn well have."

"Such language only proves my point. Ah, a waltz." Grinning, she grabbed Rachael's hand and put it right into Griffin's. "Enjoy yourselves, will you?"

"I'm not very good at this," Griffin muttered as he guided Rachael onto the dance floor and took a few tentative steps. "I learned to waltz only this week."

He was certainly holding her awkwardly. And at arm's length, as though he could hardly bear to touch her. But at least he wasn't trodding on her stockinged toes. "You're doing very well for a beginner," she assured him. "Especially considering you didn't want to dance with me."

The pink flush that crept up his neck clashed with his green eyes. "I never said that."

"Liar." She laughed. "I'd wager you told Juliana you're not a whit interested in dancing with me."

A crooked half smile curved his lips. "I said nothing about a whit."

"Well, I did. I told her I wasn't a whit interested in dancing with you, but it seems she completely ignored us both."

"That was a brave confession." The smile turned full-blown now, revealing creases in his cheeks that matched the slight dent in his chin. "I promise not to hold it against you."

"Do you expect I would care if you did?"

"Not at all. That's what I love about you. In a strictly platonic way, of course," he rushed to add.

"Of course," she echoed pleasantly. Now that he'd relaxed, he was proving a much better dancer than he'd given himself credit for. He held her a little closer. He smelled of spicy soap.

It was really too bad he was her cousin.

"Juliana deserves to be beaten," he said.

"You won't do it," she returned confidently.

"You're right. I'm an excessively ineffective father. And I never dreamed I'd be a matchmaking mama."

"A mama?" she echoed with a laugh. A more masculine man she'd never met. "That sounds more like a nightmare than a dream." She smiled as they twirled around the room, noting all the women were on the dance floor while many extra men waited around the edges. "Given that you're a beginner at matchmaking as well, I'd say you're doing an excellent job."

"But I have only"—he glanced at the tall-case clock—"four more hours to match Alexandra."

"Four hours? I hesitate to dash your expectations, but it's likely to take longer than that. I've been searching for a husband for four seasons."

Four seasons, Griffin thought. Good God. If it took his sisters that long, he'd be well into his thirties before he could concentrate on his own life. "Have you had no offers in all that time?"

"Oh, only about a hundred." She laughed with him for a moment, but then sighed, the tip of her tongue sneaking out to moisten her lips. The sight generated a ball of heat that smacked him in the chest and spread down, making his body stir in areas it had no business stirring. "My parents shared a special love," she said softly. "I wish for no less. I'll wait until I find it."

"I see." Griffin danced silently for a few measures, wondering if his sisters were that idealistic. He wanted them to be happy, but four seasons was a long time. Of course, Rachael had been busy overseeing the earldom during that time, too. Perhaps she hadn't paid enough attention to her courtships. "Have you made progress preparing the master chamber for your brother's arrival?"

"Yes, much." Her good cheer returned. "It hasn't been as difficult as I expected. I haven't gone through anything very personal yet, but packing Mama's and Papa's clothes away has actually recalled many pleasant memories."

"I'm glad," he told her with a smile. She smiled back—a smile that lit up the entire great hall as they whirled across the crowded dance floor. No one else smiled like Rachael—she put her whole soul into it. He couldn't imagine why, in four seasons, no man had managed to snatch her up. She was so open and refreshing.

The music stopped, but he held her a little longer, a little closer, thinking that if he were in the market for a wife, he'd want one exactly like her.

Had he really thought that? he wondered, pulling back. He must be getting soft in the head. This matchmaking business was entirely too much pressure.

She looked bemused, her cerulean eyes wide and opaque. "Um, thank you for the dance."

"Thank you," he said, "for being such a sport. I shall have a talk with Juliana. It won't happen again."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"What do you think of my son?"

"Oh, he seems a fine young man." Casting about for a way to redirect the conversation, Alexandra lifted a silver tray off a nearby table and held it out to Lady St. Quentin. "Would you care for another marzipan fruit?"

"Why yes, dear, I would." She chose a miniature bunch of grapes. "These remind me of your sweet mother."

"There you are!" Corinna barged into the refreshment room. "You must see something, Alexandra."

"One moment, Corinna." Alexandra smiled apologetically at Lady St. Quentin. "Indeed, Mama made these most every time she held an entertainment. We could but do the same. It's one of our traditions."

"I admire a traditional lady. Do you expect you and my son might suit?"

"Alexandra—"

"I'm pleased the marzipan brought back good memories, Lady St. Quentin. If you'll excuse me." Still carrying the tray, Alexandra hurried off with Corinna. "What could be so important?"

"Did you really want to answer her question about her son? Just come with me."

Huffing out a breath, Alexandra lifted her skirts and followed her sister to the far end of the great hall, into the corridor, and up a dark, narrow flight of stairs. "You know what a gossip Lady St. Quentin is. I danced with her milksop son, hoping she'd think well of us. Now she'll be telling everyone we're rude."

"Oh, do stop being such a fusspot," Corinna said as they stepped onto the landing.

Juliana was waiting there by a door. "What are you worried about now?"

"Nothing," Alexandra said.

"Not nothing," Corinna disagreed. "She's fears Lady St. Quentin might think her less than a perfect hostess."

"If you stopped worrying about what everyone thinks, maybe you could find happiness." With that annoying proclamation, Juliana slowly opened the door. Music floated up and through it from the great hall. "Look," she whispered.

There, in the minstrel's gallery, stood Tris. His back to the door, he leaned on the balcony's rail, gazing down on the festivities below.

Alexandra didn't know whether she was angry with her sisters or grateful to them. She wasn't sure whether she should go to Tris or leave. Juliana solved her dilemma with a little push. By the time Alexandra turned around, the door had been quietly shut behind her.

The torches in the great hall threw light and shadow into the minstrel's gallery. For a moment, she just drank Tris in. His shoulders looked tense beneath the fine, dark blue tailcoat; his hair grazed the collar in the back. He'd be leaving before nightfall tomorrow. This might be the last time she'd ever be alone with him.

Taking a deep breath, she walked closer. "Would you care for a sweet?" she asked over the music.

Tris started, then turned to face her. "No. Thank you."

He looked different tonight. Perhaps it was the formal clothing, or perhaps it was because his hair was combed neatly for once. Or perhaps it was because the more time she'd spent with other men, the more she'd become convinced he was the only one she wanted.

As he met her eyes, an odd tingle erupted in the pit of her stomach. She held his gaze for a moment, finding nothing encouraging there, nothing to lead her to believe anything had changed. But over the course of the evening, everything had changed for her.

She was just now realizing how much.

Although he was stone-faced, she gave him a little smile. "How did you get back inside?"

"One of the servants' entrances, a few passageways, a set of back stairs. I learned my way around long ago, playing hide-and-seek with Griffin."

Of course. Tris had history here. It just wasn't with her.

"I thought you were determined to avoid this ball at all costs." The wooden structure held no furniture, so she balanced the tray carefully on the rail. "Why did you put in an appearance?"

"To make a point." His gray gaze remained steady, resolute. "To prove to you, once and for all, that life with me would be a living hell."

The music swelled as she gestured over the edge of the balcony. "That's not life. I don't need those people." She swallowed hard. "I need you, Tris."

"You don't."

"I do. But I cannot ruin my family's good name." Here she was, in the most beautiful dress she'd ever owned, and she'd never felt more wretched in her life. "I don't know what I can do."

"You can go back down there and find another man."

"I tried, damn you."

He looked startled at her language, or perhaps at the fact that she'd been pushed to it. A long silence stretched between them, and the music from below failed to fill it. Despite his stated resolve, she watched his gaze rake her form, then focus on his cameo. The steel in his eyes softened.

She moved closer and laid a gloved hand against his blue-and-white patterned waistcoat. "I think I'm in love with you," she confessed quietly.

The steel hardened again as he stepped back. "Think is the operative word. You cannot be in love with me."

"I know my feelings, Tris."

"You don't."

She fisted the hand that had fallen from his chest. "Stop telling me what I do and don't feel."

"Stop pretending you can change our circumstances by wishing."

"I know I cannot." She heard tears in her voice and cursed herself for them. "But I cannot change my feelings, either."

He sighed, a sigh burdened with age-old memories. "I've thought I was in love before, too. But it was never more than an illusion, and I won't make such an error again. Neither will you, once I leave and you come to your senses. Day after tomorrow, Alexandra, you'll wake up free of me."

She'd never be free of him, not in her heart. "Will you tell me about the ladies you loved?" she asked carefully.

He turned to stare blindly over the dancers. "There was a girl in Oxford who wouldn't wait for me when I had to leave. And a girl in Jamaica who wouldn't come back with me to England." His fingers gripped the rail. "More recently, there was a woman named Leticia. Miss Leticia Armstrong."

When he stopped there, she laid a hand over his on the rail. "What happened?"

"She's the daughter of a local baron. I met her around the time I inherited, when everything in my life seemed charmed. She seemed charming, too, and I was certain she returned my feelings. In fact, she swore her undying love. I asked her to wed me, and she accepted happily enough. But then scandal broke out, and when I suggested her reputation might suffer should she stand by my side, she readily agreed and fled."

Leticia. She must have been the woman who had taught him to waltz. Although Alexandra supposed she should be grateful for that, instead she hated Leticia—and the others—for hurting him. For turning him into a cynical man who refused to believe in love.

She studied his shadowed profile—so like the portrait she'd done of him years ago. Except his jaw looked harder, and his heart had hardened, too. "Leticia never loved you, or she'd have stayed with you. Perhaps she loved who you were—a marquess. She loved the life she imagined you'd give her. But when that life was threatened, her love disappeared. It wasn't true love."

"And neither was my love for her. Or the others. Each time, it dissipated easily enough. As will yours. You'll make a nice life for yourself—with another man." He finally turned to look at her, but it wasn't to offer hope. "I won't marry, Alexandra. Not you or anyone else."

She'd heard that from him before—too many times before—but he couldn't fool her any longer. While she understood that he didn't want to be responsible for a wife being ostracized by society, she also knew he didn't want to open himself up for more hurt. She knew he wanted her, in a physical sense, at least—he'd admitted as much more than once. But those three women had damaged him more than he'd admit. He'd built a wall around himself.

She wished she could figure out how to scale it, even as she knew that, for her sisters' sakes, she couldn't.

Unless…

"What if you're proven innocent?" she asked, stunned that she hadn't considered this angle before. Should he be exonerated, society would welcome him—and his wife—with open arms. "Did you ever search for the real killer?"

He looked defeated before he even opened his mouth. "I'm not convinced there was a killer—my uncle hadn't been himself since his family was lost. Men often die in their beds naturally, from hidden illnesses or a broken heart. He was ill—a mild chill, we all thought, though it might have been something more serious. But yes, I tried to find a culprit. And no, I'm not going to reopen the investigation now."

"Why not? Perhaps we can find new evidence."

"We?" Something like panic filled his eyes. "Stay out of this, Alexandra."

"But I could help—"

"No. No, you cannot." Below, the musicians struck up a waltz. "The matter is closed and has been for years. No one murdered my uncle. Forget it. Dance with me instead."

He pulled her into his arms, and they started moving together to the music, twirling across the wide, empty balcony. She found herself buffeted with emotions: frustration that he flatly refused to try to clear his name, sadness that they would probably never dance together again, happiness at finding herself this close to him if only for the space of a dance.

He drew her even closer, much closer than he had during their lesson. She felt his hard chest against her soft bosom, and her breasts seemed to ache in response. His large hand rested on her back, pressing her closer still. They whirled faster. A lock of his carefully combed hair came loose and flopped over his forehead. Her heart seemed to beat directly against his, quick and unsteady.

She couldn't remember ever being so happy and so distressed all at the same time.

As for Tristan, distress didn't begin to describe his feelings. Her declaration had thumped into his midsection like a well-aimed fist.

I think I'm in love with you.

He'd never heard anything more horrifying.

In the aftermath of Leticia leaving him, he'd made firm decisions, the main one being he would never again believe a woman's claims of undying love. To do so left him too vulnerable, his emotions too close to the surface, his heart too open to pain.

But to disbelieve Alexandra might very well be impossible.

She couldn't be in love with him—she just couldn't. She was too loyal, too sincere, too difficult to heartlessly deny. He couldn't cope with her love, with the guilt of leaving her, with the thought of her going to another man. His only saving grace was his certainty that she was wrong. She didn't know love any more than he did.

And he wasn't even certain it existed.

The waltz was sweet torture, her yielding body against his, her gloved hand squeezing his so hard he wondered how the blood could make its way through their veins. Beneath a fussy little bonnet, her hair was piled atop her head in a loose, sensuous arrangement, and he buried his nose in it, inhaling the fragrance as though it could sustain him.

"I'm getting dizzy," she breathed as he spun her faster. "Dizzy on lo—"

"Don't say it." There was no point, and it wasn't even true. "Just dance with me."

She leaned away from him, just far enough to meet his eyes. "Why?" Even as she asked, her grip tightened on his hand, her other arm tugged him closer. "What made you ask me to dance?"

Sheer terror. He'd have done anything to stop her from continuing her line of questioning. The only thing more frightening than love was the murky uncertainty surrounding the mystery of his uncle's death.

But he couldn't tell her that. "It was our last chance," he said instead, not wanting to encourage her but unable to come up with another explanation.

"And Griffin isn't watching."

"No," he agreed, "he's not."

When the music stopped, he twirled her once more before reluctantly releasing her.

"Will you kiss me?" she whispered in the hush that followed. "It's our last chance for that, too."

He shook his head. "I cannot." His reputation might be in shreds, but he still had his honor.

"You kissed me before."

He couldn't tell her he'd been sleepwalking. That would be humiliating, not to mention somewhat of an insult. "I cannot trust myself to only kiss you. I thought I explained—"
"Never mind." She began pulling off one of her gloves.

Below, the musicians struck up a cheerful country dance. But Tristan was feeling anything but cheerful. He stared at her busy hands. "What are you doing?"

"I just want to touch you." She dropped the glove to the floor and started on the other one. "Do you remember when I made your profile portrait? Years ago, before you left for Jamaica?"

"Yes, but—"

"I wanted to touch you then. I pretended I was touching you while I traced your face. I've loved you for all that time, Tris. Maybe longer."

"You cannot have." As her second glove hit the wooden planks, he started backing away toward the rail. "Young girls often have crushes on their older brothers' friends. You never let go of that. Now I understand."

"No. You don't understand." Following him, she raised a hand to his forehead and swept the hair from his brow. Her fingers were gentle, and she smelled warm and sweet, and it took everything he had not to drag her back into his arms.

"That won't work," he said unsteadily.

She only shrugged and reached for one of his hands, tugging to loosen the glove, slowly and deliberately, fingertip by fingertip. As she slid the silk free and dropped it to join hers on the floor, a tremor ran through him, leaving a queasy ache in his gut and a more urgent ache down lower.

Damn if she wasn't seducing him—and successfully, at that. His body was sending him all sorts of messages his brain didn't want to accept. He should leave. Now.

Before he found himself lost in temptation.

The door was right there in front of him, but instead of leaving, he backed away some more. A smile curving her lips, she followed again, giving his second glove the same rapt attention as the first. When it hit the floor, she linked her fingers with his—both hands—and sighed so prettily it made her breasts rise and fall in the tiny bodice Griffin had said she couldn't wear.

"I just wanted to touch you," she breathed.

He just wanted to kiss her. He couldn't. As she swayed toward him, he took one more step toward the rail—

And knocked the silver tray clear off of it.

"Drat!" Alexandra cried, twisting sideways to lean over the rail. They both watched in horror as the tray hit the floor below with a resounding metallic crash, scattering miniature colored marzipan fruits all over the polished wood. A few dancers screamed, scattering along with them, while the rest of the dancers froze. The musicians stopped playing mid-note.

Alexandra wrenched her hands from his and pushed hard against his chest. Her harsh whisper rent the silence. "Run!"

She turned and fled, clattering down the stairs before he could even reach the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Before any servants could arrive to help, Alexandra skidded into the great hall and dropped to her knees on the floor, scrabbling for the miniature marzipan fruits. A Lady of Distinction would surely disapprove, but she couldn't bring herself to care at the moment.

"We'll have this set to rights in a minute," she announced to anyone who would listen, "and the dancing can resume. No need to panic."

Never mind that she was panicking herself. Her stomach was in a knot. Her breathing was quick and unsteady. Her pulse was racing faster than it had when she'd tried to coax Tris into kissing her.

Tris. Sweet heaven. If anyone had glanced up and seen them there together…

Rachael knelt beside her, adding a tiny apple, orange, and strawberry to the dented tray. "What happened?" she whispered.

"Later," Alexandra muttered out of the side of her mouth. She stood, holding the tray with one hand while smoothing her skirts with the other. With a deliberate smile, she addressed the little crowd that had gathered around them. "Pray, continue." She waved a hand at the musicians. "If you will?"

The music resumed, and the guests began dispersing. A few ladies whispered behind their fans, but it seemed the worst was over. Alexandra's heart began to calm; her breathing began to slow; the knot in her stomach began to unravel.

Someone tapped her on the arm with a folded fan. "Lady Alexandra."

She turned to see Lady St. Quentin. "Yes?"

"Where are your gloves?"

She forced a light laugh. "Oh, silly me. I must have left them up in the minstrel's gallery."

"Well, then," Lady St. Quentin said, a keen glitter in her eyes, "shall we go recover them?"

"I'd be pleased to do that," Rachael offered quickly.

But Lady St. Quentin was already heading for the corridor, as unstoppable as a battleship under sail. A very narrow one. Alexandra shoved the tray at her cousin and ran to follow.

"I wonder what we'll find up there?" Lady St. Quentin asked.

"Nothing much," Alexandra said, knowing exactly what the woman would find: two pairs of gloves, one of them quite obviously a man's. But she seemed helpless to stop the meddlesome harridan. "I was overly warm," she babbled at the woman's bony behind as they climbed the stairs. "I was…yes, I was overly warm, so I went up to the minstrel's gallery and removed my gloves, and I was watching the ball from up there—so beautiful, it was—just resting a bit and cooling off, when I very unfortunately dropped—"

Alexandra broke off, fearing her heart might stop as the harridan marched through the gallery's door.

But there were no gloves. None at all. The floor was as bare as when she and Tris had danced on it.

Her knees weakened with relief.

"What happened to your gloves?" Lady St. Quentin turned on her, a predatory look in her eyes. "Do you suppose your lover took them as a souvenir?"

"Wh-what?" Alexandra stammered. Her knees weakened still more, but now it was with fear. "I have no lover."

"You were up here with a man," the woman accused in a low voice. "I saw you, so don't try to deny it." She smiled, the mean smile of an undeserving victor. "You're ruined, my girl. Fortunately, my son is willing—"

"Your son is willing to do what?" Griffin interrupted from the doorway.

Alexandra turned in time to see Rachael arrive behind him; perhaps she'd alerted him to the trouble. But however he'd come to be here, Alexandra had never been happier to see him in her life.

Lady St. Quentin lifted her pointy chin. "My son is willing to marry your sister."

"Would her sizable dowry have anything to do with that?"

"Does it matter? She should consider herself lucky. She was seen up here with a man."

"Was she?" He looked to Alexandra. "Were you up here with a man?"

"No. Of course I wasn't." Alexandra gave him a grateful—if shaky—smile. "That would be very improper."

"She wasn't up here with a man," Griffin calmly told Lady St. Quentin.

Two bright pink spots appeared on the woman's cheeks. "She was."

"She was not. Now, would you care to return to the ball? Or shall I have a footman escort you to your carriage?"

"I saw them," the harridan insisted.

Griffin gave a long-suffering sigh and crossed his arms. "Let me put this another way, Lady St. Quentin. Should you spread the falsehood that my sister was seen with a man, neither you nor your son will ever receive another invitation to Cainewood…or anywhere else south of London. Do I make myself clear?"

All the color drained from her face, which looked even more pinched than usual as she sucked in her cheeks. The widow of a baronet with little land was no match for the Marquess of Cainewood. "Indeed," she said stiffly.

"Excellent." His smile failed to reach his eyes. "I trust you know your way back to the great hall?"

Alexandra hadn't known her brother had it in him to be so commanding. She supposed it could be his experience as an officer, but whatever the reason, he seemed to be growing into his role as a marquess. As she listened to Lady St. Quentin make her muttering way down the stairs, she felt like applauding.

Rachael did applaud. "Bravo!" she said softly, her eyes shining as she turned to Griffin. "You were magnificent."

Alexandra wondered if she looked at Tris like that. It really was a shame that Rachael was so opposed to marrying a cousin.

"Thank you," she said to them both. "I hope she won't spread lies."

"She won't," Griffin said, sounding very sure. "Whom were you up here with, Alexandra?"

She swallowed hard. "Tris. Juliana noticed him watching the ball, and she and Corinna suggested I come up and keep him company for a short while." That was close enough to the truth. "He's leaving tomorrow."

He gazed at her for a long moment, then nodded. "There are six more men waiting to dance with you. We'd best go downstairs." He flipped open his pocket watch, looked at it, and closed it again with a snap. "You have two hours left to see if any man catches your fancy."

"And if no one does?"

He shrugged. "We'll have to plan another ball."

A different brother might have said that in a threatening tone, Alexandra thought as she preceded him downstairs. But from Griffin, the statement had sounded good-natured and matter-of-fact. So good-natured, in fact, that she felt terrible about dallying with his best friend and thereby possibly damaging their relationship.

Many handsome, eligible gentlemen waited in the great hall. She renewed her resolve to be open-minded when meeting them.

But two hours later, when she'd said her good-byes to the guests departing for home, when she'd settled the people staying overnight in the rooms down the corridor, when she'd finally fallen exhausted into bed…she'd come no closer to finding anyone who could make her forget Tris.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Alexandra was having the most extraordinary, most incredible, most delicious dream.

Tris was kissing her. Slow, sensuous kisses. Cherishing kisses. Kisses that made her senses spin and heat gather in a molten ball low in her middle.

But that wasn't all.

He also had his hands on her body.

On her breasts.

Even in her dream, she was scandalized, but as it was only a dream, she decided to lie back and enjoy the luscious experience. Just lie back and pretend that in real life he would touch her in such a tender, forbidden way. Just lie back…

Oh, yes, she realized…she was lying on a bed. Her bed. Her eyes were closed, but she knew it was her bed regardless, perhaps because it was her dream. The drawstring ribbon that secured the neckline of her nightgown had been untied, and the garment was pulled down beneath her breasts, and Tris was touching them, tracing feathery circles around their fullness and cupping them in his warm hands, and—oh!

It felt so wonderful, her very breath caught in her throat.

He captured the crests in his fingers, gently squeezing, rolling, pinching. They contracted under his attentions, sending pleasure sprinting along her nerves, throughout her body, centering in a tingling place between her thighs. She'd always known that place was there, of course, but it was as though she hadn't quite known what it was for…and now, in her dream, she did. It was for making her feel languid and achy and altogether decadent.

She squirmed, wanting something, needing something, unsure exactly what but craving it with every fiber of her being.

"Tris," she murmured against his lips. She felt him smile before his mouth left hers, a warm, lingering parting. He bent his head, trailing his lips across her cheek, down her chin, to the hollow of her throat where he dallied, teasing the sensitive skin. And then lower, dusting little kisses all over her upper chest, kisses that made her whole body squirm with pleasure.

And then lower still, until his mouth closed over a breast.

A hot stab of lust lanced through her. She gasped and sighed and arched, offering herself to him like a wanton tart. She could barely conceive of acting so forward in real life, but this was a dream…

And if some small part of her wondered how she could dream of things she didn't know, the rest of her silenced that question, reveling in all the marvelous new sensations.

Warm, damp breath feathered over her skin as he licked and nipped and then lavished her other breast with similar attention. More feelings were building in her, amazing feelings. Sparks skittered along her veins as her heart pumped furiously. She couldn't remember consciously breathing in a dream, but she did now, each ragged inhalation making her head swim.

His mouth returned to hers, kissing her senseless, a mating of lips and teeth and tongues…and he slipped his hand beneath the hem of her nightgown. His fingers inched up her legs, teasingly, excruciatingly slowly, tracing patterns on her calves, behind her knees, across her thighs. His touch felt divine. He seemed to be worshipping her with his fingers, and every inch of her tingled in response.

Oh, this dream was glorious!

Breaking their kiss, he wiggled her nightgown farther up her body. She eased away, lifting herself to help him pull it off over her head, then scooted close again, wrapping her arms around him and nestling her body against his.

He felt large and strong, his muscles contoured beneath taut, hot skin.

Dear God in heaven, he was naked.

And the glorious dream was no dream at all.

She tensed at the realization, her hands stilling on his body. Tris—a naked Tris—was here in her very real bed.

Such sweet scandal, she thought as her heart stuttered and restarted.

Things had already gone far past the point of propriety, but she couldn't bring herself to be sorry. Though this wasn't a dream, the man of her dreams was making her feel as no other man ever had. With all her heart, she was grateful for this unexpected gift. Never had she imagined such exquisite pleasures. And if she was fated to settle for marriage to another man, she couldn't regret experiencing this intimacy just once with the one who owned her heart.

Besides, it wasn't as though he'd taken her virginity. Tris was a gentleman—surely he'd stop as soon as she asked.

No one else would ever know this had happened.

She knew she should ask him to stop now, but she couldn't resist moving yet closer, molding her soft curves to his firmer form. Just a few seconds more to savor these delicious sensations. To commit them to memory.

She concentrated on all the wondrous things she was feeling. Pressed against his chest, her breasts felt heavy and sensitive, their crests still tight from his touch. She felt his lips locked on her mouth, his tongue a sweet, thrilling invasion. Felt her heart race, felt her breath hitch. Felt the hard ridges of his back, the heavy weight of his legs intertwined with hers.

She really should ask him to stop. But as he stroked her inner thighs, his fingers inching ever higher, her breathing grew so shallow and short she didn't think she could ask him anything at all.

Then he maneuvered his hand between her legs and cupped the tingling place where her pleasure was centered, and a jolt of aching desire made her shudder from head to toe.

"Tris!" she cried.

"What?" With a jarring suddenness, he pulled away.

Her lids flew open. In the dim light from the dying fire, his eyes looked wide.

"Don't stop," she whispered desperately, although she knew, without a doubt, that was the exact wrong thing to say.

"Don't…what?"

When he made no move to comply, her first impulse was to grab his hand and put it back where she wanted it. But though her body still reminded her just how wonderful he'd made her feel, her head cleared a bit. Thank heavens he had more sense than she did and had saved her from her folly.

She could scarcely believe she'd become that lost in temptation.

"Where am I?" he asked, and she felt foggy, confused. He struggled to rise to an elbow, his gray gaze swiftly scanning the room. "How the devil did I come to be here in—"

He broke off as he focused on her beside him, then gasped at her naked shoulders and half-exposed breasts. Slipping a hand beneath the covers, he skimmed her bare side briefly, as though needing confirmation before he jerked away and dropped his head to the pillows.

"Oh, bloody hell," he ground out through a groan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

His thoughts still murky, Tristan watched Alexandra snatch the counterpane higher to cover her bare breasts. In the pale, flickering light, her eyes were pools of brandy mist. Her cheeks were rosily flushed. Her breath sounded heavy and uneven. She looked passionate, sensuous, beautiful.

The mere sight of her was horrifying.

Because beneath those same covers, he was as shockingly naked as she. His breath was as ragged as hers. His body trembled with the aftereffects of recent arousal.

He'd never been more appalled in his life. He'd done the unthinkable—made love to his best friend's sister. And having done the unthinkable, now he could barely think.

"Bloody hell," he repeated more vehemently. His heart was pounding from much more than lingering lust. He would have to make amends. Damn his traitorous body, or brain, or whatever it was that compelled him to commit unforgivable acts in his sleep. In his waking hours, like now, he still had his honor. Perhaps it was hanging by a thread, but he was determined to maintain it.

"We shall have to marry," he declared stiffly.

She stared at him, her breathing slowing to something approaching normal while her eyes cleared. "I'd love nothing more," she finally said in her considered, calm way. No temper tantrums for Alexandra, no matter how much she deserved to throw one. "But we cannot. Nothing has changed. My sisters—"

"Everything has changed," he snapped.

Her brow crinkled in confusion. "I thought you were dead set against marriage."

"I cannot believe you're arguing." As romantic proposals went, he knew his had fallen far short of ideal. But her reaction was incomprehensible. "You could even now be carrying my child."

"Carrying your child?" If anything, she seemed even more confused. "Have you changed your mind and now think to trick me?"

"No, I haven't changed my mind." To the contrary, after tonight's doings, he was more fearful of marriage than ever. If he could make love to Alexandra while sleepwalking, what else might he be capable of while unaware? Would he be a danger to his own wife? "But unfortunately, under the circumstances, I don't see where we have a choice."

She shook her head. "I might be a bit hazy on the details, but I've known the facts of life since the age of twelve. My mother was not remiss in my education. What just happened in this bed—nice as it was—couldn't possibly result in a child."

Could she mean…had he not followed all the way through?

The possibility hadn't occurred to him. He'd assumed, since he wasn't aroused, he'd completed the act. Before he'd fully awakened, could the shock have stolen his desire?

"Are you certain?" he asked.

Her brow crinkled again. "Are you not?"

"No," he said simply.

The single word hung in the air. She waited, just looking at him, expecting an explanation. Holy Christ. Humiliating though it might be, there was nothing for it—he had to confess the truth.

"I have no memory of our encounter," he said at last. "I don't even know how I got to this room."

"How can that be?"

"I was sleeping. Or rather, sleepwalking." He braced for her reaction. "The last thing I remember before waking here in your bed was going to sleep in my own. I realize that's difficult to believe—"

"Were you really sleepwalking?" she interrupted, the confusion in her voice replaced by curiosity. He'd been certain she'd think him addled, but that didn't seem to be the case. "I thought that only happened in books."

"It's happened to me all my life, on and off. I'm sorry. I know that's a pathetic excuse for stealing your virginity—"

"You didn't," she said in her usual, straightforward way. "Perhaps you stole some of my innocence, but my virginity is intact."

Most women, Tristan imagined, would be furious regardless. "Are you certain?" he asked again.

She laughed. At a time like this, she laughed. "I'm positive. You only…touched me, Tris. In…very nice ways. With your hands and your mouth—but not in any fashion that would compromise my virginity, let alone leave me with child."

He couldn't remember ever being more relieved, both by that news and her reaction to his confession. She really was a very special woman.

It was almost too bad he couldn't marry.

"Thank you," he said, "for your honesty. This won't happen again. As far as I know, I've never sleepwalked twice in a night." He began to rise, the covers falling to his waist.

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Please, stay for a while." Her eyes wide, she stared at his bare chest. "I know it's frightfully improper, but what's a few more minutes? I want to hear more about the sleepwalking. And you're leaving tomorrow."

He hadn't ever seriously talked to anyone about this. The thought was alarming, but also strangely appealing. He drew a steadying breath and gestured to his dressing gown at the foot of the bed, vaguely wondering when he'd donned it, let alone taken it off. "Shall we…put something on?"

Her gaze flicked to her nightgown, a crumpled white ball beside her. She clutched the covers tighter beneath her chin, clearly unwilling to let go in order to dress. "Just relax. I promise I won't attack you."

With a strained chuckle, he resettled himself on his side, facing her but carefully separated by a space. The fire was dying, and with it the light. He briefly considered rebuilding it, but then thought the darkness might make talking easier. And he wasn't cold. Having her this close—and the both of them undressed—made a fire of another kind altogether.

A fire he was determined to resist.

"What do you want to know?" he asked.

"Everything. When did you first sleepwalk?"

"As a small child. I used to do it quite often, but as I grew older, I seemed to outgrow it. The episodes tapered off. Now it seems to happen only when I'm under stress of some sort. The occurrences have really become quite infrequent. In fact, I was hoping they had stopped altogether. Until this week, I hadn't sleepwalked in three or four years."

"Since your uncle's death," she mused quietly. "What is it like?"

"I don't know. I never remember." He'd guessed right that the darkness would help. Answering a disembodied voice was so much easier than responding to an expectant face. And yet more intimate somehow. "What does it look like to you?"

"My eyes were closed," she murmured. "I wasn't looking."

Her tone made him imagine that if the room were lighter he'd see her blush. "How about the other night? When you caught me 'stealing' the chocolate cakes. What were your impressions then?"

"You were sleepwalking then?" Her voice was suffused with wonder. "Of course," she answered herself. "That's why you didn't remember our kiss. I can see it now. See you, I mean. You seemed a bit…distant—well, other than during the kiss—and you didn't respond well to my questions. I thought you were being deliberately evasive."

"Others have said the same. A blank look in my eyes, responses that don't quite make sense." He sighed. "I never, ever remember. It's rather frightening, if you want to know the truth."

"No, it isn't. I would think it should be, but it isn't."

Bless her for that. But that wasn't what he'd meant. "I've never kissed anyone in my sleep before, let alone climbed into another's bed. It's frightening because I don't know what I might do next." And for some unknown reason, he felt compelled to add, "And what else I might already have done."

"Like what?" she breathed.

His voice dropped to a low, almost-whisper. "Like possibly—though I don't remember it—poisoning my uncle."

There. He'd said it out loud. He prepared for her shock and immediate departure, but she didn't run screaming from the room.

Instead, she reached across the mattress, rooting beneath the covers until she found one of his hands and took it in hers. "You don't really believe that."

Like an unexpected blow to his midsection, her simple statement stole his breath. Her unquestioning belief in him was a force all its own, a sort of acceptance he'd never experienced or expected. Though he couldn't see her in the dark, her hand squeezing his told him all he needed to know.

She had more faith in him than he had in himself.

"You don't believe that," she insisted. "Tell me you don't."

"Sometimes, in the dark of the night, when I wonder what I did to deserve my life going so dreadfully wrong…"

He'd never told anyone this. Not even, he suddenly realized, himself.

He wasn't the sort to brood over life's inequities, and until recently—very recently—he hadn't felt particularly deprived. Even taking his isolation into consideration, he had so much more than so many other people in this world. A magnificent ancestral home that he enjoyed updating and improving, several estates to occupy his time and challenge his talents and ingenuity, and more money than he knew what to do with. Considering the misery most people endured on a day-to-day basis, he knew he had no right to complain.

It was only lately that he'd realized he was lonely. But that shouldn't be so much to bear.

"My uncle died in the middle of the night," he said. "I had recently arrived from Jamaica to find my own father had passed on. Uncle Harold hadn't been himself since the deaths of his wife and sons, and I was staying with him at his request." He knew he'd told her some of this before, but he needed to put it in context. "As I was now his heir, he wished to instruct me, and I wished to cheer him. Truly, I did. He was only in his early fifties; I expected him to live a long, long time. I had no wish for his death."

"I'm sure you hadn't," she said quietly.

"But can't you see? I was there, sleeping in his house, that morning when he failed to awaken. And I'd been sleepwalking—after three years of peaceful nights in Jamaica, I'd come home to find my father dead and my financial life in a shambles, and I'd begun sleepwalking again. I don't remember murdering my uncle, and I felt nothing but love for him, I assure you. I don't consider myself capable of killing anyone, let alone the man who had fathered me more than my own father. But the fact remains that I was under great pressure at the time, and I'd already sleepwalked once or twice…so a part of me has always wondered."

"A very small part of you, I'm sure."

He wasn't sure it wasn't a large part. It was something he tried not to think about.

"That's what's kept you from digging too deeply to clear your name," she said. "You're afraid you might discover the opposite, that you were responsible for your uncle's death."

His first reaction was knee-jerk denial, but she sounded so reasonable he felt obligated to mull it over a moment. "Perhaps," he finally conceded. He'd never clarified that in his mind; he'd always thought of it as putting the past behind him and getting on with his life. But he had to admit that what she said might be true.

And that she must understand him very well to surmise it.

"That's ridiculous." She pulled her hand from his, leaving him feeling very alone in the dark. "There's absolutely no way you could have murdered your uncle."

He recoiled from the certainty in her voice, the anger she so very rarely displayed. "It's a possibility," he disagreed tersely. "Only a possibility, but—"

"It's not." He felt her fingers brush his face, and her voice gentled, but not much. "You're a good man, Tris. And I'm positively certain that, as such, you would never do anything while asleep that you didn't wish to do while awake."

It was an interesting theory, but he couldn't quite buy it. "How about this?" he returned, reaching to skim a hand over her bare hip, still horrified that he'd all but ruined her.

She hesitated rather than answering, releasing a little moan before she closed the distance between them. Her arms went around him and held him snug. Damning his own weakness, he reveled in her embrace, wrapping his arms around her to hold her close.

"You wanted to do this, too," she whispered into the night.

He couldn't argue with that. He'd been craving her for weeks, months…years, if he were to be honest. Just having her so near was a torture he could barely endure. She felt too warm, too giving, too damn sweet in his arms. And even though he couldn't remember so much as a moment of their earlier encounter, she somehow felt familiar in his arms, too.

As though she belonged here. But she didn't.

No one belonged in his arms.

Her insistence that he was innocent had done nothing to ease his worry. God only knew what he might do next in his sleep. Though he'd hesitated to wed before, now he was absolutely determined never to subject a good woman to his menace.

And every fiber of his being was aware of her against him. Dangerously aware. "I must leave," he said, trying to pull away.

She held him tighter, her curves melding to match his contours, the soft pillows of her breasts crushed against his chest. "Stay. Please. A few minutes longer."

She didn't say why. She didn't need to say they would never be together like this again.

"Just hold me," she begged. "Just hold me for a little while."

So he just held her. It was, perhaps, the most difficult thing he'd ever done. His entire body was rock hard. Her skin was so silky beneath his hands, her loose, long hair so fragrant. He buried his face against her neck, and he could feel the pulse in the slim column of her throat, rapid and unsteady like his.

And when she fell asleep in his arms, he knew he'd never known a sweeter moment.

He wouldn't succumb to sleep. He'd just lie here a little longer, imprinting this moment in his brain so he could relive it in the long, lonely years ahead.

He wouldn't sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

There was an empty space at the breakfast table.

True, it had taken a good half hour for the family and all their guests to make their bleary-eyed way to the dining room. But now it was nearly noon. And Alexandra—normally the earliest riser of them all—had yet to appear.

"Do you expect she's had a relapse?" Lord Shelton asked, his pale brow wrinkled in concern. "Could the evening have been too much for her in her current, fragile state?"

Griffin shrugged, secretly pleased. "Perhaps." With any luck, this would provide an excuse to put the poor man off another month or so.

"Alexandra is the veriest picture of health," Juliana declared, to his annoyance. "I shall go fetch her." She began to rise.

"I expect Lady Alexandra is still sleeping," Lady St. Quentin said in her superior, all-knowing way. "I do believe she had a late night."

The low buzz of conversation ceased as all eyes in the room looked to her.

"We all had a late night," Griffin said into the sudden silence.

Lady St. Quentin blithely buttered a slice of toast. "Do you know," she continued conversationally, "I was rather restless during the night. All the excitement, I expect."

Juliana reseated herself. Griffin narrowed his gaze. "Go on," he said. She would in any case, the old gossip.

"Well, I took a little stroll down the corridor, and what do you suppose I saw?" Enjoying her rapt audience, she paused to take a delicate bite, chew it leisurely, and swallow. "None other than the Marquess of Hawkridge, coming out of one of the bedrooms."

"Mother," her son interjected halfheartedly.

She waved him off, turning to Griffin. "I thought the marquess had departed after learning he wasn't welcome."

"You were mistaken," Griffin said with a forced smile.

"I'll go fetch Alexandra." Juliana rose again.

Lady St. Quentin raised her cup of chocolate to her lips, watching Griffin over the rim. "You'll want to go with your sister," she said pointedly.

He barely resisted huffing out a sigh. "And why is that?"

"Because when the marquess left his room, he went upstairs." She paused to let the significance of that sink in. "And he left his door open, and it still isn't closed, and he isn't inside. So I suspect he has yet to come back down."

"Why the hell would you surmise that?" Rachael snapped.

Lady St. Quentin raised one of her overly arched brows. "My dear, you must learn to watch your language."

"Mother," her son repeated hopelessly.

She didn't even bother waving him off this time, ignoring him as she focused on Rachael. "I do believe Hawkridge is the man I saw in the minstrel's gallery with your cousin last night."

Several gasps were heard around the table.

"I'm going to fetch Alexandra," Juliana stated and headed from the room.

"I'm going with you." Corinna pushed back her chair and ran after her.

"So am I," Griffin added through clenched teeth.

Several more chairs rasped along the carpet as various guests rose to trail them. Griffin hurried after his sisters, refusing to look back. Gobble-grinders, all of them. Let the whole world follow, he thought as he took the stairs three at a time, passing Corinna and then Juliana handily. The St. Quentin woman would be red-faced before this was over. Alexandra was the most proper girl he knew.

Long-legged strides carried him rapidly through the upper gallery and down the corridor past Corinna's and Juliana's rooms. The two of them had to run—decorously, of course—to keep up. Reaching Alexandra's door before them, he twisted the knob and pushed it open.

Then slammed it closed.

He turned to his sisters. "Get rid of them," he gritted out, referring to the nosy guests making their leisurely way up the stairs and through the upper gallery. "Now."

"Why?" Corinna asked.

"Just do as I say for once, will you?"

Juliana's hazel eyes were as round as saucers. "They're both in there, aren't they?"

"Brilliant deduction. I'll give you your prize later. Now, go—"

He whirled to face the door as it opened again, from the inside this time, revealing a sleepy-eyed Tristan wearing a dressing gown. An improvement over a moment ago, when all Griffin had seen of the man was a head and bare shoulders peeking from under the blankets.

The blankets on his sister's feminine Chippendale bed.

"Get back in there!" Griffin whispered, reaching to pull the door shut again, quietly this time.

"Aha." Lady St. Quentin's triumphant voice was unmistakable. "I knew it!" Elbowing past the other approaching guests, she made her way to the door and pushed on it.

It reopened with an ominous creak. Inside, Alexandra cowered in her bed.

"You're ruined, girl," Lady St. Quentin crowed. "Ruined!"

"She is not," Corinna protested, throwing Griffin a desperate, apologetic glance.

But it was too late. The crowd rushed to see, forming a loose semicircle in front of the door.

Alexandra was ruined.

"I sleepwalked in here," Tristan said quietly, as though he and Griffin were the only ones there. A nerve jumped in his clenched jaw. "Unaware of my own actions."

"Balderdash!" Lady St. Quentin exclaimed. "I've never heard such a pathetic excuse. It won't save her reputation; that I can promise."

"Stubble it," Griffin said dangerously. All the whispering behind him wasn't helping him think straight. He glared at Tristan. It was some consolation to learn Alexandra hadn't invited the man into her bed, but of all the damned, unexpected… "You still sleepwalk?"

"Infrequently, but yes."

"You didn't have to stay once you got here," he bit out.

"You're right. My sincerest apologies. I'll leave now." Tristan started from the room.

"No, you won't." Griffin stopped him with an outstretched hand flat against his chest. "You stayed the night, you'll stay now. You'll marry my sister. By special license. Tomorrow."

Gasps rose from the onlookers. Tristan glanced down at Griffin's hand, then stepped back. "If that's what you wish."

Griffin's arm dropped to his side. "It's not what I wish, but it's what must be done."

"Nonsense," Lady St. Quentin cut in. "You cannot marry your sister to a murderer." Reaching back into the cluster of spectators, she pulled her son stumbling through to the front. "My Roger will be happy to marry her."

Her Roger looked mortified.

"For her dowry?" Griffin asked Roger's mother pointedly.

"Does it matter?" she returned.

Griffin's gaze flicked to where his white-faced sister sat motionless on the bed, her blue covers clutched under her chin. "Do you wish to marry Sir Rog—"

"You cannot let the chit decide this for herself," Lady St. Quentin scoffed.

Was there another woman in England as irritating? "As a matter of fact, I can should I choose to do so. And I can certainly solicit her opinion." Drawing a calming breath, he turned back to Alexandra. "Do you wish to marry Sir Roger St. Quentin?"

She shook her head infinitesimally.

"No," Juliana said for her. "She most certainly does not."

Griffin and Lady St. Quentin sent her matching glares.

"I'll marry her," came another voice. Lord Shelton stepped out of the clutch of gawkers.

Despite his own distress, Griffin felt sympathy for the man. If he knew Alexandra's mind, Shelton was about to be publicly refused. He looked back to her. "Do you wish to marry Lord Shelton?"

"No," Juliana started at the same time Alexandra said, "I'm sorry."

Thin and shaky, her voice barely carried from the room to the corridor. "My apologies, Lord Shelton. I'm honored by your offer, but I don't think we would be happy together." Suddenly, her eyes flashed—Griffin would swear he saw red in the medium brown. "And Lord Hawkridge is no murderer," she added loudly and perfectly clearly.

Griffin stood silent, cursing the fates that had put him in charge of his siblings. Two perfectly acceptable men had offered for his disgraced sister. If he forced one of them on her, this scandal would eventually blow over. She'd be miserable all her days, but their sisters would be able to marry well. If he allowed her to wed Tristan…

He felt everyone's eyes on him while his own vision swam. Never in his life had he found it so hard to make a decision. Thank God he wasn't on a battlefield with the enemy bearing down…although, given the antagonistic mood of some of those around him, that analogy wasn't so far off.

Rachael stepped close and laid a hand on his shoulder, drawing him away and down the corridor. The guests all turned to watch as she walked him to the end so they wouldn't be able to overhear.

"Your first instinct was good," she said quietly. "Let her marry the man she loves."

His gaze flicked to the curious onlookers. "But—"

"I, too, once thought this union inadvisable. But now that I've seen them together—"

"What they feel for each other has little bearing on the repercussions of this match."

"Have faith in her. She has faith in him."

Griffin had faith in Tristan, too—but that wasn't the point. "The ton doesn't mirror that faith."

"Will you allow that to influence your decision? That isn't the Griffin I remember. The one I imagined riding into battle with his principles held before him like a shield."

That idealistic youth, Griffin feared, was long gone. He stared at her. "You never thought of me that way. You thought I was a reckless rascal."

"Perhaps. I do recall you once telling me to ask for forgiveness, not for permission. But you were also stubborn as hell. You never let anyone else's opinions stand in the way of your goals."

His gaze swept the assembled guests, landing on the odious Lady St. Quentin. He could see her straining to hear.

Damnation. Rachael was right. He wasn't going to let that despicable, fortune-hunting woman decide his sister's fate. He couldn't consign Alexandra to a life of utter misery, even to save the rest of them from suffering society's disfavor. Not and live with himself, anyway.

With a sigh, he surrendered to the inevitable, marching back to face his old friend—damn the barefoot bastard—in his sister's doorway.

"Get dressed," he said tightly. "The Archbishop of Canterbury is half a day's ride, and you're in need of a special license."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Alexandra sighed as she watched the last of their guests' carriages roll out of the quadrangle. "Why do I think they're all going to gather at the end of the road and have a good gossip?"

"Because they will," Juliana said.

"The repercussions have begun already." Alexandra turned to follow her siblings back inside. "They didn't even stay long enough to finish breakfast."

"That's only because it was stone-cold," Corinna said, sitting on an old, ornate treasure chest.

"No, it wasn't." Tired and demoralized, Alexandra plopped onto one of the walnut hall chairs. "No one wants to associate with us. Dear God in heaven. What am I going to do?"

"You're going to marry Tristan tomorrow." Griffin sat on the third step of the staircase, leaning forward with his elbows on his spread knees, his hands dangling between them. "And you're going to be happy. I demand it."

"How can I be happy when the rest of you will be miserable?" A single tear rolled down her cheek.

An expression of horror stole over his face. He sat up straighter. "You're marrying the man you claim to love. There's no crying allowed. You hear me?"

"She's not crying for herself," Juliana said, moving to pat Alexandra on the shoulder. "She never cries for herself. She's crying for us."

"I'm not crying," Alexandra said, swiping at the rogue tear with a frustrated motion.

In truth, she wasn't sure why she was crying. She was a bundle of emotions. One moment she was elated to be marrying Tris, the next racked with guilt that it meant making pariahs out of her siblings. And she was humiliated beyond belief—absolutely mortified that half of society had seen her naked in her bedroom.

"I'm sorry." She gave a long, wretched sniff. "I've ruined all your lives."

"Good God," Griffin said. "Cheer up, will you? You don't see any of us crying."

"We're thrilled for you," Juliana put in.

Alexandra looked around at all the grim faces. "Indeed."

"We are," Corinna insisted. "We're just a little…shocked. You've always been the good sister."

"Well, I've been changing, in case you haven't noticed. It seems my transformation is now complete. From a paragon of traditional femininity to an utter tart, and all inside of a single summer."

"No one thinks you're a tart," Juliana said.

Corinna nodded. "A little fast, perhaps, but—"

"She's about to be a married matron," Juliana interrupted, glaring at her younger sister. "There's nothing fast about that. Griffin, you did exactly the right thing."

"Thank you," he said dryly.

Alexandra sighed. "There was no right thing."

"Does Tristan really sleepwalk?" Corinna asked her brother.

He nodded. "All of his life." His jaw clenched. "I'm going to kill him."

Alexandra jumped up. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Sit down. I was jesting." Rubbing the back of his neck, he added, "I'd like to kill him, but I'll restrain myself. For your sake."

"Thank you." She plopped back down.

"Just be happy. That's all the thanks I require."

But she couldn't be happy—not when she'd ruined her family's reputation. She wouldn't be happy until she fixed that. Until her sisters could win any men they wanted. Until Griffin didn't have to defend his friend or his decision to allow her to marry him.

Until, she realized, the seeds of an idea taking root in her brain, she found the evidence that would clear Tris's name.

"Just give me a week or two," she said slowly. "Then we'll all be happy."

Corinna's blue eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going to find whoever murdered Tris's uncle." She could do it. She had to do it. "Then Tris won't be shunned anymore by society, and you'll be able to make a brilliant match. After all, your older sister will be married to a handsome, popular marquess who is well known for his expertise in machinery, animal husbandry, and land management." Alexandra tried for a brave grin.

"You're going to find his uncle's murderer," Griffin said flatly. Disbelievingly.

She raised her chin. "Yes. I am."

"How?" Juliana asked.

"I don't know. I'll need to investigate matters at Hawkridge Hall."

"Tristan doesn't think there is a murderer," Griffin reminded her. "He thinks his uncle died in his sleep."

"Well, we'd best all pray he's wrong, because a natural death will be much harder to prove. But if that's the case, I'll find a way, because it's the only hope for us all."

"Surely it's not as dire as all that," Juliana said.

But no one spoke up to agree with her, because it was as dire as all that.

Alexandra sighed into the silence.

"Holy Hannah!" Corinna exclaimed after a long moment.

Juliana turned to her. "What?"

"She's going to investigate matters at Hawkridge Hall. She's going to move to Hawkridge Hall."

"Tomorrow," Griffin said matter-of-factly. "I expect Tristan will want to leave directly after the wedding."

"She cannot leave tomorrow!" Juliana shook her head. "She's made no preparations, she has no trousseau, she—"

"She has no choice." Griffin stood, one hand on the staircase's marble rail. "I'm going to change my clothes and head out to the vineyard. Since Tristan has abandoned me, I'll need to install his pump." He started upstairs, gazing down at them as he went. "You'd better pack your things, Alexandra. And choose a wedding dress. With any luck, I'll be finished and back for dinner."

"A wedding dress," Alexandra breathed.

Corinna nodded. "A Lady of Distinction suggests a white one."

"I don't even own a white dress."

"You can borrow one of ours," Juliana said. "We'd best get busy."

The sun was sinking in the sky by the time Tristan returned, special license in hand, to learn that Griffin was at the vineyard. A change of horses and a brisk gallop got him there just before dark. Griffin's crew was completing the pipeline, lighting lanterns to provide illumination while they finished. As Tristan rode up, one of the men approached him, holding two of the lamps.

"I was just taking these to Lord Cainewood, my lord." He nodded in the direction of the newly dug pit.

"I'll take them for you," Tristan offered, sliding off his mount. He tethered the horse and headed toward the pit, both lanterns in one hand. Slipping his other hand into his pocket, he toyed with the ring he'd detoured to Hawkridge to pick up. A simple gold band, wide but worn thin from centuries of use. A family heirloom for traditional Alexandra. Though it was plain, he hoped she would like it.

Curses were coming from the square pit. Colorful ones. Still holding the lanterns in one hand, he started down the ladder, his eyes widening as he saw what was going on inside. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he said as he reached the bottom.

"Installing your damn pump." Griffin's wrench slipped, eliciting another burst of foul language.

Tristan set the lanterns in a corner on the dirt floor. "I would have done it if you'd waited."

"When? In the middle of my sister's wedding night?" Griffin mopped his brow with the back of a grimy hand. "I think she'd have my head. Besides, it's time I learned how to do this myself. Given the way my luck has been running, I'm likely to need another pump or a dozen soon."

"Let me give you a hand." Tristan took the wrench.

"One of the hands you couldn't keep off my sister?" Griffin snatched it back. "No thanks."

Heedless of the dirt, Tristan leaned against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles and his arms across his chest. The pit exuded the pungent scent of recently turned earth. As fresh and sharp as his friend's mood. "You're angry with me."

"Give the man a prize."

"I didn't compromise your sister on purpose."

"No, you were sleeping. Just waltzed in there unaware. Or so you said—"

"Hey—"

"All right, I believe you." Griffin banged the wrench against a pipe, then winced at the sharp clang. "That doesn't mean I have to like it." He whacked the pipe again.

"You want to hit me?"

He looked all too intrigued by that idea. "No."

"Go on. Hit me. It'll make you feel better."

"It'll make you feel worse."

Tristan just shrugged. "You cannot but admit I deserve it."

Tapping the wrench against his palm, Griffin stared at Tristan for a few long, tense moments. Then he dropped the tool to the dirt, drew back a fist, and rammed it into his friend's shoulder.

Though pain exploded, Tristan didn't flinch. "You can do better than that."

"You're right." Griffin hauled off and punched him in the mouth.

Tristan saw stars. His friend looked wavery through his watering eyes. Tasting blood, he flexed his jaw. "Feel better?"

"Not yet." Gritting his teeth, Griffin took half a step forward and drove his fist full force into Tristan's gut.

The wind rushed out of him as he doubled over in pain and surprise. When he came up, gasping for air, he returned the favor with a blow to Griffin's face that sent him careening into the wall.

"Hey!" Griffin said.

"That's enough."

"I. Think. Not," he ground out, coming back swinging. "You compromised my sister. It will never be enough."

Tristan took two punches but ducked the third, straightening to throw a left-handed jab that landed solidly in his friend's midsection. Griffin retaliated with a right-handed hit that was even harder. From there, Tristan lost track. The blows flew fast and furious until finally they both stood there, panting and exhausted, neither of them possessing enough energy to continue.

Griffin dropped to sit on the dirt floor, his legs sprawled out before him, his face cradled in both hands. "I think you broke my nose."

"No, I didn't. You're such a widgeon." Leaning against the wall above him, Tristan spit out blood. "I think you loosened my teeth."

"I hope so." Griffin grinned up at him, then winced. "You feel worse now, don't you? Just as I predicted."

Tristan slid down to sit beside him, groaning at new assorted aches. "Nothing you do could make me feel worse. Believe it or not, I'm more upset at this turn of events than you are."

"I don't believe it. You didn't just ruin two of your sisters' lives."

"No, I ruined three of your sisters' lives instead."

"Three? Alexandra was dying to marry you."

But the way Tristan saw it, she could die because she married him. Who knew what he might do the next time he sleepwalked? He was scared stiff.

"Besides," Griffin added, "she's going to clear your name, and then no one's lives will be ruined."

"She's going to what?"

"She's determined to find your uncle's killer."

"My uncle didn't have a killer. He died in his sleep."

Griffin began to shake his head, then apparently thought better of it. "I told her you'd say that," he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CORIANDER BISCUITS

Take eight eggs, a little Rose water, some Madeira, and a pound of fine Sugar; beat them together for an Hour; then put in a Pound of Flour and half an Ounce of Coriander seeds; then beat them well together, butter your Pans and put in your batter, and set it into the Oven for half an Hour; then turn them, brush them over the Top with a little of the Eggs and Sugar that you must leave out at first for the Purpose, and set them in again for a quarter of an Hour.

These biscuits are perfect to take visiting. My mother always brings some when we're to meet someone new.
—Lady Elspeth Caldwell, 1691

"What the devil are you doing up so late? It's three o'clock in the morning."

"Is it?" Startled, Alexandra turned to see her brother standing in the shadowed entrance to the kitchen. "I'm making coriander biscuits to bring along to Hawkridge." She beat Madeira into a bowl of eggs, sugar, and rose water. "I cannot arrive there with nothing."

"You don't have to bribe Tristan's people to accept you. You'll be their marchioness."

She added flour to the mixture, dumping half of it onto her shaky hands in the process. "Chase women always bring sweets."

"Tomorrow will be a big day for you. For God's sake, go to bed. If you truly feel a need to bring something, you can ask François to make it in the morning."

Not bad advice, except she was too excited—and nervous—to sleep. "We missed you at dinner," she said, changing the subject. "And afterwards." As he walked closer, she blinked and set down the bowl. "What on earth happened to your face?"

He touched it gingerly. "Your soon-to-be-husband happened to it," he informed her dryly.

"Tris? Whyever would he hit you?"

"Perhaps because I hit him first?" He looked around the cavernous kitchen. "Is there anything to eat in here besides raw biscuit dough? We just finished installing the pump. It works beautifully, but I'm about to expire from starvation."

"And Tris?"

"Said he's not hungry. Went straight to bed."

"I meant, does he look like you?"

"Not much." He crossed to where François had left out some bowls covered with cloths. "His hair is lighter, and his eyes—"

"Griffin!" Walking over, she playfully punched him on the shoulder with a flour-coated fist.

"Ouch!" He waved at the white powder flying in the air. "I hurt everywhere, so keep your hands off."

"How much did you hurt him? Will I have to keep my hands off my husband as well?"

Her brother's face flushed red beneath the bruises. "I prefer not to discuss you touching that man at all. Or any man, for that matter." He rooted in a bowl of fruit and came out with an apple. "But, you know," he added, polishing it on his grimy shirt, "I think I'm just as happy you've been ruined. Saves me from having to explain all about the wedding night."

"I wasn't ruined, Griffin."

"What?" He bit into the fruit with a juicy crunch. "Of course you were ruined. Why else would I marry you to someone completely unsuitable?"

"Don't talk with food in your mouth." She dabbed at his chin with a dish towel, wincing in sympathy when he winced. "In society's eyes, yes, I was ruined. But not in truth."

He swallowed this time before responding. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing really happened in my bed." Perhaps that was an understatement, but the gist of it was true. "Tris kissed me and touched me, but that was all. Mostly we just talked. And then we fell asleep."

The apple sat forgotten in Griffin's hand. "You just talked," he said. "Naked."

Heat flooded her face. "Well, our clothes came off while Tris was still asleep. He took them off, I mean, while I was half-asleep. But after we both awakened…yes, we just talked." Turning away, she started putting dollops of batter on one of the two pans she'd prepared. "You believe me, don't you?"

"I'm not certain I do. I have never in my life just talked to a naked woman."

"I'm so glad to hear that," she said toward the biscuits.

She heard the crunch of another bite. "Why?"

"Because, being unmarried as you are, I wasn't precisely sure you had experience. In matters pertaining to the bedroom, I mean. But I'm glad that you do, because that means you'll be able to explain everything to me." Hearing choking sounds, she turned to him. "Are you all right?"

He nodded wildly. She wondered whether his red face was a result of the choking, the bruising, his embarrassment at her request, or all three. Since there was nothing she could do about the second two, she just waited for him to stop choking before she continued.

"You will explain what will happen on my wedding night, won't you? Because I'm dreadfully nervous." She couldn't help wishing Tris had finished what he'd started, because then she'd know. "I think I'll stay up all night making coriander biscuits if you don't tell me what will happen."

"Can I have some of that Madeira first?" He gestured toward the open bottle.

"Certainly." She handed it to him, looking around for a glass.

"Don't bother," he said and drank directly from the bottle.

She watched him take several gulps. "Madeira should be sipped," she said as tactfully as she could.

He chugged another swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Oh, yes?" Avoiding her gaze, he took a deep breath. "You see, there are birds, and then there are bees, and—"

She laughed. "You don't have to start there, you goose. Mama taught me all of that. Didn't she explain it to you?"

"Father did. When I woke one night in a wet bed."

"What?"

"Never mind." He raised the bottle again, but took a more normal sip this time.

"Were you twelve? I was twelve when I started bleeding, and—"

"Stop," he ordered, holding up his free hand. He took a bigger swallow, then set the bottle on the table with a thunk. "Men don't care to hear of those female things."

"No?"

"No. You'd best keep that in mind for the future. And if Mother told you everything, what the devil do you need to hear from me?"

"I want to know what will happen on my wedding night." She turned back to the table, placing more dollops of batter on the second pan. "Mama told me the basics, that the man plants his seed in the woman. And I know about the body parts it takes to accomplish that. But how? I've seen horses—"

"It's not like horses," Griffin interjected quickly. "You will do it face-to-face."

"Oh." That alone was somewhat of a relief. "We'll be able to kiss, then."

"Yes."

"Excellent. I like kissing."

"I don't want to hear this." He took another swallow.

"What will happen, Griffin? Tell me."

He set down the bottle again. "He will probably leave you alone to change into a nightgown—"

"My nightgowns are rather plain." She licked some batter off a finger. "I've packed one that Juliana lent me—hers are much prettier."

"Why does Juliana have pretty nightgowns?"

She turned to him. "She likes them. She says they make her feel more womanly."

"I don't want to hear this," he repeated, lifting the bottle for another sip.

"Then why did you ask?"

"Will you be quiet and let me explain? When you're all ready and waiting in bed, he will come to you, probably wearing a dressing gown. To make things easier."

"Easier?"

"Easier to get undressed. Do I have to spell out everything?"

"I think so. I'm really quite innocent though the world thinks me a fallen woman." She handed him one of the pans and took the other herself. "I just want to know what will happen."

"So I've gathered." He followed her over to the brick oven and shoved his pan inside. "After he joins you in bed, he will probably kiss you and touch you—"

"I find touching to be very enjoyable."

"Splendid. You would not believe how happy I am to hear that." He didn't sound happy at all. "After that, he will open his robe and lift your nightgown."

"I think he will take them both off," she disagreed. "When he was sleepwalking, after all—"

"He may take them off," Griffin conceded wearily. "Will you stop interrupting? Let me finish."

"All right." She wiped her hands on her apron, then clasped them together in front of her. "I'm listening."

"He will ask you to open your legs." His face was turning all red again, and she didn't think it was due to the heat from the oven. "He will climb on top of you with his legs between yours, and sort of lie on top of you—"

"Ah." She could see it now. Almost. "But he's much heavier than I am," she said dubiously.

"Stop worrying. He'll support himself on his elbows. The part of him that will, um…"

"Plant the seed?" she supplied helpfully.

"Yes. That part will be hard so he can slide it into you. Don't ask how; it just happens. It's all quite simple, really." He looked relieved, like he was finished.

She took two thick mitts off hooks on the wall. "And then what?" she asked, shoving her hands into them.

"That's it, for the most part." When she stared at him, he raised the bottle for another long swallow. "He will, um, rub against you, more or less, and it will feel good—for you both—and he'll release his seed and it will be over."

"All right." It really did sound quite straightforward, if a little strange. And somewhat boring. "Thank you." She took the first pan out of the oven and set it on the big wooden table. The biscuits looked golden and smelled heavenly. "Would you like one?" she asked. "Just one, mind you, because they're for Hawkridge's—"

"It might hurt," he blurted out. "But just a little. And only the first time. I…I thought you should know."

Taking the second pan out, she froze. "Just a little? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he said. "In Spain, I slept with—oh, never mind. I'm sure. I'm sorry I even told you, because it's truly nothing to concern yourself with." He held the bottle up to a candle. There was only a tiny bit left in it. Looking like he wished there were more, he drained it and set it down. "Do you believe me? Please say you believe me."

"I believe you." She did. He'd never lied to her before. Teased her and misled her, perhaps, but never lied.

"Are we finished? Can you sleep now?"

"I think so." She put the second pan on the table and slid the mitts off. "Let's have some biscuits first, though. Two each. You've earned them."

And then she let him have three.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Tristan could scarcely believe he was a married man.

The wedding had been a simple affair, held in the old family chapel, witnessed not only by Alexandra's siblings and three female cousins, but the effigies of her ancestors dating back to the fourteenth century. When the minister asked if anyone present could show just cause why he and Alexandra should not be lawfully joined together, Tristan had half expected a five-hundred-year-old marble statue to pop up, sword and shield in hand, and take exception.

After all, it took a lot of nerve for a disgraced man to wed a lovely, proper Chase daughter.

He'd practically held his breath until the ceremony was over, until they'd shared a kiss that was decorous and chaste but set his blood on fire nonetheless. And then he still didn't quite believe she was his wife. And he couldn't decide whether their marriage was a dream come true, or—under the circumstances—a nightmare gone bad.

The wedding breakfast—which was actually a luncheon—had been a haze of delicious food mixed with feminine chatter and laughter. Alexandra, he'd been unable to help noticing, had spent a lot of time looking at him and very little time eating her meal. The latter wasn't all that surprising. His own stomach felt a bit sour from worry paired with exhaustion.

And anticipation.

His gaze kept drifting to the low, square neckline of Alexandra's simple wedding dress. She looked beautiful in the white lace, but he could barely wait to untie the pale blue satin sash and get her out of it.

Tonight he'd make her his.

That truth didn't quite hit him until they were in the barouche he'd borrowed from Griffin, making their way toward Hawkridge and hoping to arrive before dark.

It was a warm day with no threat of rain, so they'd left the top down to enjoy the setting sun. It was fortunate there were only two of them traveling, since Alexandra's luggage took up all the remaining room. In fact, Tristan couldn't even stretch his legs out. But with her seated beside him, snuggled against him, that seemed but a minor inconvenience.

She yawned, daintily covering her mouth with a gloved hand.

He took it to draw off the glove. "You're sleepy," he said, keeping his voice low so Griffin's coachman couldn't hear.

She swallowed nervously as he slipped the silk from her fingers. "I was up most of the night." With her free hand, she motioned toward a covered basket perched carefully on top of her other belongings. "I made coriander biscuits for your staff."

Removing her second glove, he stifled a smile. Such a gesture was all but unheard of, but so very Alexandra. "They're certain to be surprised."

"Pleasantly surprised, I hope."

"I have no doubt." He pressed a kiss to her bare palm. Carefully, because his bottom lip was still tender where Griffin had bashed him in the teeth. But he'd have endured any pain to hear the rough hitch of her breath.

Smiling into her palm, he kissed it again. "I wish I'd known you were baking. I would have kept you company."

"Griffin did, instead," she told him, obviously struggling to appear unaffected. "He was rather cheerful for a bloody and bruised man."

He nodded, completely understanding. "In an odd way, it felt good to fight."

"Odd is an apt description. How can hurting each other feel good?"

"I cannot explain it. You'd have to be a man to understand." He kissed her palm once more, then flicked it gently with his tongue, smiling to himself when he felt her shiver.

Recovering her composure, she slanted him a curious glance. "He said he hit you first."

His smile spread into a grin so wide it hurt. "But I got the better of him, didn't I?"

"You look rather the worse for wear yourself." She ran gentle fingers over his bruised jaw and across his sore lip, then blinked and snatched her hand away, apparently surprised to find herself touching him so boldly in public. "But the black eye Griffin woke up with this morning was more colorful."

"He was suffering from the headache this morning, too, I do believe."

"That was because he drank most of a bottle of Madeira." Her smile was the fond smile of a sister. "Why did he hit you?"

"Because I told him to."

She blinked up at him. "Whyever would you do that?"

"Another thing you'd have to be a man to understand."

Shaking her head, she looked back toward the road. Her hair, which had been covered by a lace veil for the ceremony, was very simply dressed. Several strands had blown loose. Sweeping the baby hairs off her neck, he leaned closer to kiss her nape.

She shivered again, not hiding it this time. He laid a hand on her cheek to turn her face toward him and brushed his lips across hers.

"The coachman," she whispered.

"He's not watching." But he wished they'd taken a closed carriage. This ride was beginning to seem like the longest of his life.

"He has only to turn his head."

"We're allowed to kiss. We're married."

She blushed and looked down. "Yes, we are," she said, twisting the wide gold band on her finger. "I didn't expect you'd have a ring on such short notice."

"On the way back from London, I stopped at Hawkridge to pick it up."

"It fits me perfectly." She rubbed the plain surface, burnished from years of wear. "Is it old?"

"Very. A family heirloom," he said, reaching to gently pull it off. "There are names and dates inside." He handed it to her so she could see.

"So many!" She held it up to the setting sun, squinting at the tiny, engraved letters. "Henry and Elizabeth, 1579. James and Sarah, 1615. William and Anne, 1645. Randal and Lily, 1677." She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "And more. So many generations."

Such a long, noble line whose reputation he'd destroyed. And now, Alexandra's and her family's, too.

He wouldn't think about that, he decided as his gaze drifted to her lips. Maybe tomorrow he would think about those things, but not now. He wanted her, and she wanted him. Before reality intruded, the least he could do was give her a lovely wedding night to remember.

The wedding night she deserved.

He would be kind and gentle, and he would do his best to put her at ease. Perhaps this marriage was ill fated, but they would both have tonight.

When she clenched the ring in her fist, he smiled. "I'll have our names and year added the next time we're in London. You don't mind that it's old?"

"Sweet heaven, no." She slipped it back on her finger possessively. "I cannot imagine a more wonderful ring."

Knowing how she valued tradition, he'd hoped she'd feel that way. But he hadn't been sure. "I'm glad," he told her, pleased.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Do you suppose all the other wearers were happy?"

He shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea."

"I think they were," she said decisively. "And we will be, too," she added through a yawn.

He wished he could be so confident.

He wasn't at all sure that she'd adjust well to his isolated life. That she wouldn't come to resent him. That she'd retain her calm assurance without society's stamp of approval.

That he wouldn't unknowingly do her harm.

That, in the long run, he wouldn't lose her.

Her family would always be there for her, and she could eventually decide to run back into their comforting arms. There she could make a different life for herself, perhaps including a discreet affair or two. Husbands and wives who lived apart were all too common among the aristocracy.

Her head felt heavy against his sore shoulder. He reached up to stroke her hair, welcoming the dull ache, because it meant that she was his, at least for now. Because, frightened as he was, he couldn't bring himself to be sorry they'd married. Not now—not with the sun sinking quickly and their wedding night just over the horizon.

"Tris?" she murmured sleepily.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

His stomach clenched. His fingers tangled in her tresses and stilled. Not I think I'm in love with you, but I love you. Three simple words said with a quiet conviction he would never, ever have. Such deep emotion was beyond him.

She fell asleep waiting for the response he couldn't give.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

"We're almost home," Alexandra heard softly in her ear.

She startled awake, lifting her head to look around. The road they were on followed the Thames, and as they turned off it and started up a wide drive, Hawkridge Hall came into view. Although it wasn't a castle like Cainewood, the symmetrical H-shaped building looked large and imposing, three stories of red brick.

The very sight of it brought the truth crashing down. She'd spent the past day in a haze of disbelief, but now her new home loomed before her. A new place. A new situation…one that had cost her family their reputation.

Tris squeezed her hand as they approached. "What do you think?"

Sweet heaven, she loved him. She swallowed hard, resolving to tuck the negative thoughts away—at least for tonight. It was her wedding night. How long had she dreamed of this night with Tris, never daring to hope it might actually happen?

Besides, she was going to prove he was innocent—so her sisters' reputations would be saved.

"Very impressive," she replied with a smile. She was not taking her happiness at the expense of her family. Not in the long run, anyway. She just needed a week or two to set everything to rights. "Is the house very old?"

"Seventeenth century, down to the furniture." He smiled at her puzzled expression. "You'll see when we get inside."

As they skirted the stone figure of a river god in the center of the circular drive, the arched front door opened. Servants poured out onto the two sets of stone steps, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and welcome.

Alexandra watched as they arranged themselves carefully, men along the left and women on the right. "They knew we were coming?"

"I told them yesterday, when I stopped by to get your ring and my wedding clothes. I suspect they've been in a frenzy since then, getting the house all ready for a new mistress."

She disengaged her hand to reach forward and grab her basket. "I hope they'll like me."

"They'll love you." He turned her face toward him and pressed a kiss to her lips, quick but heartfelt. "They won't be able to help themselves."

Seeing grins spread on several of the staff's faces, she blushed wildly. And wished he'd said he wouldn't be able to help loving her. She'd have to give him time. Though she was determined to knock down that wall around him, it was looking like she'd have to do it brick by brick.

Another project for the coming weeks.

Directly in front of the door and all those smiling faces, the carriage rolled to a halt. A footman rushed to help Alexandra down. "Welcome to Hawkridge Hall, my lady."

"Thank you,…?"

"John," Tris provided as he climbed out behind her. "Uncle Harold called all the footmen John."

"Well, that's just plain silly." Here, finally, she felt in her element. She knew how to handle a household staff. She reached into her basket. "Would you care for a coriander biscuit? And pray, what is your given name?"

"Ernest," the man said, looking at the biscuit in his gloved hand as though he'd never seen one before. "Thank you, my lady."

"Thank you, Ernest." She started up the wide stone steps, where the butler waited, looking very stiff and serious.

Tris came up beside her, taking her arm. "This is Hastings," he said by way of introduction. "I couldn't run this place without him."

Gray-haired Hastings was older than Boniface and not nearly as pretty. But hearing Tris's praise, his stern features relaxed, revealing a pleasant face with brown eyes. "Welcome, my lady."

"Why, thank you, Hastings." She smiled, handing him a biscuit before heading for the first of a half-dozen footmen lined up beside him, all dressed in blue livery. "And your name is?"

"Will. Welcome, my lady."

"I'm so pleased to be here, Will." She handed him a biscuit and moved on. "And you are…?"

"Ted. Welcome to Hawkridge Hall."

She reached for another biscuit. "Thank you, Ted."

"John," the next man said. When she gave him a dubious glance along with his biscuit, he added, "It truly is John, my lady. My father was John, and his father before him."

"A fine name," she assured him. "So long as it belongs to you."

It turned out there were two Johns among the footmen. After Alexandra met the rest of the butler's staff and a complete set of outdoor servants, another man stepped out of the house. Dressed like a perfect gentleman, he was tall and big boned. He had a wide nose, full lips, and skin the color of a moonless night.

"My valet," Tris said quietly, obviously noting her surprise.

Though she'd never spoken with a black man before, she went up to him unhesitatingly. "Would you care for a coriander biscuit, Mr….?"

"Vincent. Just Vincent. I have no second name." His deep voice and musical accent made her think of palm trees swaying on a beach. "Welcome to Hawkridge Hall, my lady. My master is bound to be in better spirits with you here."

"I hope so," she told him, mentally filing the interesting tidbit that Tris's valet thought he'd been in poor spirits of late. "Thank you."

Vincent smiled, displaying a mouth full of large, white teeth. He was impeccably groomed and well mannered, and she liked him very much. But although it was common for servants to call their employers master and mistress, his use of the term, coupled with his lack of a surname, made her wonder if he was a slave.

She turned to Tris, unable to picture him as a man who would own another. With a cryptic smile, he took her arm to cross her over to the women's side.

Her questions would have to wait for later.

"My indispensable housekeeper," he said. "Mrs. Oliver."

A short, slight older woman with pink cheeks and sparkling chocolate eyes, Mrs. Oliver bobbed Alexandra a curtsy. "If you don't mind me saying so, my lady, we're so pleased that Lord Hawkridge has wed."

"He was lonely," Alexandra said softly.

Mrs. Oliver darted Tris a glance. "Yes."

"Thank you for taking such good care of him."

She beamed. "I expect you'll do that now."

"I'm going to try my best." Alexandra handed Mrs. Oliver a biscuit and moved on.

Although the housemaids had all been called Mary, only one bore that actual name. There were so many that Alexandra despaired of remembering them all as she worked her way down the line, smiling and exchanging pleasantries.

A middle-aged maid named Peggy bobbed a curtsy as she accepted a biscuit. "Will you be needing a lady's maid, my lady?"

She looked kind and friendly, with pale green eyes and a mop of slightly graying brown curls beneath her starched cap. Alexandra returned her smile. "Why, yes, as a matter of fact. I shared my maid with my two sisters." She looked to Mrs. Oliver for approval, and when the older woman nodded, turned back to Peggy. "Would you like the position?"

"I should be honored, my lady. I served the last Lady Hawkridge. I'm very good with hair."

"I'm very pleased to hear that," Alexandra assured her and moved on to meet everyone else.

When the introductions were finally complete, she handed her basket to the cook, a plump woman in her forties with a button of a nose and pale blond hair pulled back in a severe bun. "Will you all share the rest, Mrs. Pawley? And I hope you won't mind me invading your kitchen now and again. I do adore making sweets."

Mrs. Pawley's merry blue eyes looked surprised, but she quickly hid that with a smile. "I do adore eating sweets, my lady."

"Then we should get along famously," Alexandra said.

Tris took her by the hand. "Shall I show you the house?"

She'd forgotten to replace her gloves, and her fingers tingled in his, reminding her of what was to come tonight. The servants hurried past them, returning to their tasks as she stepped into her new home for the first time.

The entry led straight into the great hall, a beautiful rectangular room with a floor of black and white marble squares. Above Alexandra's head, a large octagonal opening in the ceiling was railed all around, so those standing above could see down to where she stood. It lent a height and grandeur to the room that made it that much more impressive.

Before she could say as much, though, a huge dog came bounding down the stairs. It slid across the marble floor, jarring their hands apart as it rammed straight into Tris.

"Oof!" he said with a laugh. "This is Rex. Rex, your new mistress. Shake."

Fawn colored with a black mask and ears, Rex obediently raised the most enormous paw Alexandra had ever seen. She shook it, wondering if it were her imagination or if the canine looked mistrustful. "He must be twice my weight! You never said you had a dog."

"He's not my dog. He came with the house."

Rex was trotting happy circles around him. "He seems to have adopted you. Did your uncle name him, then?"

"Yes. But it's not as though he had a choice. According to family lore, there has always been a mastiff named Rex at Hawkridge Hall."

"And why is that?"

"I asked the same question, but Uncle Harold didn't know. That didn't stop him from naming this one Rex, though. The Nesbitts are big on tradition."

Looking around the room, she could see what he meant by that as well as his earlier comment that the house was seventeenth century down to the furniture. Indeed, although the various tables and chairs were lovingly cared for—beautifully carved, polished to a high sheen, and reupholstered in rich fabrics—they were heavy pieces compared to modern furniture. And the gorgeous paneling on the walls, though recently refinished, obviously dated from earlier times as well. "Goodness. Is everything just the same as when the house was built?"

"Tradition," he repeated with a smile. "But if you look carefully, you'll see some recent improvements."

Alexandra's gaze followed his gesture to a lamp attached to the wall, containing a yellowish open flame protected from drafts by a glass chimney. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. "Gas lighting? Indoors?" Although gas was increasingly being used to illuminate London's streets, she'd never seen it in a house.

"Yes," Tris said proudly. "Installed it myself. With help from two of the Johns." He shook his head. "Make that one John and Ted."

She smiled, appreciating his willingness to adapt—not just his attitude toward the servants, but to the latest advancements. She supposed she shouldn't find it surprising that a man who employed progressive farming techniques, a man who built things like pumps, would also implement gas lighting. "Did you design the lamps yourself, too?"

"No, but I believe I've improved on the original design some." He showed her the key mechanism by which she could turn the gas on and off or adjust the height of the flame, and he watched her practice until he was satisfied she understood. "You catch on quickly."

"It's not difficult. Where does the gas come from?"

"I'm burning coal in a closed iron vessel outdoors, a safe distance from the house. The resulting gas is piped inside."

"How very clever."

He shrugged. "This is a small system, conceived as an experiment. Now that it's proved successful, I'm currently building a large gasworks that will be used to supply the entire village. When it's finished, all the streets and businesses—and homes, should people like—will be lit by gas. And once that's complete, I hope to form a group to pursue an enterprise wherein we approach larger towns and cities to build gasworks and supply them via gas mains."

He was so different from the other men she knew. "A gentleman doesn't aspire to enterprise," she teased. "Such an undertaking would limit his time for amusements."

Too late she realized he wouldn't be welcome in any gentlemen's clubs or the other places men frequented to amuse themselves. But he seemed as determined as she was to avoid thinking of such unpleasantness tonight, because he just shrugged again in a genial manner. "I'm afraid I'm tainted by my common roots."

Though she loved his dry humor, her smile was mostly one of relief. "You do like having the newest, don't you?"

"Tradition is fine, but progress can also be good. And progress will march on regardless, so we may as well make ourselves part of it." He took her hand again. "Let me show you the rest of the house."

While Rex followed at their heels, Tris led her through the ground-floor rooms, teasing her palm with his thumb all the while so she could hardly pay any attention. She gleaned little more than general impressions, and even those were muddled. The main parlor looked pretty and comfortable, the dining room had a beautiful two-toned parquet floor, and the study—which, oddly enough, was accessed through the dining room—had a heavy, ancient-looking desk. There were also some lovely guest rooms and Tris's uncle's rooms—which Tris seemed reluctant to go into.

"I can see them later," she told him. "Where am I going to sleep?"

For truly, beautiful as the house was, having blanked her mind of worrisome concerns she could think of little else besides sharing one of these rooms with him tonight.

Finally he led her up the massive oak staircase, a feature clearly built to impress. Rex bounded up ahead, his huge body taking the wooden steps with amazing ease. Alexandra skimmed her free hand along the polished wood handrail, the panels beneath composed of boldly carved cannons, muskets, lances, and other trophies of war, all highlighted by sparkling gold leaf.

"Goodness," she asked Tris, "were your ancestors very savage?"

"Not that I'm aware," he said with a laugh as they reached the landing. He rubbed the dog's giant head. "Although I understand this house was used as a base of operations to plot against Cromwell in the Civil War."

The next room looked to be a gallery of sorts. "The round gallery," Tris clarified.

It wasn't really round, but a long oval. It was a room mainly used to access others, sort of a very wide corridor with a hole in the middle of the floor—a large, railed octagonal opening where one could see down to the great hall below. But she didn't take time to look, as she was gaping at the paintings on the walls.

"Corinna is going to die when she sees these," she said.

He brushed a loose strand of hair off her cheek. "Hmm?"

"You know she paints. I cannot believe what you have here." She gestured to the many gilt-framed canvases. "Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Rubens—"

"That one was painted by one of Rubens's students."

"Regardless. She'll sit here and study these for hours. She'll forget to eat."

"Like you at our wedding breakfast?" he asked with a tender smile. "What were you studying, sweetheart?"

You. But she wouldn't say that, even though he'd just melted her heart by calling her sweetheart. "I simply have a ladylike appetite," she informed a staid Dutch woman in one of the paintings.

Laughing, he took her elbow to guide her into a corridor, Rex following close behind.

Peggy was in the next room, already unpacking Alexandra's things. "Enjoying your tour, my lady?"

"Very much." Alexandra blinked at the sumptuous furnishings. Behind a balustrade in the French style, an enormous state bed sat on a raised parquet dais. Hangings of rich turquoise were heavily embroidered with gold thread, and great poufs of matching ostrich feathers crowned the bed's four corner posts. The ceiling was elaborate painted plasterwork, the walls hung with heavy, old tapestries.

"It looks fit for a queen," she breathed.

"Queen Catharine of Braganza, Charles II's wife," Tris confirmed. "It was decorated for her visit."

That was easy to believe. The streaked marble fireplace was adorned with gold crowns. "Is this to be my room?"

"Hell, no," Tris said.

Peggy didn't even hesitate, let alone cease unpacking. "My lord, Mrs. Oliver wanted your new lady to have the best Hawkridge has to offer. The last Lady Hawkridge enjoyed this room very much."

What a saucebox, Alexandra thought, although she supposed that if Peggy were a shy one, she wouldn't have so boldly asked for the position of lady's maid. But although the chamber was gorgeous, she couldn't imagine being comfortable here. Goodness, what if she spilled something on Queen Catharine's antique counterpane? "It's lovely," she said tactfully, "but—"

"Lady Hawkridge will be sharing my rooms," Tris interrupted. "While we dine, please move her things."

Peggy blinked. "But—"

"You may ask two footmen to assist you with the trunks. While you're downstairs, please inform Mrs. Pawley that we'd like a light supper in half an hour." He took Alexandra's hand to draw her from the room.

"That was a bit harsh," she said once they were out of earshot. "I know she defied you, but—"

"I've never liked that one."

"Why have you kept her on, then?"

"She came here as a young girl. What kind of man would I be if I turned her out?" He drew her down the corridor, Rex trotting by his other side. "Are you certain you want her for your maid?"

"Since I've already given her the position, I'll wait and see how we get along. As long as you don't mind."

"Whatever makes you happy," he said, squeezing her hand. "Stay, Rex." As they entered another chamber, he closed the door behind them. "My rooms," he announced. "And yours, too, as soon as Peggy moves you in here."

A huge bed dominated the space—an old-style four-poster hung with dark blue velvet bordered in yellow silk. The walls were hung with blue velvet panels on a yellow background, and, set before the fireplace, two cushioned armchairs were upholstered in blue-and-yellow striped fabric. "It's beautiful," she said. "And much cozier than the Queen's Bedchamber."

"I didn't want you in separate room," he said low, making butterflies flutter in her middle. Then he grinned. "Although I was half tempted to leave you there as revenge for putting me in your Gold Chamber."

"Thank you for resisting." She heard the heavy thumps of Rex padding away down the corridor. "If you don't allow him in here, where does he sleep?"

"Given his size, I'd say anywhere he wants. But a man is entitled to a bit of privacy, don't you think?" He pulled her closer. "Besides, he snores something terrible."

She began to laugh, but stopped when he gathered her against him. Heat erupted inside her, spreading through her body as his lips descended on hers. He brushed her mouth with aching tenderness before settling into place like he belonged there.

Clearly he did.

He'd kissed her before, of course—several times. But until today, they'd been stolen, forbidden kisses. And the two today—during their wedding and in the carriage afterward—had been barely more than a whisper of lips.

This time there was no one watching. This time there were no nagging feelings telling her it was wrong. This time there was blessed solitude, the sanctity of marriage, and the thrilling, compelling pressure of Tris's mouth claiming hers.

She sank into his arms, into his kiss, into the impossibly wonderful truth that he was hers.

He kissed her lower lip, her upper, then traced a line with his tongue between them. She sighed and opened her mouth, inviting him in. His hands wandered down her back and settled on her bottom, feeling oh so scandalously warm as he drew her more snugly against him.

A brisk knock sounded, and the door swung open. She and Tris jerked apart.

"In here," Peggy directed.

Her head swimming with desire, Alexandra struggled to steady herself while four footmen marched in carrying two large trunks.

"Through the sitting room to the dressing room," Peggy added briskly.

Alexandra had been so focused on Tris, she hadn't even realized there was a sitting room or a dressing room. She gazed at him now, breathless, her body still yearning for something she couldn't put a name to.

Her new husband's eyes reflected her own frustration. He sighed and took her arm. "Shall we have supper while she puts away your things?"

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Light supper at Hawkridge turned out to be a three-course meal. But for the second time today, Alexandra found herself unable to eat much of anything. She was still reeling from the hasty events, and hunger seemed the last thing on her mind.

Sipping sparingly from a glass of the estate's surprisingly fine wine, she did manage a few spoonfuls of the delicious shellfish soup. But she surreptitiously fed Rex bites of her cornish hen and carrots, reaching under the dining room's long cedarwood table and praying his huge jaws wouldn't snap off her fingers along with the food.

While she picked at her potato pudding—which, unfortunately, she had no way to feed to the dog—she and Tris discussed the staff. She learned Peggy wasn't the only servant long in residence at Hawkridge Hall. To the contrary, many of the staff had been born here. The butler, Hastings, had inherited the post from his father; Mrs. Oliver's mother had held the housekeeper's keys before her; and the groundskeeper's great-great-grandfather had first laid out the gardens. Likewise, many of the lower servants' families had served Hawkridge for years.

"Tradition," Alexandra said with a smile.

"Mrs. Pawley is Hawkridge's first female cook in generations, however." Tris, of course, was eating like the proverbial horse. Nothing—not even the upheaval of a hasty marriage—affected a man's appetite. "Her father was the cook, and his father before him. When Pawley failed to sire any sons, he taught his daughter the culinary skills instead. Uncle Harold was a mite uneasy about that."

So Mrs. Pawley wasn't married, Alexandra reflected as a footman removed her plate and replaced it with the sweet course. The cook still bore her father's name, the Mrs. only a courtesy often extended to upper servants. "Your uncle eventually accepted her, though?"

"During the Peace of Amiens in 1802, when it became evident her father's retirement was imminent, Uncle Harold sent her to Paris to study under an acknowledged master." Tris dug into his strawberry trifle. "Male, of course. Apparently, being French-trained made up for being the wrong gender."

"Her food is delicious."

"I'm sure Rex thinks so," he teased with a grin.

The mastiff was snoring contentedly in a corner of the dining room. Alexandra pushed her trifle around on her plate, trying to make it look smaller so as not to offend the cook.

"I shall have to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries," Tris said.

"It doesn't matter. I'm not hungry, in any case." He was almost finished, and she still hadn't brought up the servant she found most curious. "Tell me about Vincent."

He sipped his wine, raising a brow at her over the glass's rim. "Do I strike you as a man who would own a slave?"

Her cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin. "You cannot blame me for wondering." Though new slave trade had been outlawed since 1808 in all British territories, there was nothing in the law to prevent one man from owning another. Many in England still did, particularly those who had plantations in the West Indies and brought their slaves with them when they came home.

With a sigh, Tris set down his glass. "Vincent served me well during the years I spent in Jamaica. I bought him and freed him before I left."

She released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "That was a wonderful thing to do."

"Merely decent. He was the best valet I'd ever had, and I cannot countenance one man owning another."

"But your uncle could."

He shrugged, clearly ambivalent. "Uncle Harold inherited the plantation—and its slaves—as part of his wife's dowry. Under his ownership, the slaves were treated well, and during the time I spent there and after I returned, we talked many times of freeing them. He wasn't particularly comfortable owning men. But he feared the financial repercussions of setting them free, and he was of the opinion that it was only a matter of time—a short time, in the scheme of things—before legislation was enacted that would emancipate them all and take the decision out of his hands. I agreed with him on that point."

"There has been no legislation."

"There will be. Soon." He polished off the last of his trifle and sat back, lifting his glass. "Uncle Harold wanted to wait. He felt sorry for the slaves' plight, but he feared they'd be in a worse situation as free men on a plantation that could no longer compete successfully in the marketplace."

"And you agreed."

"In theory, perhaps. In practice, no." He paused for a long swallow of the rich wine. "The first action I took upon inheriting the marquessate was freeing all our slaves in Jamaica. I wished the ship carrying the missive strong winds and smooth seas. I couldn't stand the thought of owning men—regardless of the consequences."

She'd known he was a good man. Feeling a tightness in her chest, she reached across the corner of the table to take his hand. "And what have those consequences been?"

"Making a profit has proven difficult," he admitted quietly. "But does it matter? There are more important things than property values and income. My honor and integrity come first." He squeezed her fingers. "A man has to live with himself if he's to sleep at night."

Sleep. She'd wager he hadn't noticed his own reference, but this, she knew, wasn't a man who would murder his uncle. Not even unknowingly in his sleep.

He drew a deep breath and released it, setting down his wineglass. "Are you finished?"

She nodded, wondering why she felt so unsettled. She knew she'd made the right choice in marrying this man. She'd firmly put off any thoughts of the repercussions it would have on her family. And she couldn't be worrying about the evening. Griffin had made what would happen sound very simple and straightforward.

But she found herself unaccountably relieved when Tris stood and asked, "Would you like to see more of the house?"

"That would be lovely," she said with a grateful smile.

As they exited the room, Rex rose with a gigantic yawn. He trotted after them across the great hall, up the stairs, and through the gallery with the open floor. Alexandra resisted pausing to gawk again at the famous paintings. At the other end of the gallery, a door led to a large, square room with gilded paneling on the walls and various chairs and sofas set about.

"The north drawing room," Tris said.

"It's beautiful." She walked over to an exquisite harpsichord, its case inlaid with multicolored woods. Sitting on the petit-point stool, she hit a few keys experimentally. "Johannes Ruckers," she read out loud from where the maker's name was painted above the keyboard.

"Has he a good reputation?" Tris asked from behind her.

"I haven't the slightest idea. This looks very old. I don't expect his company is making instruments anymore."

"Can you play it?"

"Probably." Since the harpsichord was much narrower than a pianoforte, the keyboard was split in two, with one half over the other. She swiveled on the stool to face him. "I shall enjoy trying it, but is there no pianoforte?"

He shook his head. "I'll get one for you."

"There's no need—"

"I want you to be happy here." He raised her to stand and pressed a warm kiss to her lips.

Rex barked. His tail thumped the wooden floor, sounding much like a slap.

"I don't think he likes me kissing you," Tris observed.

"He's jealous. Until now you were all his."

"He's not mine. I told you—"

"That's not what he thinks."

Tris stared hard at the dog, opened his mouth, then shut it. "Well, he's going to have to get used to sharing me. Come see the long gallery."

Rex followed them through another door into a lengthy tunnel of a room. A room that called for quiet. Woven matting on the parquet floor muffled their footsteps. Large paintings in heavy gilt frames were spaced evenly along the dark paneled walls.

Even Rex kept quiet as they walked along slowly, gazing at the pictures. The painters here weren't important; this gallery was all about their subjects. Gentlemen in silks and velvets, ladies in stiff white neck ruffs.

"Some are older than the house," Alexandra observed softly. "Are they family?"

"Nesbitts, one and all."

A few of the names were familiar from inside her ring. Henry and Elizabeth. James and Sarah. She stopped to study a canvas whose brass plaque read WILLIAM AND ANNE. The painting showed that particular Lord Hawkridge standing behind his seated lady, who held a white kitten on her lap. Her blue eyes looked kind, and Alexandra could almost see her graceful fingers stroking the silky, purring cat.

"They look happy," she decided.

The next couple, Randal and Lily, looked happy as well. "1680," she read off the plaque. The man had gray eyes, like Tris's. His hair looked like Tris's, too, but longer, and a huge dog that looked just like Rex sat at his feet. A small child stood at his side, still in skirts so she couldn't tell its gender. The man's hand rested on the shoulder of his pretty, dark-haired lady, who beamed a smile at the baby in her arms.

Alexandra smiled in response. "Everyone here has been happy. I can feel it, can't you? This is a good house. A real home." History and tradition fairly oozed from the walls.

"My uncle wasn't happy," Tris disagreed quietly.

"Not after his family died, of course. But before?"

"He was happy," Tris conceded. Clearly unwilling to promise that they would be happy too, he gave her another kiss, short but heartfelt.

She would swear she heard Rex snort.

"The library is through here," Tris said.

It was a lofty, two-story chamber with dark shelving crammed with important-looking books. Alexandra walked over to pull one out and flip idly through it, the old pages crackling as she turned them.

"You don't want to read now, do you?" Stepping up behind her, Tris bent to kiss the side of her neck.

"Not really." Tingling warmth spread from where his lips met her skin. He reached around her to take the book from her hands and set it on a small table, and she turned in his arms to meet his mouth.

Rex's bark echoed up to the laurel wreath in the center of the high ceiling.

"See why I lock him out of my rooms?" Tris asked with a sigh.

"I hope it's not because you like to kiss women in there."

"Only one," he said with a soft smile that made something kindle deep in her belly. "Shall we escape the beast and go there now?"

Her heart thumped harder than Rex's tail. "Aren't there more rooms I haven't seen?"

"None that cannot wait until tomorrow." He skimmed his fingertips over her cheek, ignoring Rex's protest. The pad of his thumb brushed her lips. "And I cannot wait any longer."

That simple statement made her heart give a little leap. She pressed a hand to her chest. A faint smile curving his bruised lips, he lifted that hand and brushed his mouth over the knuckles before lacing his fingers through hers.

Rex dogged their steps all the way back through the long gallery, the north drawing room, and the round gallery. Tris quickened their pace into the corridor and past the Queen's Bedchamber. By the time they reached his rooms, they were running. Alexandra laughed at the absurdity. When they finally darted through his bedroom door and he whirled and all but slammed it in the dog's face, she laughed even harder.

Rex whined once, barked three times, then padded away, his big feet thudding with each step.

"He knows when to give up," she observed with more giggles.

"You find this humorous?" Tris returned with mock severity. Without waiting for her to answer, he dragged her into his arms and silenced her with a kiss.

It was a kiss of desperate tenderness, a kiss that quickly escalated, igniting heat with its demand. Though she wondered if the pressure hurt his swollen mouth, she couldn't bring herself to care. The scent of him filled her senses: fresh air and soap and that elusive something she thought of as him. He tasted of Tris and the wine he'd drunk with dinner, and she thought she'd like to taste him, to kiss him, forever.

When he finally released her, she just stood and gazed at him, unsteady on her feet.

"You're not laughing anymore," he said with a smug smile.

"Laughing? I think I forgot to even breathe."

The smile widened as he walked away to turn down the gas lamps. There were four of them mounted on the walls, two on each side of the room. Even battered and bruised, he moved easily, with an innate grace, so tall and handsome in the wedding outfit his valet had cobbled together, the white breeches hugging his muscled thighs.

She could scarcely believe he was hers.

"There," he said when the room was bathed in a softer, hazier glow. "Isn't that nicer?"

"It is." Watching his gaze roam over her, she smoothed the white lace skirt of the dress she'd borrowed from Corinna. "Thank you."

He shrugged out of his black tailcoat and draped it over the back of one of the striped chairs before he began untying his cravat. As his long fingers worked at the knot, she noticed his tanned hands, their backs lightly sprinkled with hair that glowed golden in the gaslight. She wanted to walk closer and help him, but she didn't trust her knees. She was forgetting to breathe again. After all those years of hopeless dreaming, to think he was really hers…

It was incredible. She swallowed hard—so hard she feared he'd heard it.

"Are you nervous?" he asked, sitting on the chair.

He had heard it. And misunderstood. "Not really. Griffin told me what to expect."

He looked a bit startled at that news. "Did he?"

"Oh, yes."

He tugged off his black pumps and peeled off his white stockings, leaving his feet and well-defined calves as bare as the day he was born. Sweet heaven. If she had to watch him anymore in the act of undressing, she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. "When are you going to leave so I can get ready for bed?" she asked a little shrilly.

He gave her a puzzled smile. "I was planning to get you ready for bed myself."

"Pardon?" That wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to leave her, so she could change into Juliana's pretty nightgown, and then return wearing a dressing gown himself. One that went to the floor and covered all of him. Including his legs, where her gaze seemed to be permanently fastened. "You're supposed to leave so I can prepare myself and wait for you in the bed."

He rose and came close, his silvery eyes narrowed. "Says who?"

"Griffin. Griffin told me—"

"Griffin is a muttonhead." He put his hands on her shoulders. "Turn around."

She did, her gaze falling on the bed. It looked big and soft, and someone had already turned the covers back invitingly. And by all indications, he wasn't going to let her get in it without him.

After he untied her sash, she felt his fingers freeing the buttons down her back. Practiced fingers. "You've done this before."

"I have buttons on my own clothes, you know." He managed to sound both amused and evasive. "What else did Griffin tell you?"

"He said it's not like horses—we will do it face-to-face."

"Yes, usually," he said, and before she could ruminate on that, added, "What else?"

Her bodice loosened, and she crossed both hands over her bosom to hold it in place. "He said it would hurt. But just a little, and only the first time."

He swung her back around, his eyes searching hers. "Are you worried about that?"

"Not really."

"Good. I'll go slowly, I promise. If it hurts, just tell me, and I'll stop."

"Thank you," she whispered, caught in the intensity of his gaze.

He raised her hands from her chest to his mouth and placed a warm kiss to the back of one and then the other.

And her dress fell to the floor, revealing her sleeveless linen chemise.

He stepped back, his gaze roaming hungrily over her half-clothed body. The possessive look in his eyes was more exciting than she could have imagined.

The shiver that ran through her was not from a chill.

When he reached for her, she moved closer, raising her face for his kiss. As his mouth claimed hers, she pressed herself against him, feeling all the hard small buttons that ran down the front of his waistcoat.

He was entirely too clothed compared to her. It wasn't fair. Maybe she should do something about that. But that would mean drawing away and perhaps even breaking their kiss, which was making her head swim in the most lovely manner.

She sighed into his mouth as he ran his hands over her back, learning her body through her chemise. Her skin prickled pleasurably everywhere he touched. When his hands drifted lower, skimming her bottom, it took everything she had not to squirm in response. His fingers molded themselves to her rounded curves, cupping to pull her closer—

And froze.

"Tris?" she murmured against his mouth.

"Holy Christ." His voice a husky whisper, he moved his hands experimentally. "Sweetheart, what happened to your drawers?"

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Obviously surprised at the question, Alexandra pulled away. "Drawers would ruin the lines of my dresses. I never wear them."

"Never?" Tristan imagined all the times they'd been together the last few months, going all the way back to their first kiss up on Cainewood's wall walk. Had she not being wearing drawers then? He remembered all the meals when she'd sat beside him, bare bottomed and mere inches away. That time in the library when he'd reached around her, her backside against his front. Walking alone together after the picnic, teaching her to waltz, dancing with her and reaching to kiss her in the minstrel's gallery…

Had she never been wearing drawers?

His body reacted to that thought with such violence, it took all he had not to throw her on the bed then and there.

"How about your sisters? Your cousins? The other women of your acquaintance? Do they never wear drawers, either?" He raked a hand through his hair. "Never mind. I don't think I want to know."

The last thing he needed now, when he'd promised to take things slowly, was visions of being surrounded by women who went without drawers.

No, forget being surrounded—the thought of Alexandra alone was enough. More than enough. Forget the recollections of the past—how about all the times they'd be together in the future? Would he ever be able to think straight again in her presence?

"A lot of ladies don't wear drawers," she said. "Current fashion being as it is, they would show. And they're still rather new, you know. Some women consider them scandalous. And—"

He stopped her with a kiss. He couldn't stand hearing any more about drawers. Not without finishing this evening a lot sooner than he'd expected.

Her mouth, warm and willing, soon claimed his attention. He'd never known anyone who put as much of herself into a kiss as Alexandra. When she was kissing him, he was convinced she was thinking of nothing and no one else. She matched his every move and made some bold moves of her own. Recalling her shocked hesitation the first time they kissed, he found it hard to reconcile that innocence with the way she was kissing him now.

His pulse quickened as he wondered whether she'd take to lovemaking as rapidly.

He trailed his lips to her delicate chin and continued down the slim column of her throat, lingering in that sensitive place where neck met shoulder. He smiled when he sensed her shiver, then pulled back when he felt her fingers go to the line of tiny buttons on his white waistcoat.

By God, she was learning fast. "You're undressing me now?"

Her fingers fumbled. "It seems so." When she finally got the waistcoat open, she slid her hands underneath and up. The white garment fell down his back to join her frock on the floor. "Shall I fetch you a dressing gown?" she asked, watching avidly as he divested himself of his braces.

"Hmm?"

She skimmed her hands over his thin cambric shirt, making his muscles twitch underneath. "Griffin said you would put on a dressing gown."

"For what, five minutes? I would only take it back off."

She nodded knowingly. "I told him that."

He wasn't at all sure he liked his friend discussing his love life. He did, however, like his friend's sister running her hands all over his torso, even when she grazed bruises that still hurt.

"You feel good," she said, her eyes filled with wonder.

He ran his own hands down her sides. "You feel good, too," he told her, his gaze dropping from her intent expression to the swell of her cleavage beneath the plain, low-cut chemise.

The rosy tips of her lovely breasts tightened under his perusal, and her cheeks turned a delicate pink. "I suppose you're not going to lift my nightgown then, either?"

"Pardon?"

"He said when you were ready, you would lift my nightgown."

"What nightgown?" he asked, gesturing at her half-clad form.

"Never mind."

Alexandra swallowed tightly. This wasn't going at all the way Griffin had led her to expect. Despite what she'd said earlier, she was starting to feel a bit nervous. Her legs were trembling. She was grateful when Tris led her to a chair—until he pulled her sideways onto his lap.

She hadn't sat on anyone's lap since she was about four years old. Tris's fragrance surrounded her, filling her head with the scents of soap and starch and warm man. He began plucking the pins from her hair. "Do you know," he said, "how long I've dreamed of doing this?"

"How long?" she whispered.

"Too long." He lowered the heavy mass, finger-combing the curls down her back to her waist. "It's beautiful."

"It's terribly unruly."

"I like it."

Somehow he got her shoes and stockings off, and when he rose with her in his arms, cradled against his chest, she was glad of it. For surely she couldn't have walked to the bed, considering her knees had dissolved.

He laid her gently on the sheets, then straightened to remove the rest of his clothes. As he pulled his shirt over his head, she gasped and reached to touch him, her fingertips brushing the bruises. "Do they hurt?"

He flashed her a wicked grin. "I think you need to kiss them to make them better."

She nodded, thinking that sounded like an excellent plan. In fact, now that he'd given her the idea, she was dying to kiss him all over. Just as soon as he joined her in the bed—

He pushed down his trousers and short drawers, and she lost her train of thought. She also lost her breath. Her heart stuttered in alarm.

She stared.

Griffin had said that part of Tris would get hard so he could slide it into her, but he'd neglected to say it would also get big.

"Sweet heaven," she started—and Tris jumped into bed, pulled the covers over them both, and cut off her sentence with a kiss.

It was a lovely kiss, but it failed to erase her trepidation.

"You're nervous now, aren't you?" he said.

"No. Well, maybe. A little."

"It will fit, sweetheart." He ran a hand down her side and back up. "And remember, I promised to stop if you hurt."

"Yes, you did. Thank you."

He continued slowly stroking her all over through her chemise, which she found rather soothing. Her brother would have warned her if there were a chance of it not working, wouldn't he? And she trusted Tris. Now that she couldn't see that part of his body, she was certain it wasn't as large as she'd thought.

It simply couldn't be.

She'd been surprised, that was all. She'd exaggerated its size in her mind. Everything would be fine.

She released a shaky breath. "Are you going to ask me to open my legs now?"

His hand stilled. "What?"

"Griffin said that after you kissed me and touched me, you would ask me to open my legs."

"Would you leave Griffin out of this? I really must have a talk with him. He is singularly unimaginative." Heaving a giant sigh, he reached for the hem of her chemise. "Let's get rid of this, shall we?"

"I told him you'd take it off," she said smugly, raising her arms to cooperate.

He dropped the chemise to the floor beside the bed. "Told who?"

"Griffin."

"Enough with Griffin," he demanded, snuggling closer beside her.

"All right." She really couldn't think straight when Tris was this close, anyway. Especially when he was running his hands all over her naked body, leaving a trail of warm goosebumps in their wake. Especially when he licked his way down to her breasts and swirled his tongue all over them and fastened his mouth on an aching peak. Especially when he suckled and nipped and made her wonder if anyone had ever died of too much pleasure.

She wasn't thinking of Griffin then. Nor could she think of him long minutes later, when Tris abandoned her tingling breasts and recaptured her lips with his. Just then, it seemed she couldn't think at all.

Especially when he was brushing his fingers up and down her legs.

Especially when he found a sensitive spot behind her knee.

Especially when he was drawing circles on the insides of her thighs, tiny circles that moved ever closer to that place between them where she felt a hot, growing ache.

He didn't have to ask her to open her legs, because somehow they opened all by themselves. And his hand slid between them, to cup her like he had the night he'd sleepwalked. She gasped, feeling such an exquisite need, she found herself straining against his hand in hope of easing it.

And then he moved his hand, stroking her. The pleasure grew, and the urgency grew along with it, until she heard little mewling moans and realized they were hers. For long, languid minutes he played her body, slick slides of his fingers that brought forth bursts of sensation.

Then he slipped a finger inside her. "Tris!" she cried.

"Hmm?"

That hmm was a hum inside her mouth that seemed to spread throughout her body. And it didn't seem to require an answer. Not that she could have answered him, anyway. Not when he was stroking her inside, and her body was responding by clinging to his finger. His thumb found a spot so sweet she feared she might scream from sheer excitement. He rubbed that spot as he thrust his finger deeper and kissed her at the same time, his tongue exploring her mouth with movements that matched what he was doing below.

She'd never felt anything like it. She'd never even imagined anything like it. Her heart raced, and little spurts of pleasure sprinted all over her body. Tremors shimmered through her, the sweet torture continuing until she thought one more velvet stroke might be her undoing. But she wanted something more. Needed something more.

She wasn't sure what, but she suspected it was him.

"Now," she whispered, tearing her mouth from his. "Come inside me now."

A low groan escaped his throat. He moved over her and fit himself between her legs, and she felt him there, poised to enter her, felt him trembling as he tried to hold back. He finally pushed inside, but only a little. Just enough so where their bodies were joined there was a feeling so urgent it made her whimper with anticipation.

"Now," she repeated.

"I don't want to hurt—"

"Now!" She shoved her hips against him, taking him in.

Then froze, still as the stone figure of the river god in the center of their circular drive.

"I'm sorry," he grated out, staying still with her.

"No. It doesn't hurt." It had hurt, but only for a moment. Now she was immobilized by sheer wonder. He was large, but he fit, and he felt incredible filling her.

He was throbbing inside her.

She shifted, raising her knees a little. He sucked in a breath. Her own breath caught as well, because she'd felt him move within her body, creating a cresting wave of heat.

"You're supposed to move," she informed him.

He released a strangled laugh, pulling out of her a bit. "I suppose Griffin told you that?"

"Forget Griffin," she said and lifted herself to meet his thrust.

The sensation was exquisite. The sheer beauty of it made something tighten in her chest. "Dear God," she whispered. "I hadn't the slightest idea."

"This is only the beginning," he said and moved again.

It seemed awkward at first, but she soon learned how to move with him, gasping when he pulled out and sighing as he settled back in. Gradually their motions gained speed, until she was lost in the rhythm, awash in pure pleasure. The pleasure built and built, and built some more, until, quite suddenly, her body erupted. She arched against him, holding on for dear life as wave after wave swept through her, the sensations so intense they stole her very breath. The sheer release of it was stunning, and became even more so when she felt him shudder within her and heard his low groan of surrender.

He collapsed against her, but his was a warm, welcome weight. It seemed a long time before she managed to come to her senses, to breathe a languid sigh.

"I feel very sorry for Griffin," she said at last.

She felt Tris smile against her neck. "Why?"

"He said it would feel good. Can you imagine describing that as good?"

"No," he said with an exhausted chuckle as he eased off her. "That strikes me as a very insufficient word."

"It was glorious. No, that isn't strong enough to describe it. I don't think the right words exist." Feeling drained and yet somehow better than she ever had before, she snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder.

He pressed a slow, warm kiss to her brow.

"I love you," she whispered.

He squeezed her close and kissed her forehead again much harder, but he didn't respond in kind.

It didn't signify, she decided, ignoring the stab of disappointment. He'd shown her how he felt with his body, with his hands, with his cherishing kisses. His experiences in the past had left him reluctant to trust love, and she was sure he wasn't the first man who found it hard to say those three words. She'd just keep telling him, assuring him, and he'd respond in time. Soon.

This marriage may have been precipitated by scandal, but everything was going to work out fine…especially after they cleared his name.

In the meantime, she'd content herself with the wonder—the pure pleasure—of simply lying here, skin to skin. She'd never felt another sensation so sublime…except perhaps the events of the past hour.

As she drifted off to sleep, she replayed every exquisite moment in her head.

She never had worn Juliana's nightgown. And she'd forgotten to kiss his bruises.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

GINGERBREAD CAKES

Take three pounds of flour, one pound of sugar, one pound of butter rubbed in very fine, two ounces of ginger beat fine, a large nutmeg grated then take a pound of treacle, a quarter of a pint of cream, make them warm together, and make up the bread stiff. Wait a while and then make round balls like nuts and bake them on tin-plates in a slack oven.

These are reminiscent of home, and excellent with a good gossip.
—Helena, Countess of Greystone, 1783

Alexandra woke first and watched Tris sleep in the dim early light. His lashes lay dark against his cheeks, making him look young and sweet and vulnerable. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm, his breath drifting in and out between slightly parted lips.

She breathed along with him. She wanted to do everything with him, but for now, breathing would have to do.

When he opened his eyes, she smiled. "Good morning."

He closed the inches between them and kissed her. A long, sleepy kiss. "A good morning indeed." His seductive smile didn't look young, sweet, or vulnerable in the least. He raised his head to peek at the clock on the oak mantel. "Do you always wake before six? I thought ladies all slept until noon."

"I had a house to run for my brother. And now a house to run for you."

"For us," he corrected, making her heart turn over in her chest. He reached for her.

"Wait," she said. "I owe you something."

He only raised a brow. Then laughed when she threw back the covers and began kissing each of his bruises, slowly, one by one.

His skin tasted divine, tinged with a hint of salt and the faint, musky scent of last night's coupling. When her lips brushed a fading mark that sat above his heart, she could hear it beating wildly in a rhythm to match her own. By the time she was finished, they were both short of breath.

"Better?" she asked, her voice thick and unsteady.

"Immensely," he assured her, gathering her close.

Then he kissed her again, his body against hers still overwarm from sleep. He skimmed a hand down her naked back, over her bottom, between her legs, where she was already slick and aching. But he took his time, matching lazy kisses with gentle caresses. When he finally slid into her, she sighed with relief and let him carry them both to bliss.

She'd never slept nude, but she thought she could get used to it. She'd always risen immediately upon awakening—but she thought she could get used to lingering, too.

He rang for Vincent and Peggy, and by seven they were both dressed and in the dining room.

Alexandra smiled at him across the breakfast table. "I cannot believe how happy I am."

"I'm glad." His smile more tentative than hers, Tris sipped from a steaming cup of coffee.

"What shall we do today?" She lifted the pretty little jam pot that matched the crested breakfast service, hoping for marmalade but setting it down when she saw the contents were red.

"I believe those are cherry preserves. I asked Vincent to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries."

"Oh!" She dipped her knife and happily coated her toast. "Would you care for some?"

"I cannot abide anything sweet in the morning." He spread butter on his own toast, then speared a bite of eggs. "In answer to your earlier question, I'll need to make a circuit of the estate today, having been away for a while. There are matters that will require my attention. And I must spend some time at the new gasworks; I've left the builders long without my supervision. Would you care to accompany me?"

Alexandra hesitated, suddenly realizing that what happened in the bedroom was the easy part of marriage. Finding the rhythm of their days was going to be more difficult. She had no right to expect a honeymoon following such a hasty wedding, and she suspected Tris would rather not be distracted as he went about his business. Although she wanted to see everything at Hawkridge, this house was her domain.

"If you wouldn't mind," she finally said, "I'd prefer to stay here. I have much to learn to run this household."

"You have Mrs. Oliver for that."

"It's still my responsibility to oversee everything properly." She set down her teacup.

She had another matter to broach, and there was no sense putting it off.

But as he bit into his toast, she found herself putting it off anyway and looking about the room instead. "How unusual to see wood gilded in a mosaic pattern like that," she said inanely, referring to the walls.

"It's not wood." He set down the toast and lifted his cup. "It's gold-stamped leather."

"Is it? I've never seen anything like it."

He sipped and gave her a wry smile. "It was all the rage a hundred and fifty years ago. I'm told it's supposed to absorb the smells of food, but it doesn't seem to me that it works."

"Well, thank goodness for that. A century and a half of accumulated food scents would be a bit much, don't you think?"

He chuckled, and she drew a deep breath. "How long will you be gone today?"

"I'm not certain. It depends upon what I encounter. Perhaps a few hours, perhaps until evening." He sipped again, watching her over the cup's rim. "My offer is still open for you to come along."

Although it sounded like a sincere invitation, he didn't look like he particularly wanted her to accept it. "I think I should stay here," she repeated and squared her shoulders. "But when you return later, perhaps we can discuss strategy."

"For removing scents from the walls?"

"For mounting a new search for your uncle's murderer."

His cup clattered back to its saucer. "No."

The bruises on his face were fading, but it seemed nothing else had changed. "We must clear your name, Tris," she said carefully. "For my sisters' sakes if not your own."

His gray gaze was resolute. "I told you before, I have no wish to reopen that coil of a case. There can be no good outcome. Either my uncle died in his sleep, in which case there's nothing to find, or…"

His voice trailed off.

The haunted look in his eyes broke her heart. "You cannot think the only other alternative is that you killed him."

But clearly he did think that. "Just leave this alone, Alexandra."

She swallowed hard. She had to make him understand. "Does my happiness mean so little to you?"

"Not ten minutes ago, you told me you were happy beyond belief. Have your feelings changed that quickly?"

"For myself, I'm happy. But there are others involved."

"You had alternate offers," he reminded her. "Perhaps you should have accepted Lord Shelton or Roger St. Quentin."

A lump rose in her throat. The thought of marriage to either of those men made her breakfast sour in her stomach, but had she doomed her sisters as a result of her selfishness?

"I apologize," he said stiffly, watching her. "That was unfair."

"No, you're right. I wanted you," she said, suddenly fearing she'd made a terrible mistake. "But I also want your name cleared. And, Tris…you're not responsible for your uncle's death. There's no reason not to investigate."

His jaw tense, he sat silent a long moment. "I must be off," he finally said in a neutral tone. "We shall continue this discussion tonight."

After giving her a perfunctory kiss, he left.

She sat stunned for a while, her wonderful mood from the morning shattered. She tried to finish her tea, but she couldn't swallow past her tight throat. Finally she rose, fed the rest of her toast to Rex, and went upstairs to grab her family's cookbook.

Then, as she often did when she was upset, she headed for the kitchen.

Unfortunately, she had no idea where it was—Tris's tour last night hadn't included anything as mundane as the servants' quarters. But this morning she'd noticed a back passageway off the great hall, so she decided to try there first.

No sooner had she wandered into the gray-painted corridor than she bumped into a housemaid hurrying the other direction. "Pardon, my lady!" The girl's cheeks turned bright pink.

"Goodness, it was my fault entirely." Alexandra wracked her brain for the girl's name. "I wonder, Anne, if you could direct me to the kitchen?"

Anne beamed. "Right this way, my lady." Carrying a mop, broom, and bucket, she led Alexandra down another chilly corridor to a staircase. "It's in the basement. Shall I show you?"

"I'm certain I can find it. Thank you, Anne."

"Thank you, my lady." Still smiling and holding everything, Anne gave an awkward curtsy and walked off while Alexandra went down the stairs.

A row of leather buckets hung overhead, pointing the way to the kitchen—always the biggest fire hazard in any house. Busy plucking a chicken, Mrs. Pawley looked up when Alexandra entered her domain.

"Good morning, my lady! I wasn't expecting you to 'invade my kitchen' quite so soon." She wiped her hands on her wide, white apron. "Did you enjoy your breakfast?"

"Very much." The room was a hive of activity: kitchen maids chopping and slicing while scullery maids scurried here and there, hauling pans and implements off to be washed. A small boy stood turning a spit. Alexandra sighed. "I thought to perhaps make some gingerbread, but—"

"Come in, come in." Mrs. Pawley shooed two kitchen maids away from the large central table. "Show me your book."

Alexandra handed it over. "It's been in my family for well over a century."

The cook flipped several pages. "This sounds delicious. And this." She looked up. "Are all the recipes for sweets?"

"The Chases do all share a sweet tooth." Despite her blue mood, Alexandra smiled as she reclaimed the old book. "Each lady in the family adds a recipe every Christmas. I'll have to return it to Cainewood, where it belongs. I've only borrowed it to copy my favorites, as Lord Hawkridge and I were married, ah…"

"In a hurry?" Mrs. Pawley's blue eyes danced.

"You could put it that way, yes. Have you flour and sugar?"

Beneath her starched white cap, the blond bun at the nape of the cook's neck bounced as she nodded. "We have everything you need, my lady. You've only to give me your list."

Half an hour later, they stood companionably side by side, their hands coated in flour, forming small balls out of the gingerbread dough. Mrs. Pawley, as it turned out, wasn't only an accomplished cook, but also an unrepentant gossip. "I did notice where your ancestor claimed these cakes are excellent with a good gossip," she said with a laugh.

"I expect she meant eating them, not making them." Alexandra sneaked a taste of the sweet-spicy dough. "Though I do confess some curiosity about the past happenings here at Hawkridge."

"I remember when your husband first arrived here from Jamaica. The man was in a bad way, he was, his father dead and not a penny to his name. The last Lord Hawkridge took him under his wing, but he weren't in a good way, either."

"Yes, I've heard that. He was ill, wasn't he?" Alexandra scooped more dough. "Do you remember the morning the last Lord Hawkridge was found dead?"

"Oh, most vividly." Having filled the first pan, the cook dusted flour on another. "We all loved the last Lord Hawkridge. Not that we don't feel the same toward your new husband. Do you know, it was he who suggested Lord Hawkridge send me to France for training. Saved my position here, he did. And he couldn't have been more than fifteen at the time; even as a boy, he knew the way of things. Your husband has a business head on those wide shoulders."

A vision of herself gripping those wide shoulders made Alexandra's blood heat, but she wasn't sure she wanted her servants taking notice of Tris's anatomy. "When the last Lord Hawkridge was discovered dead, was poison suspected immediately?"

"Good heavens, no! Who would poison a fine man like the last Lord Hawkridge?" Mrs. Pawley plopped another ball on the pan. "He died of a broken heart, I tell you. We all know that here. No matter what the outsiders say."

Alexandra was relieved to hear that Tris's staff didn't suspect him. "Were there any outsiders here at the time? Anyone suspicious?"

"No one at all. Lord Hawkridge was in the dismals—he weren't taking visitors. Excepting your husband, of course. The house was still draped in black—"

"No one? A concerned neighbor? A salesman or tradesman?"

"Not that I remember." Rolling dough between her plump hands, the cook eyed Alexandra speculatively. "Why all the questions, my lady?"

Alexandra made another ball before she answered. She knew Tris wouldn't be happy she was asking questions. But did she have a choice? His fear that he'd killed his uncle was completely unfounded, and her sisters' happiness was at stake.

She set the ball on the pan. "I'm hoping to clear my husband's name, Mrs. Pawley. If I can prove someone else killed his uncle, he'll be welcomed back into society."

The cook nodded as if she'd thought as much. "I'd like to see Lord Hawkridge's name cleared as well. But there's no one here thinks the last Lord Hawkridge was poisoned. He died in his sleep, plain and simple."

"Do you find it upsetting to answer questions?"

"I suppose not. I didn't see anything that night to help you, though. 'Course, I'm stuck down here in the basement; I'm not aware of all that goes on upstairs." She reached over to pat Alexandra's hand, puffing flour into the air in the process. "If it's that important to you, perhaps you should ask the others."

Exactly what Alexandra wanted to do. Perhaps she'd be risking her husband's anger, but she couldn't see where either of them would be happy with this cloud hanging over their heads. And it wasn't as though she'd be combing the countryside for clues—she'd only be talking to her own staff. People she should be getting to know anyway.

If a little voice told her that was a rationalization, she decided to ignore it. With any luck, she might uncover important information and solve the mystery before Tris even arrived home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

An hour later, Alexandra and a large platter of gingerbread cakes sat in the main parlor, which had a lovely trio of windows looking out toward the Thames. The walls and upholstery were sage green damask, the ceiling painted with fat, cavorting cherubs to oversee the proceedings. Hastings—who'd had no new information to add to her investigation—showed the next servant in, bowing as he backed from the room.

"Please have a seat, Ted." She waved the footman onto the sofa opposite hers, reaching to the low table between them to pour tea, in hopes of making him comfortable. "Would you care for a gingerbread cake? They're still warm from the oven."

The footman seated himself carefully. "The others told me what you're asking, my lady. I regret that I have nothing to add. But we all know the marquess is innocent, and we do admire your efforts to clear his name."

"I'm determined." How ironic that everyone here thought Tris was blameless—except Tris himself. That only cemented her resolve to prove his innocence in spite of his protests. Since Ted hadn't reached for a cake, she put one on a small plate and handed it to him. "Are you certain you saw no one suspicious around Hawkridge that night or the morning after?"

"None that I recollect."

"And was there anyone here—living here, I mean—whom you feel could possibly have had motive to harm the last Lord Hawkridge?"

"I'm afraid not. Lord Hawkridge was a fair man, much admired by all."

"So I keep hearing." She sighed. "If you think of anything that might help me, please let me know immediately. You may go. And feel free to take your refreshments with you," she added with a smile. "I suspect there may be a small party in the servants' parlor."

And so it went. She questioned all the footmen and other manservants, the housemaids, the chambermaids, the kitchen staff, and everyone in the stables and on the grounds. Over and over she heard the same answers, the same insistence on everyone's innocence. Four hours later, the pile of gingerbread cakes had dwindled, and there were only the upper servants left to interview.

"Good afternoon, my lady," Peggy said when Hastings ushered her in. She had put aside her maid's uniform and wore a clean but very outdated dress. "I've been wondering when I might be summoned."

"This is nothing for you to fret about," Alexandra assured her, thinking she'd fetch a few dresses for her the next time she went home to Cainewood. Lady's maids generally expected to wear their mistresses' cast-off clothing. She poured tea and set the cup and saucer on the low table between them, along with a gingerbread cake. "Please make yourself comfortable. I just have a few questions, that's all."

Peggy sat and fluffed her skirts. "You're looking for evidence to clear Lord Hawkridge's name."

"Yes. Word does get around." Peggy had done an excellent job unpacking and arranging Alexandra's things last night—even pressing her wrinkled clothing before putting it away—and this morning she'd worked wonders with her often unruly hair. So far, Tris's opinion notwithstanding, Alexandra was very pleased with her. "Do you recollect anyone visiting the evening or morning of my husband's uncle's death?"

"No, my lady. No one." Peggy calmly sipped her tea. "And I know what you're going to ask next," she added, setting her cup back on the saucer. "I don't believe anyone here had any reason to harm Lord Hawkridge, either. He was well liked and respected, and we had all known him a long time—many of us all of our lives."

"I'm aware of that." Alexandra sipped a bit of her own tea to be polite, although she'd long ago had quite enough. "Is no one new ever hired here at Hawkridge?"

"There are rarely any openings and usually young people waiting to fill them." Peggy bit into a gingerbread cake, chewed, swallowed, and smiled. "Delicious, my lady."

"Thank you. It's an old family recipe." But the "good gossip" the cakes were purported to inspire wasn't netting her much in the way of results. "So you don't remember anyone who might have been new at the time? Anyone who could possibly have been less than loyal to the last Lord Hawkridge?"

"No, we're all here from way back." Peggy reached for her cup again, then stopped. "Wait." She frowned, narrowing her pale green eyes. "There was Vincent, of course. He'd recently arrived with your husband." She shook her head, her mop of brown curls bouncing. "But Vincent is a big sweetheart. He'd never kill a fly, let alone a man."

"I'm sure you're right," Alexandra said, hiding her surprise that she hadn't thought of Vincent herself. It was obvious that at the time he'd have been a new arrival. "Thank you, Peggy. I'll be calling on you to help me change before dinner. Would you inform Hastings that I'm ready for Mrs. Oliver?"

"Of course, my lady." Peggy smiled and left.

While Alexandra waited for Mrs. Oliver, she stared blankly out a window toward the peaceful river, her mind racing. Could Vincent have killed Tris's uncle? He didn't seem the type; she had liked him on sight. But Uncle Harold, after all, had owned Vincent when he was a slave. It was certainly possible for resentment to build under those circumstances. And Vincent had to bear Tris a strong loyalty, considering Tris had bought and freed him.

Seeing the man to whom he owed his freedom destitute and desperate, might Vincent have been willing to kill his former owner in order to see Tris inherit?

She didn't think so. But she owed it to Tris—and her sisters—to at least consider the possibility.

When Mrs. Oliver arrived, she brought news. "Lord Hawkridge has sent word, my lady. He's been detained at the gasworks and may not make it home until after dinner."

"Thank you, Mrs. Oliver." Alexandra forced a smile. The news was disappointing, but not altogether unexpected. And if this was to be her life, she might as well get used to it. "Please do take a seat. I hope you won't mind answering a few questions."

But although they had a nice conversation, Mrs. Oliver had nothing new to add to Alexandra's investigation.

And at long last, she had only one servant left to speak with: Vincent.

Vincent wore an impeccable black suit, a crisply tied cravat, and a wide, bright smile. He entered the room with such an easy manner that she couldn't imagine he was afraid of anything, much less worried he'd be arrested for murder.

"My lady," he greeted her in that musical voice that made her picture faraway islands. "I've never seen your husband as happy as he was this morning. I can only thank you for entering his life."

"Surely you exaggerate." How could she suspect such a charmer? "Have a seat, please, and tell me what you remember of the night my husband's uncle died."

"The man was feeling poorly, and one morning he failed to wake up." He seated himself, seeming to take up the whole sofa across from her. "I saw nothing to suggest there was foul play involved and nothing to rule it out, either. However," he added, his deep voice brooking no argument, "Lord Hawkridge had no part in his uncle's death. I'll hear nothing of that nonsense."

"I agree with you entirely." When she handed him a cup and saucer, they looked like toys in his big hands. "I hope to find the real culprit, to clear my husband's name and restore his place in society."

"He's aware of your investigation?"

Was it her imagination, or did he know Tris would disapprove? "I've told him of my intentions."

He sipped, regarding her over the cup's rim. "Most here think there was no culprit. They believe Lord Hawkridge's uncle died in his sleep. They're convinced no one here had any reason at all to consider murder."

"You don't agree?"

He shrugged his brawny shoulders. "I don't pretend to know. I had come to Hawkridge but recently, so I wasn't as well acquainted with the rest of the staff as they were with one another. Four years later, I still don't know many of them well."

He wouldn't. Upper servants rarely fraternized with those lower, and she couldn't picture him becoming fast friends with Hastings, Mrs. Oliver, or Mrs. Pawley. He struck her as the sort that would keep to himself. Which doubtless suited Tris just fine.

She offered him a small smile. "If you think of anything that could help me, please let me know."

"I will," he said, draining his tea before rising to his feet. "Your husband is a good man, Lady Hawkridge. The best. If there's anything I can ever do to help him, you can wager I will."

He bowed to her from his lofty height, and she watched him walk from the room.

After he left, she thought about him for a long time. She was usually a good judge of people, and she couldn't imagine him a murderer. He seemed friendly and open, and she liked him.

But he'd made it clear he'd do anything to help Tris.

Could anything extend to murder?

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

It had started raining around sunset and hadn't let up since. Dripping wet and miserable, Tristan was surprised when Vincent met him at the door. Predictably, Rex met him at the door, too, bounding down the stairs and sliding across the great hall to greet him.

"Welcome home, my lord," Vincent said. Rex barked, his equivalent of a welcome.

Tristan stepped inside, immediately making a puddle on the black and white marble floor. He rubbed the dog's head before shrugging out of his sopping greatcoat and handing it to the valet. "Where's Hastings?"

"Sleeping." Vincent took Tristan's soaked hat, too, holding both away from his own pristine clothing. "Everyone's sleeping. It's half past one in the morning."

"Holy Christ. I had no idea." Tristan dug out his pocket watch, but of course his valet was right. "Problem with the construction at the gasworks," he explained, snapping it shut. "I shall have to return first thing tomorrow. I expect Lady Hawkridge is abed, too?"

"I imagine so. Haven't seen her for hours. Should you like some dinner, sir?"

He suddenly realized he was famished. "Yes, and my thanks. Bring it to my study, if you will. I have weeks of paperwork to catch up on."

Boots squishing all the way, he headed across the great hall to the dining room and through to the study, Rex at his heels. He briefly considered changing out of his damp clothes, but decided he couldn't spare the time. He'd waded through less than half the mail when Vincent showed up with a platter of cold roasted chicken, sliced cheddar, and a small round loaf of bread.

From where he was snoozing in the corner, Rex perked up and sniffed.

"Just leave it here on the desk," Tristan said, reading a letter from his steward in Jamaica. "And take yourself off to bed. I can undress myself."

"Thank you, my lord." Vincent hesitated.

Tristan looked up. "Yes?"

"Since your lady is asleep, I just thought you might like to know that she questioned everyone, but I don't believe she uncovered any new evidence."

He set down the letter. Slowly. "What do you mean, she questioned everyone?"

"About the circumstances surrounding your uncle's death." Vincent peered at him in the yellowish gaslight. "She assured me you were aware of her intentions."

"She did make her intentions clear, yes." And he'd thought he'd made his clear as well. "Thank you, Vincent. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, then, my lord."

Tristan waited for his valet's footsteps to fade from his hearing, then counted to ten. Then counted to a hundred. Then told himself he'd be better off eating his dinner and waiting for his anger to ebb, rather than stomping upstairs immediately to wake his new wife.

He ate two bites of chicken, tossed the cheese to the dog, and took a hunk of the bread with him.

Chewing savagely as he squished up the stairs, he considered the best way to wake Alexandra. A light tap on the shoulder? A whisper in her ear? Perhaps he should jerk the sheets up and thereby dump her out of the bed.

Though he'd never actually do such a thing, simply considering it was satisfying in itself. He savored the mental picture as he squished through the round gallery and down the corridor. Having wolfed down the cheese, Rex caught up to him just in time to get the door slammed in his huge, hopeful face.

Seated in one of the armchairs, Alexandra looked up from her book. "You're home."

Tristan slumped back against the door. "You're not sleeping." Damn, he couldn't dump her out of the bed. "You're not even undressed." All she'd removed were her shoes and stockings.

She set her book on the side table and smiled. "I thought you liked to do the undressing."

"I thought—"

Bloody hell, she looked gorgeous with that beckoning smile, her eyes glazed from lack of sleep, her cheeks rosy in the gaslight, her body's soft curves evident in the slim dress she'd no doubt donned for dinner. His own body reacted as he wondered whether she was wearing drawers.

Gritting his teeth, he yanked his thoughts back to the matter at hand. "I thought I told you to stay out of my business."

Her rosy cheeks went white. "You've heard."

"Of course I've heard. Every servant here is loyal to a fault."

"So I learned today. They were all loyal to your uncle while he lived, and now they're all loyal to you. No one thinks you poisoned him, and no one believes any of the others were responsible, either. They all stand together and behind you, Tris." She rose and crossed the distance between them. "It's extraordinary, when you think of it. Servant turnover is an enormous problem on most estates. Yet everyone here, it seems, has been here forever."

Rain pattered against the windows while he considered her brave speech and fought to control his anger. Perhaps all was over and done with; perhaps now the matter would be closed. "You didn't learn anything incriminating."

"Incriminating to whom? We both know you're not at fault. But no, I learned nothing to incriminate anyone here. Not even Vincent."

"Vincent?" he snapped. "Why should you mention him?"

He saw her swallow hard. "He was the only one new to the staff. The only one without a long-standing loyalty to your Uncle Harold. The only one, in fact, who had a reason to resent him."

The anger surged anew. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

"Your uncle owned him, Tris. Don't you think that could have made a difference? After you freed the man and then found yourself in dire straits, haven't you ever wondered if it's possible he considered murder a way to both revenge himself and solve your problem?"

He hadn't. Not for the barest moment. "I'd sooner believe I murdered my uncle myself. Just because the man has dark skin—"

"This has nothing to do with his skin." Outrage brought color back to her cheeks. "I cannot believe you would think that of me. I happen to like Vincent very much. We had a nice chat. He cares about you—"

"Then why? Why would you accuse—"

"I've accused him of nothing! Shall you fault me for simply considering the possibility? For looking everywhere I can to find someone to blame so we can clear your name and get out of this mess?"

He realized they'd both raised their voices, but he didn't give a damn whom they might wake. "I do not want this mess, as you put it, stirred up again. I thought I'd made that perfectly clear. Do you understand me this time? Or do I need to write it down on a goddamn piece of paper?"

"What are you afraid of, Tris? That you'll find yourself a murderer? I know that won't happen." She looked beautiful in her righteous fury, her cheeks red as rubies now, her hair escaping its pins and curling about her face. "All I wanted was to ask around and see what I might turn up."

"And all I want is for you to stop!"

"Well, then, you have your wish," she said, suddenly sounding defeated. "I've talked to every single person on this estate, and no one had anything the least bit helpful to contribute. There's no one else to ask." She drew a deep breath, her breasts heaving with the effort. "It's over," she added in a voice so dead and quiet it was startling following all the shouting.

The silence reigned for a space of time, stretching awkwardly between them.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. "But I confess I'd do it again. It's over, but if it wasn't, I'd do anything I could to find a way to clear your name."

He couldn't summon any more anger—what he felt edged closer to guilt. After all, it was his fault—his sleepwalking, his failure to leave her room—that had landed them in this impossible marriage.

Maybe a tiny part of him had hoped she'd be successful. Hoped she'd find a way to erase the stain on the Nesbitt name. Hoped she'd prove able to keep that stain from spreading to her own family.

Of course, a much larger part of him—the part that was scared stiff of what she might have found—overshadowed that tiny part.

But it was there. Maybe.

"I'm glad it's over, then," he said. "And I'm sorry, too." He wasn't quite sure what he was sorry for. Given the chance, he'd try to stop her all over again. But he did feel sorry. And guilty. And a little angry still, and he didn't know what else.

She sighed and moved the few inches between them to lay her head on his chest. "You're damp."

"I had to ride home through the rain."

She snuggled closer anyway. "I guess we've had our first fight."

"I didn't know you had it in you," he said, wrapping his arms around her. "You're always so composed."

"When something matters to me as much as this does—as much as you do, as much as my family—I will fight for it all the way."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said dryly.

She felt warm and yielding in his arms. Soft and alluring. Though his emotions were still running high, he'd never been able to resist her pull.

Never.

His hands wandered down lower. "Are you wearing drawers?" he whispered.

"I don't own any drawers," she murmured against his chest, wiggling her bottom against his hands in a way that kicked his pulse up a notch. "If you want me to wear them, you're going to have to hire a seamstress to make them."

"Bring another servant here for you to question?" he said bitterly. "I think not."

She tilted her chin up to see him. "Was there a seamstress here at the time?"

She looked dead serious, which he found less than thrilling. Very much less than thrilling. Whatever had calmed in him flared again. "I thought you said you were finished."

"Only because there's no one left to interview."

"It's over. You said it was over."

"If there was another person here at the time—"

He silenced her with a kiss. Exasperated, he could think of nothing else to do.

He half expected her to protest, but she opened her mouth instead, immediately inviting him in. Their tongues tangled in a dance that made heat flash through him. He backed her toward the bed. She smelled like heaven and tasted like sin, and he would never get enough of her.

He was mad for her. It seemed he'd spent his entire life mad for her. He wanted to bury himself deep inside her, and there was just enough anger swirling in him to make him too selfish to treat her like the almost-virgin she was.

Their mouths still bonded, his fingers worked frantically to unfasten the back of her dress as he inched her ever closer to the bed. He dragged the frock down her arms, together with her chemise, breaking their kiss to shove them both over her hips and legs and clear down to the floor. While she stood slack-jawed in shock, he yanked off his boots and tore a seam in his coat in his hurry to get out of it.

Unbuttoning his falls with one hand, he pushed her onto the bed with the other, noting the surprise in her eyes. But there was passion in her eyes, too—utter, unbridled passion. Unable to wait a moment longer, he climbed up to cover her gloriously nude body with his.

A gasp escaped her lips before he crushed her mouth beneath his again. He wedged a hand between her legs to test her with a finger and then another. He knew he should take his time, treat her gently, but she felt slick, sleek, throbbing around his fingers, inciting desire so raw he was helpless to hold back. She gasped again as he widened her thighs and plunged home where he wanted to be.

Hot. Impossibly tight and hot as her legs locked around him, the unschooled sensuality of that driving him to distraction. He couldn't wait. He didn't want to wait. He wanted to lose himself in her, and she seemed to be losing herself as well. Her hands gripped his damp shoulders, and she cried out his name, shuddering, dragging him over the edge to join her in oblivion.

When he regained his senses, he kissed her hair, her cheek, her mouth. Part of him was mortified at his lack of control, but another part, a larger part, simply marveled at the emotions she was able to rouse in him.

No other woman had ever been capable of making him lose control. But all the anger, the raw passion, had somehow transformed into softer feelings when he'd felt her respond to him. When he'd felt her join him in the madness. And that had made all the difference.

He hadn't ever made love before Alexandra, he realized all of a sudden…he'd only found release.

"Sweet heaven," she whispered as he eased himself off of her, both of them still shaky, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "I cannot move."

Coming up on an elbow beside her, he ran a finger alongside her face and kissed the wide expanse of her forehead. "Give it time."

"I think I need until tomorrow."

Alarmed, he wondered whether she was serious or jesting. "I'm sorry I was so quick and…ah, rough."

"I liked it." Her eyes drifted shut. "It was exciting."

Jesting, then. Although she couldn't see him, he smiled. "And last night wasn't? And this morning?"

"Every time is exciting. Every time you kiss me, every time you touch me. Every way…" She lifted her lids and met his gaze. "I love you, Tris. Even though we don't always agree, I love you."

The only answer he could give her was a kiss. He poured his heart and soul into it and still knew it wasn't enough. Anything more, though, was beyond him.

He couldn't say words he didn't believe.

"I'll get the lights," he said finally and rolled out of bed.

He quickly finished undressing and then walked around the room, dousing the gaslights one by one, his gaze fastened on her as he went.

She still hadn't moved. Sprawled atop the sheets, ravishingly bare, she was every man's dream. He still didn't believe she was his.

He still didn't believe he wouldn't lose her.

If he woke in the night, he wanted to be able to see her. He left the last light burning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Tristan woke in his study.

At first he just blinked, disoriented. Slowly he noticed the light coming in through the shutters, the ticking of the clock on the desk. The dog snoring in the corner, rattling the windows.

He swung himself upright on the leather sofa and rubbed his face. The sofa was too short, and his legs ached. He stretched them out before him, wondering how many hours he'd slept cramped in that position.

Hours. Hours. Holy Christ. He must have sleepwalked here during the night.

Thankfully, his sleeping self had drawn a dressing gown around his naked body. He wrapped it tighter and tied the sash. Yawning, he stood and left the study, intending to head upstairs.

No sooner had he stepped foot in the dining room, however, than Hastings popped in. "Good morning, my lord. Will you be wanting breakfast?"

"What time is it?"

"Half past eight."

Bloody hell. He needed to get back to the gasworks. He'd promised to arrive with the sun. "Yes, breakfast, please. Is Lady Hawkridge up and about?"

Hastings looked at him curiously. "No, my lord. She's yet to make an appearance."

"I'll let her sleep," he decided, amused. He must have worn her out. Rather than risk waking her, he'd have breakfast now and then quickly dress after she'd arisen.

When he'd downed his last bite of eggs and drained his second cup of coffee and she still hadn't appeared, he returned to his study to finish going through his mail. An hour later, he sent a footman to the gasworks with a note. An hour after that, he hurried upstairs, concerned.

No matter how wild the night, a woman who habitually rose at six didn't sleep until after eleven.

"Alexandra?" He knocked softly. "Alexandra?"

He opened the door. Curled up under the covers, she looked so peaceful he had to smile.

He walked closer and shook her shoulder. "Alexandra, it's time to wake up."

She slumbered on.

"Alexandra." He shook her harder. "Alexandra!" Still no response.

At his wit's end, he drew a deep breath. And suddenly felt lightheaded.

For a moment he just stood there, a vague prickling in his brain suggesting the woozy feeling should mean something significant. Shifting uneasily, he glanced around the room. And noticed the gas lamp he'd left lit.

Only it wasn't.

His pulse stuttering, he rushed over and twisted the key, hoping it wouldn't move.

It did move. The gas line had been open. It had been open with no flame, and Alexandra had been breathing gas for God only knew how long.

He prayed to that God as he scooped his wife and the covers from the bed, ran down the corridor, and turned into the Queen's Bedchamber.

"Alexandra!" He laid her on the turquoise and gold counterpane and crawled up beside her, his heart pounding so hard he had to yell over the roar in his ears. "Alexandra, wake up!" Kneeling on the mattress, he gathered her into his arms. "Oh, God, please, wake up." He rocked her back and forth. "Wake up, God damn it!"

Her lids fluttered halfway open, then closed.

He held his breath. His heart seemed to stop. "Alexandra?"

"Just…"

Had he imagined that single, breathy word? He'd had to strain to hear it.

"Just…wait a moment."

A moment. Wait a moment.

He'd wait, right here with her in his arms, for minutes, hours—days—if only he knew for certain she'd be all right.

He waited.

"You're holding me too tight," she finally said.

His heart started again.

He was shaking all over.

"I mean it," she murmured, her eyes opening at last. Warmed brandy. He'd never seen anything so beautiful.

She blinked up at him. "Let go of me, Tris."

"I can't." He did loosen his hold, though even that small compromise seemed difficult. "I think I'm going to hold you for the rest of our lives."

Her little chuckle was the most wonderful sound he'd ever heard. "What happened?"

"God, I could have lost you." He sent a little thank-you up to heaven.

"What happened, Tris?"

"The gas. The lamp I left burning last night. The flame went out, so gas leaked into the room, and you were breathing it."

"You're shaking."

"I know. You were breathing it, and you could have died."

She struggled to sit up on his lap. "Don't be so melodramatic. I'm fine."

"Thank God that room isn't airtight. It may have been leaking for hours."

"I've never heard you talk so much of God," she said with a little smile. "Christ, yes, especially Holy Christ. But—"

"Hours," he repeated, feeling the blood drain from his face.

"Tris?" She levered off his lap and knelt facing him on the bed, drawing the covers over her shoulders and around her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. No." His heart was pounding again. "Oh, God, I must have extinguished the flame."

"What are you talking about?"

"I sleepwalked again last night. Woke up this morning in my study. Before I left the room in the night, I must have extinguished the flame in my sleep."

"That's ridiculous." The blanket slipped off a bare shoulder, and she pulled it back up. "It was stormy last night. A draft blew it out."

"The glass chimney is there to protect the flame. A draft cannot blow it out. It had to have been put out deliberately."

"Anything can happen, Tris."

He wanted to believe her. He didn't want to believe he was capable of harming his own wife in the middle of the night. What kind of man would that make him?

A dangerous one.

What would that do to their marriage?

"I know what you're thinking." She sighed, sounding so much like hale-and-hearty Alexandra he wanted to hug her despite his distress. "Even if you did put out the flame—which I am not at all convinced is the case—surely it wasn't intentional. For heaven's sake, you did it in your sleep. You must have meant to turn it off and mistakenly extinguished it instead."

"Maybe," he said—because he knew that was what she wanted to hear.

"Absolutely." Having settled the matter—to her mind, in any case—she scooted to the edge of the high bed and slid off, swaying a bit on her feet.

He landed beside her and caught her by the elbow. "Careful."

"I'm fine." Hitching the blanket back onto her shoulders again, she peered up at his face. "Better than you are, I'd wager. What are your plans for today?"

He winced. "I need to ride out to the gasworks. I was supposed to be there hours ago. But I cannot leave you—"

"Don't be a goose. I told you I'm fine. I'm going to make some sweets and take them with me to meet the villagers." He'd barely opened his mouth when she added, "I know what you're thinking. I won't be asking anyone any questions about your uncle's death."

"That's the second time you've said you know what I'm thinking."

She shrugged prettily and smiled. A smug smile.

He kissed that smug smile off her face. It was a long, deep kiss, and when he finished she was swaying on her feet again, and he wasn't at all worried it was due to gas poisoning.

While they were still gazing at each other, Rex plodded in, nudged Tristan with his huge head, and barked.

"He doesn't like me," Alexandra said.

"He just wants some attention. Which I cannot give him right now." He rubbed the dog's head. "I need to get dressed." He turned to leave, then turned back and pulled up the blanket that had slipped off her shoulder again. "Make certain to take Peggy with you."

"Of course I will."

"And a footman for good measure—and a carriage. I shouldn't like to see you walking or riding after what happened here this morning. You may not be as fine as you believe." He gave her one more short, hard kiss, ignoring Rex's bark, then headed off to find Vincent.

No matter what Alexandra claimed, he knew she didn't know what he was thinking. Because when he'd stepped back from that final kiss, he'd been thinking that if he'd poisoned her with gas while sleepwalking, then it was that much more likely he'd also poisoned his uncle.

If she could read his mind, she'd surely have responded to that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

SUGAR-CAKES

Take Sugar and half again as much Butter, Beaten together, and add Eggs, as much Flour as sugar, a little Cream, some Sherry, a generous amount of Currants and a spoon of shaved nutmeg. Shape into thin round cakes and Prick all over, then bake in a warm oven. Cover with icing Sugar mixed with white of egg and return to oven until Crisp.

These travel well and are good for visiting.
—Lady Diana Caldwell, 1692

It took a lot of sugar cakes to feed a village.

At half-past noon, barely an hour after Tris left, Mrs. Pawley took the fourth pan out of the oven and brought it over to where Alexandra was spreading glaze on top. "Might I pour you more sherry?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Pawley." The small glass Alexandra had finished was quite enough—just enough, in fact, to take the edge off her disappointment that she wouldn't be able to clear Tris's name. Just enough so she could smile and laugh and pretend that everything was all right.

Although, of course, it wasn't.

More than half a glass of anything alcoholic made her very giggly or put her to sleep. When the cook had suggested they have a wee taste of the sherry before adding it to the recipe, she hadn't expected to finish the bottle. But Mrs. Pawley was making a good dent in it.

"I'll just have another myself, if you don't mind." The cook filled her glass for the third time and sipped, watching Alexandra swirl the sugary mixture onto the cakes with a knife. "You do that very prettily, my dear."

"Thank you. My mother taught me how to do this. And my father's mother taught her, I expect, considering the age of the recipe."

Mrs. Pawley smiled and sipped again, one eye on all the activity in the kitchen. While Alexandra wouldn't normally approve of Hawkridge's cook drinking wine while she worked, Mrs. Pawley seemed unaffected, and she couldn't argue with the woman's results. Her meals were exquisite, and her kitchen was spotless.

The woman did, however, have a smudge of flour on her little button nose that Alexandra itched to wipe away. "I know your father was Hawkridge's last cook," she said to distract herself, "but did your mother work here as well?"

"Bless her, she did. Started as a scullery maid before she caught m'father's eye." The cook's blue eyes danced. "'Course she became his assistant in short order."

Alexandra smiled. "I imagine she did like that better than scrubbing dishes."

"No one aspires to stay a scullery maid long. If a girl cannot expect advancement—"

At the sudden silence, Alexandra looked up from the pan of cakes. "What is it, Mrs. Pawley?"

"I just remembered. There was a scullery maid—Beth, she was called—went to Armstrong House a few years ago for a better position. She was here that night—the night his lordship's uncle died. Will you be wanting to ask questions of her as well?"

"Goodness, yes." The news lifted Alexandra's spirits more than an entire bottle of sherry. "How far is Armstrong House?"

"An hour or less on horseback. You'll just need to follow the river."

"Lord Hawkridge would prefer I take a carriage." There was no reason to ignore his wishes completely. He'd doubtless be angry she'd gone at all, but she couldn't very well ignore an opportunity to solve their problems, could she?

Not and live with herself.

"May I prevail on you to finish these?" She shoved the pan toward the cook. "I have to change my dress, and have a carriage brought round, and find a footman to accompany Peggy and myself." She was already headed toward the door. "They need only a few more minutes in the oven; when the icing has hardened, they're done."

Half an hour later, plans for her journey in place, she returned to fetch a few sugar cakes to bring along with her to Armstrong House. She couldn't very well arrive empty-handed.

After yesterday's rain, the day was beautiful. She opened the carriage windows to let in the sunshine and fresh air. Ernest, the footman she'd recruited to accompany her, rode up on the box with the coachman, and Peggy sat with her inside. No sooner had they started rolling than Peggy pulled a basket out from under the seat and began filling plates for them both.

"What's this?" Alexandra asked.

"Luncheon. You missed breakfast. I won't have you wasting away from starvation."

Alexandra laughed, suddenly realizing she'd forgotten to eat. She supposed she'd been too upset to really care. But now that her investigation was open again, she felt famished.

Peggy truly was a dear for taking care of her so well. She piled cold meats, cheese, pickles, and fruits on both their plates. "No strawberries for me," Alexandra told her. "I cannot eat them."

Peggy handed her a plate before adding a few strawberries to her own. "Why is that?"

"They make my tongue swell and my throat feel tight. It's really quite dreadful. The last time it happened, I thought I might perish from a lack of air."

"That is dreadful," Peggy said, her eyes wide.

Throughout the drive, Peggy kept up a running conversation that required little more than nods and murmurs from Alexandra. Sooner than she expected, they arrived at Armstrong House. Although smaller than Hawkridge, it was obviously the home of a wealthy man. It looked to have been extended many times over the years and was now a sprawling mishmash of styles—medieval, Tudor, Stuart, and more modern.

"Wait here," she told Peggy. "I shouldn't think this will take long."

"Oh, but I haven't seen Beth in years," Peggy said in a pleading tone.

"Very well, then. Come along."

Alexandra put a smile on her face as she approached the door with her sweets. "Lady Hawkridge," she told the green-liveried manservant who answered, her new name sounding strange on her tongue. "Here to visit with the lady of the house, if you please."

"Pardon me, but there is no lady. Lady Armstrong breathed her last in the spring."

Only then did she notice his black armband. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Is there no one to whom I may pay my respects?"

"Lord Armstrong has gone up to London. Only Miss Leticia is at home."

Miss Leticia Armstrong. Sweet heaven, wasn't that the name of the woman who had once been engaged to Tris? Alexandra hadn't put two and two together when Mrs. Pawley mentioned Armstrong House, but now she was dying of curiosity.

She reached into her basket. "Would you care for a sugar cake?" The footman looked startled but took it, having little choice if he wasn't to be rude. "Could you please tell Miss Armstrong that I'd appreciate a few moments of her time?"

The man walked off, cake in hand, looking dazed. Behind her, Alexandra heard Peggy try—and fail—to suppress a snort of laughter. Glancing back, she gave her a small smile. She knew it was a bit odd to offer sweets to all and sundry, but the Chase ladies had always done so and been well loved for it, so she wasn't about to stop now.

"He should have invited us in," Peggy said disapprovingly.

"You're right, of course, but I believe he was a bit flustered."

Wearing a fashionable black dress—as befitted a daughter in mourning—Leticia appeared a minute later, approaching with small, graceful steps that A Lady of Distinction would surely approve. Tall and willowy, she had clear green eyes and beautiful flaxen hair swept up in a sophisticated style.

Try as she might, Alexandra couldn't bring herself to hate her. She knew what it felt like to lose a mother, and Leticia looked like a perfectly lovely young woman.

Until she opened her mouth.

"John told me you are Lady Hawkridge?"

"Yes." Alexandra wondered why Leticia's voice should sound so cold. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Armstrong. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your mother." Curious whether all the footmen here were called John, too, she reached into her basket. "May I offer you a—"

"You're not welcome here."

The sugar cake dropped from Alexandra's fingers. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. The Hawkridge name has been disgraced. Please leave." Leticia began closing the door.

"Wait." Alexandra shoved a hand against the wood. She was reeling with shock, but she'd come here for a purpose. "Have you a maid here by the name of Beth?"

Leticia stared right through her.

"Beth is a dear friend of mine," Peggy said, stepping out from behind Alexandra. "My mistress brought me here to see her." Her voice dropped an octave, sounding pained and sympathetic. "I…have news concerning her family."

Peggy, Alexandra thought, was a consummate actress. She almost had her convinced the invented news was dire.

Apparently Leticia did have something approximating a heart, since she nodded at Peggy. "Come inside. I'll fetch Beth."

She pulled Peggy in by the arm and closed the door in Alexandra's face.

Alexandra stood there for a stunned moment, then walked slowly back to the carriage. There was nothing else to do. She climbed inside and waited, her stomach contracted into a tight knot that made nausea rise in her throat.

Although she'd known it wouldn't be easy to be the wife of a suspected murderer, she hadn't realized how it would feel to be disregarded. Leticia had gazed past her as though she wasn't even there.

Her heart ached for her sisters. This was the way they'd be treated. And, unlike her, they had no husbands to love, no one to hold in the night to make facing the disgrace a little easier.

It seemed forever before Peggy finally came out. "Beth knows nothing," she reported even before she entered the carriage.

"You asked her all the questions?"

"Everything you asked everyone else, my lady." She sat across from Alexandra. "Beth believes Lord Hawkridge died in his sleep."

"Thank you for trying," Alexandra said, her heart sinking even more. It seemed Tris's uncle had died in his sleep. And that was going to make it very hard—if not impossible—to prove Tris's innocence.

Very hard—if not impossible—to make life better for Juliana and Corinna.

In her dejected state, the ride home seemed twice as long as the ride out. Peggy, at least, was quite solicitous. "I'm sorry it didn't work out, my lady."

"It's not your fault." Alexandra tried for a grateful smile. "I truly appreciate the way you managed to worm your way in there."

Peggy shrugged. "Miss Armstrong is a witch."

Although Alexandra agreed, she didn't think it would be seemly to say so aloud. But though she knew it was wicked of her, she couldn't help being pleased that Miss Armstrong was still Miss Armstrong…still unmarried in all the years since she'd abandoned Tris.

"I don't like to see your heart in your boots," Peggy said. "Is there anything else I can do?"

She really was a dear. "I don't think so. Unless you can remember anyone else who might have worked at Hawkridge and since left."

Peggy frowned for a moment, then shook her head. "I cannot recollect anyone else."

"I think I will talk to everyone again, though, and see if anyone remembers any departed staff members. The possibility hadn't occurred to me before, so I never asked the others."

The maid was silent a moment. "If you don't mind my saying so, my lady…"

"Yes?" Alexandra knew Peggy had her best interests at heart. "Please, feel free to say anything."

"Well, it's just that I overheard you and his lordship discussing this the other night. Not that I was listening, you understand."

"We did raise our voices," Alexandra admitted, embarrassed.

"Yes. Well, and don't you expect he might be upset if you talk to everyone again?"

"I'm sure he will be." She sighed. "But I must do this. There's too much at stake." She ran her fingers along the chain that held her cameo. "I shall have to face his wrath and try to make the best of things."

Peggy folded her competent hands in her lap. "I could do it for you."

"Pardon?"

"I could ask all the others and make a list of any departed servants and their current whereabouts, if known. That way you'll have the information without angering his lordship by asking more questions."

"Oh, Peggy, would you?" It was a perfect solution. "I'd be forever grateful."

"Consider it done." Peggy smiled. "It might take me a day or two, mind you, since I'll have to work around my other duties."

"I understand," Alexandra assured her. "I shall be very undemanding until you are finished."

Once again, Peggy passed the time with a constant stream of chatter. Although she'd regained a shred of hope, Alexandra felt exhausted by the time they returned home. Perhaps breathing the gas had affected her more than she'd thought, though she was inclined to think it was all the emotional ups and downs of the past few days. In either case, though she never slept in the daytime, she went straight upstairs, changed into Juliana's nightgown, and took a nap.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Tristan arrived home that evening eager to see Alexandra. It wasn't raining. The problem at the gasworks was finally solved. And he was starving.

After poking his head into the most likely ground-floor rooms and failing to find his wife, he took the stairs two at a time, anxious to see how she was faring after this morning's mishap.

If it had been a mishap.

But right this moment he didn't want to think about that. He wanted to kiss Alexandra and hear about her day and share the success of his. Preferably over dinner.

Vincent appeared, as he often did, to meet him outside his bedroom door. "Your lady is sleeping," he said quietly.
Concern—and guilt—slammed into him. "Is she not doing well?"

"Peggy says she's well, my lord, only weary. Shall I arrange for a tray in your room? She may not wish to dress for dinner."

As usual, Vincent knew instinctively what was right.

"An excellent idea." Tristan paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Do you know if she went visiting today?"

"She did. She took the carriage."

That was a relief. If she'd been well enough to carry out her plans to meet the villagers, she couldn't be feeling too poorly. But he wondered how her visits had gone. While the villagers were dependent on him and therefore didn't snub him outright, his relationship with them was rather strained. They didn't like having their lord steeped in scandal.

Then again, Alexandra had his servants eating out of her hand—literally—already. Perhaps she could bring the villagers around, too.

"Did Peggy go along with her?" he asked.

"And Ernest as well, my lord. And John Coachman, of course. I mean Charlie," Vincent corrected himself. They shared a smile. "Your lady is making a lot of changes around here, isn't she?"

"Positive ones, I believe." Tristan was very happy to hear Alexandra had followed his directions. He didn't know if he could handle any more excitement today. Now that her damned investigation was over, he just wanted to see if they could settle into something resembling a marriage.

He turned and twisted the knob.

"She's not questioning anyone, either," Vincent added. "I know you were concerned about that, so you'll be pleased to hear that Peggy is doing it instead."

Tristan turned back. "Doing what?"

"Questioning the staff. Peggy came to me an hour ago, asking if I recalled anyone who might have worked here four years ago but has since left. She's compiling a list for your lady."

"Is she?"

"Yes. Isn't it clever of your wife to widen the search?"

"Quite." No one had ever accused Alexandra of being dullwitted. To the contrary, it seemed she was too bright for her own good. "She's not going to find anything, though. My uncle died in his sleep. Of a broken heart."

"Of course he did. But I find it endearing that your lady wishes so much to prove otherwise."

Endearing, Tristan thought as he cracked open the door and slipped inside. That wasn't the word he would have chosen. Exasperating was more like it.

Why couldn't she understand that he wanted her to stop poking around where she didn't belong?

She slumbered, huddled on her side beneath the covers, a small lump in his big bed. It occurred to him that now was his chance to dump her onto the floor. But he couldn't do it. Upset as he was to learn she was still pursuing her damned investigation, after nearly losing her this morning he couldn't summon the anger he'd felt last night.

But dread of what she might find…that he could summon well enough.

The room was dim but not yet dark. He walked over and stood by the bed. Her even features were outlined against the white sheets like the profile portrait she'd made of him so long ago.

"Alexandra," he called softly, half expecting her to sleep on like she had earlier. A hint of that panic came back, the blind fear he'd felt when he couldn't awaken her.

This time, though, she opened her eyes and yawned. "Tris?" she said in a sleepy murmur.

She would never know how endearing he found it when she called him that. Endearing. He was so relieved to see the gas hadn't seriously harmed her.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Not really." She struggled to sit up against the pillows. "How did everything go at the gasworks?"

"Very well. The construction is back on track." He sat beside her on the mattress, his weight on the featherbed making her tilt toward him. "How was your day, then?"

"Disappointing." She sighed. "Mrs. Pawley recollected a scullery maid who'd left for Armstrong House to take a better position. I went—"

"You went to Armstrong House?" He blinked. "I thought you were going to the village."

"I was going to the village—I even made sugar cakes to take with me—until I learned about Beth." He thought he saw guilt cloud her features, but it was immediately replaced by other emotions he couldn't read. "Then, when I got to Armstrong House, Miss Armstrong wouldn't let me in the door. Peggy had to talk to Beth instead." She swallowed hard. "I must confess, I didn't like your Miss Armstrong much."

"I don't care for her much anymore, either," he assured her, noting her furrowed brow and haunted eyes. She was more upset by the rejection than she was letting on. It was on the tip of his tongue to soothe her by suggesting Leticia's attitude could have stemmed as much from his past history with her as from true outrage at his disgrace, but he decided there was no point.

This would happen over and over, and he wouldn't be able to shrug off the next incident as easily.

Though he'd known the isolation and disapproval would hurt her, seeing her suffer ripped him up inside. It was why he hadn't wanted to marry. And why he feared she would leave him when she decided she couldn't take it anymore.

"You shouldn't have gone there," he said.

Guilt flashed again, this time replaced by determination. "I had to find out if Beth had any information, Tris, don't you see?"

He didn't see. Or rather, he saw all too well that she wouldn't stop digging in his past, threatening his hard-won equilibrium. He scooped a hand through his hair, fighting to maintain his even temper. "I thought you said it was over."

"You cannot expect me to ignore new information. I've asked Peggy to find out if there are any more servants who have left as well. If there's any chance—"

"I want you to stop this."

"I cannot." She sighed. "I'm sorry. It's too important. This is our life and the lives of my sisters. We're married for better or worse, but I cannot help trying to make it better."

He sat silent for a moment, trying to accept that. It wasn't easy. If she continued asking questions, neither of them were going to be happy with the answers. But he consoled himself that at least she had told him the truth. He hadn't known she'd been to Armstrong House, and she'd volunteered the information. She wasn't trying to hide anything, wasn't sneaking around behind his back.

Of course she wasn't. She was Alexandra.

"I don't want to fight," he said finally, determined to regain his earlier mood. When he rode up to the house, he'd been so eager to see her. There was no sense ruining the entire evening. If she was going to leave him someday—when society got the best of her—he wanted to enjoy their time together. "I'm disappointed—very disappointed—that you're not willing to let go of this. But I don't want another fight."

Her eyes grew misty, which cut him to the core, because he'd never seen Alexandra cry. "I don't want to fight, either."

A knock came at the door, and Vincent entered with their dinner tray. Or rather, two trays. And then he brought in a third. Mrs. Pawley had sent up a veritable feast. Alexandra composed herself and Tristan lit the gas lamps while Vincent put everything in the sitting room. The valet ducked back into the corridor to fetch a fourth tray holding a bottle of Hawkridge's wine, two glasses, plates, and utensils. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"

"Thank you, Vincent." Tristan saw him back to the door. "This will do."

"This will do?" Alexandra asked when they were alone again. "There's enough food here to feed the entire household!"

"Well, come fix yourself a plate."

Shaking her head, she slid out of bed and started for the sitting room.

He stared, incredulous. "What are you wearing?"

"I borrowed it from Juliana." She stopped and twirled in the monstrosity, making yards and yards of white fabric and lace bell out and swirl about her. "Do you like it?" she asked, sounding a bit hesitant. "I know it's a little short on me, but my own nightgowns are so plain, I thought you would find this much prettier."

His gaze traveled from the frilly ruffle under her chin to the four rows of tiered lace skimming her ankles. The wide sleeves were gathered at the wrist with a six-inch spill of froth that completely concealed her hands. But the worst of it was the body of the gown—there was so much material, he wondered if he'd even find it possible to work his way underneath it.

Still, it wouldn't do to tell her how much he hated it. "I like you better in nothing," he said tactfully.

She blushed. "Oh. I'm not certain that's proper."

"There hasn't been much proper about our relationship, has there?" She looked so flustered he couldn't help but smile as he led her through to the sitting room. "Here's a plate."

Vincent had brought fish, roast duck, lamb cutlets, artichoke bottoms, mushrooms, green peas, boiled cauliflower, plum pudding, apricot fritters, and bread. Alexandra took an artichoke bottom, three mushrooms, a small piece of bread, and some butter.

"That's all?" Tristan asked.

"I told you I'm not hungry."

Setting his plate aside, he laid a hand on her forehead. "Are you ill?"

"No. Just tired."

"Get in bed."

"With my food?"

"People eat breakfast in bed, don't they? Why not dinner?"

After she was settled against the pillows, he poured two large glasses of wine and handed her one. She sipped it while he undressed.

"I'm going to stay home tomorrow," he said, divesting himself of his coat and cravat.

"Hmm," she said pleasantly, sipping again.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat and shrugged out of it. "I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on. And journal entries to record." He made short work of removing his braces, then loosened his cuffs and undid the buttons at the top of his shirt. "I'm weeks behind on that sort of business."

She licked her lips as he stripped the shirt off over his head. "I suppose that's Griffin's fault."

"I'm not placing blame." He couldn't help but notice her watching him. Smiling to himself, he sat beside her on the bed to remove his boots and stockings. "It's just something I need to do."

"It shall be nice to have you here," she said while he unbuttoned his falls and untied the ribbon securing his short drawers.

He felt, rather than saw, her avid gaze on him as he stood and pushed everything down and off. His body reacting to that gaze in a very obvious way, he turned to her and grinned. She gulped the rest of her wine, licking her lips again while he took the glass from her hand and set it on the bedside table.

"Eat," he said, pointing to the untouched plate in her lap. She nodded and reached blindly for her fork.

He knew she watched as he walked through the sitting room to the dressing room. A man appreciated that admiring look on a woman's face. Assuming he could find his way under her hideous nightgown, this promised to be a fine evening after all.

But first things first. His stomach was rumbling, and Mrs. Pawley's lovely dinner was going cold. Tamping down his ardor, he hurried into a dressing gown and returned to the sitting room to fill a plate for himself. A little of everything, with some extra meat for good measure. It was supposed to lend a man sexual strength.

He turned and walked toward the bedroom, thinking to tell Alexandra as much and enjoy her reaction.

She was sound asleep, her head lolling on the pillows.

"Alexandra?" She slumbered on. He took the tray off her lap and set it aside. "Alexandra?" She was out so cold, if he didn't know better, he might fear gas poisoning again.

He ate his dinner and tried again, shaking her shoulder a little this time. "Alexandra?" Still no reaction.

He turned off all the gaslights. Then went back and double-checked them all. And a third time. "Alexandra?"

Quite obviously, she was out for the night.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone to sleep this early—to bed perhaps, but not to sleep. Yet he climbed up beside her, pulled her into the curve of his body, wrapped an arm around her…and held her all night.

CHAPTER FORTY

"Sweet heaven, what is that noise?" Alexandra asked the next morning at breakfast.

"Rex. I left him asleep in the study." Her husband gestured toward the connecting door. "I told you he snores."

"He's louder than your ram pumps," she marveled as a footman poured her tea. "I'm surprised he hasn't wakened me in the night."

"Nothing would have wakened you last night." She'd never before seen Tris roll his eyes. "I won't ever again serve you wine at bedtime," he declared in a failed attempt to sound serious.

"I cannot blame you for that." She didn't remember falling asleep, and she'd awakened to find herself alone. But the sheets had still held the faint scent of him, and she'd been aware all night of him holding her, curled against her back like two spoons nestled together. "I was sorry to see you gone when I woke."

He sipped his coffee, looking disgusted. "I woke to find myself in the kitchen."

"On the floor?"

"No. Just standing there, eating one of your sugar cakes."

"Stealing sweets in the night again?" she teased over the continuing rumble of the mastiff's snores. "See, you sleepwalked, and nothing bad happened."

Tris ignored her subtle dig. "We were talking about you falling asleep on me," he said instead, his tone implying he wished she hadn't.

She felt her cheeks warm. From time to time during the night, she'd been aware of the aroused state of his body pressed against hers. But for the life of her, she'd been unable to bestir herself enough to take advantage of it. "I can only drink half a glass of wine. Any more and I—"

"Fall asleep?" he provided with a raised brow. He cut a bite of ham.

"Or get very, very silly."

He looked thoughtful as he chewed and swallowed. "I cannot imagine you silly; that would truly be a sight. However, I'm not sure I'm willing to risk you falling asleep in order to see it."

Two thunderous snorts came from the adjoining room, followed by blessed silence. Rex must have rolled over. Smiling, Alexandra reached for the jam pot. "Did you make a dent in the work in your study this morning?"

"A rather large dent, as a matter of fact. I may even find time to get out and take care of some business later in Windsor." He sprinkled salt on his eggs, watching her spread jam on her toast. "It won't take long. I promise to be back in time for dinner."

"I'm not passing judgment on you. I know you have much to do, thanks partially to my brother."

She also knew she wasn't offering him much incentive to remain home, given the way she insisted on going against his wishes. It was almost as though she could feel him pulling away, distancing himself from her emotionally.

She set down her knife. "I have much to do as well," she said, watching him pick up the jam pot and wondering why he was frowning. She was trying her best to be cooperative. "I'm meeting this morning with Mrs. Oliver to go over—"

"No!" He dropped the jam pot, reached across the table, and snatched the bread from her hand.

She blinked. "Tris?"

"It's strawberry." He swiped a finger across her toast and licked, turning ashen as he confirmed it. "Strawberry preserves, not cherry."

"Dear God in heaven." Her heart pumping wildly, she realized the skin on the side of her index finger felt prickly. Looking down and spotting a telltale streak of red preserves there, she quickly wiped it off. "I should have looked," she said, searching her hands for other traces of jam. Finding none, she released a tense breath.

When she glanced up, Tris had gone even whiter beneath his tan. "I must have switched the preserves in the jam pot." He scraped rigid fingers through his hair. "I've done it again. I'm harming you in my sleep."

"You are not." She didn't know which she found more disturbing: discovering strawberries on her toast, or his assumption that he was at fault. "It's a long way from eating a sugar cake to switching the contents of a jam pot. I'm certain this was an honest mistake. A kitchen maid who didn't know better must have refilled the pot."

"No. Mrs. Pawley assured me she would tell everyone you cannot eat strawberries. It was no mistake. I—"

"Do you even know where the jam pot is kept?" she interrupted. "Or the preserves?"

He paused a moment. "I must have hunted around."

"In your sleep? I think not. Mrs. Pawley must have neglected to inform someone—not deliberately, of course, but in error." Who knew how often the woman nipped from the sherry bottle? "Let's call in the kitchen staff and get to the bottom of this."

A few minutes later, the dining room was crowded with kitchen maids, scullery maids, and the small boys who did odd jobs belowstairs. Mrs. Pawley looked perfectly sober—and extremely concerned. Hastings stood solemnly in the back, watching the proceedings. Mrs. Oliver did the questioning.

"Did you know Lady Hawkridge cannot eat strawberries?"

"Yes, Mrs. Oliver."

"I did, Mrs. Oliver."

"Mrs. Pawley made that clear, Mrs. Oliver."

"And did you refill the jam pot or see anyone else do so?"

"No, Mrs. Oliver."

"I didn't, Mrs. Oliver."

"Absolutely not."

It went on and on, so long that Alexandra began to suffer from the headache, especially because all the denials weren't solving anything. When at long last everyone shuffled out, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"I must have done it," Tris said in a dull, resigned tone.

"Don't be ridiculous," she returned crossly, rubbing her temples. "One of them refilled the pot. I'm not surprised no one would own up to it and risk being dismissed."

Someone else had to have done it. She knew, deep in her bones, that a man as good as Tris couldn't do anything to harm her—or anyone else. Not even in his sleep.

Struggling for composure, she reached across the table to lay her hand over his. "You're only sleepwalking because you're anxious. You said that's when it happens, didn't you? It's a pattern. And I think there's another pattern at work here as well. You do things when you sleepwalk that you wish you could do while awake. Like make love to me"—she blushed—"or steal more sweets than you're entitled to."

It was a pretty theory, but Tristan wasn't convinced, let alone at all mollified. "You can argue that I went to the kitchen in the night for sweets. But your pattern theory doesn't explain why I would leave a gas line open."

"You didn't. Or at least, not on purpose. You got up—and perhaps dealt with the gaslight in some way since it had been left on—and took yourself downstairs to sleep in your study. I had angered you by questioning your staff when you didn't want me to, so you were separating yourself from me in the night."

Had he really wanted to get away from her that night? He hadn't thought so. But even if her concept of a pattern were valid, there was another way to explain everything: a pattern of mayhem in his sleep. Violence.

Murder.

He couldn't shake his growing suspicion of that terrifying possibility.

"It's the pressure," she said, her hand tightening over his. "As soon as we clear your name, you'll be fine. I'd wager you'll never sleepwalk again."

He looked at her for a long moment, searching her eyes while a strained silence stretched between them. His gaze dropped to the cameo she wore on a chain around her neck.

His cameo. She'd take it off someday. Maybe someday soon.

"I'd feel a lot less pressure if you'd call off this investigation," he said at last, pushing away from the table. "I'm going back to work."

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

There were times in a woman's life when she wished she could confer with her sisters. Even though she already knew exactly what they would say.

Juliana, the peacemaker, would tell her to abide by her husband's wishes. "Your marriage ought to come first," she would say, and advise Alexandra to be the dutiful wife and put Tris's happiness and their relationship before her own wishes to right past wrongs.

Corinna, on the other hand—the rebel—would cheer on her efforts. "You're entitled to your convictions," she would say, and advise Alexandra to stand to her guns and let no man, not even her husband, sway her from doing what she thought right.

And Alexandra would be right back where she'd started. But at least she'd have some hugs and sympathy to bolster her. Here in this strange house, with Tris occupied most of the time, and no neighbors of her class and age willing to welcome her—a point Leticia had driven home yesterday—she was feeling rather lonely.

Still, the first part of her morning had proven quite productive. She and Mrs. Oliver had gone over the household budget, reviewed the cleaning and repair schedules, and discussed all the lower female servants. Everything seemed well in hand. She'd left their meeting convinced that Mrs. Oliver was a fine housekeeper indeed.

Afterward, she practiced on the harpsichord in the north drawing room for a while. It wasn't hard to play, but the double keyboard was difficult to get used to. In addition, the sound seemed thinner than a pianoforte's, and there seemed to be no way to play louder or softer. Although she wasn't a concert-quality pianist, she did enjoy putting some emotion into her pieces. But there were no pedals, and no matter how she hit the keys—tentatively or with much force—the resulting notes sounded the same. She wearied of it rather quickly.

Next she considered visiting in the village, but she wanted to take Peggy along to introduce her to everyone, and she'd prefer to have Peggy here, talking to the rest of the staff and compiling the list. The villagers would be there to meet tomorrow. Pursuing her investigation was much more important. Her attempts to convince Tris he wasn't guilty seemed to be futile, but he would never be happy as long as he believed he might be dangerous. She had even more reason to continue her efforts now.

Yet she knew those efforts were harming their relationship, and she hated that. She wanted to fix it. To that end, she decided to peek into the study and see if he wanted to join her for luncheon.

But he wasn't there. Disappointed, she sat at his desk, idly straightening piles of papers and stacks of journals. He had told her he had business that might take him away for a while. It would have been nice, though, if he'd sought her out to let her know he was leaving.

She shrugged philosophically, turning the chair to gaze out the study's windows. Quite obviously, she still hadn't scaled that wall Tris had built, and she'd probably doubled the height with her own actions.

The study was in the back of the house, and through the windows the gardens beckoned—colorful formal gardens nearby, and then, behind them, an area of grass walks lined with hornbeam hedges and field maples that seemed to enclose smaller, private gardens. It was a glorious day, and she'd yet to explore them.

She decided she'd take her luncheon out there. And bring along some paper and her family's cookbook, so she could copy her favorite recipes while she enjoyed the sunshine.

A few minutes later, having grabbed a bonnet and asked Peggy to arrange for luncheon, she made her way out the front door and down the steps, following the cobbled path that curved around the back of the mansion. A flash of motion by the river made her pause. Tris.

She watched him toss a stick and Rex jump into the river to retrieve it. Mere moments later, the big, wet mastiff scrambled up the bank and shook violently, spraying Tris with water that left splotches on his buff pantaloons.

Thinking she'd be tempted to laugh if she wasn't so uncertain of his feelings, she hurried toward him. "What are you doing?" she called.

To her relief, Tris looked over and grinned. "Playing with the poor beast. He's been dreadfully neglected of late." He eyed the book and paper in her hands. "What are you doing?"

"I was going to take luncheon in the gardens and copy some of my favorite recipes. Would you care to join me?"

"I'm sorry, but I cannot." Rex was panting at his feet. He bent to grab the stick and tossed it arcing out over the water, watching as the mastiff gleefully splashed in to fetch it. "I have business in Windsor."

She wondered vaguely what he needed to do. She knew Windsor was the nearest sizable town, but did he have his bank there? His solicitor? She'd expect those would be in London. She needed to learn these things if he wanted her to assist with the household finances as she had for Griffin, but they had yet to discuss anything like that.

And now was not the time. "When I couldn't find you," she said, "I thought you'd gone already."

"Without telling you I was leaving? I'm hurt you would think me so thoughtless." Obviously reading her face, he reached to pull her close. "And you were hurt thinking I had. I'm sorry." He tilted her bonnet back and bent to give her a soft kiss.

Emerging from the water, Rex barked. "He hates me," she said.

"He doesn't." Tris took the stick from the dog's teeth and tossed it once more, farther out this time. "If he hated you, he'd have taken a bite out of you by now."

While Rex bounded back into the river, Tris took the book and papers from her and set them on the grass, then wrapped his arms around her and brought his mouth to hers again. "I wanted you last night," he murmured against her lips. Then the kiss turned hot and needy, and the whole of her responded. She slipped her hands under his coat and pressed herself close, mindless of his damp, dog-splashed clothes. Her heart raced, and the blood rushed through her veins.

And she knew it was the same for him.

She was confused and unsure of his feelings from one moment to the next, but one thing she knew for certain: Nothing would ever change the physical pull that held them both in thrall.

Rex barked until they stopped kissing, then shook and sprayed them both this time. Alexandra laughed. Tris brushed ruefully at his damp coat. "I really must be going, and I fear Vincent won't let me off the property without a bath and a change of clothing. I promise to be home in time for dinner." He gave her another quick kiss, eliciting another bark, then started toward the house, the dog following at his heels. "Enjoy your afternoon," he called back.

Feeling warmed all over—especially inside—Alexandra retrieved her things and wandered around the house and through the formal gardens. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she followed the paths bordering beds planted with brilliantly colored flowers. Finally she reached the area of grass walks that she'd seen, lined with hedges that enclosed many small, private compartments.

She smiled as she peeked into them, glimpsing not only a variety of rather wild-growing plants, but also a surprise in each area. Some hid copies of famous statuary, one a sundial, another a cozy bench for two. Choosing one with a tiny round white gazebo, she slid inside.

The structure's roof offered welcome shade, so she removed her bonnet and set it, along with her book, paper, and pencil, on the bench that curved against the back edge. No sooner had she taken a seat than a warm, motherly voice carried through the still summer air. "Lady Hawkridge?"

Alexandra rose and went to the opening. "Here, Mrs. Oliver!" she called, surprised that the housekeeper was bringing her luncheon instead of Peggy. "In the gazebo!"

A moment later, Mrs. Oliver entered the tiny garden. But she didn't have any food. Instead she carried a small stack of letters. "I brought these for you, dear. I thought you might want them right away."

Alexandra took them and flipped through the pile. There were six, one from each of her siblings and female cousins. Thrilled, she smiled at Mrs. Oliver. "Thank you so very much."

"Enjoy them, dear," the housekeeper said and walked away.

With a happy sigh, Alexandra went back to the bench. She opened the two letters from her sisters first. Juliana and Corinna had both written cheerful notes, wishing her well and relating several amusing anecdotes as well as telling her all about a lovely picnic they'd shared with their cousins. Griffin's letter was shorter, mostly saying he missed her very much and threatening bodily harm to her husband should he fail to take good care of her. Rachael told her all about the goings-on at Greystone and her preparations for her brother Noah's return. Claire's letter mentioned the picnic again. And then Alexandra opened the letter from her youngest cousin, Elizabeth.

We all miss you very much. It was Rachael's idea we should have the picnic, and also her idea that we should all write to you so you won't feel lonely in your new home. Wasn't that so very nice?

Alexandra had been wondering how it was that six letters had arrived the same day. Grinning, she read on.

I suppose you've heard that Juliana and Corinna were DISinvited to Lady Cunnington's garden party. I vow and swear, that made me so livid I wrote to Lady C posthaste with my regrets—and a piece of my mind. Worry not, dear cousin, your sisters have much support. Rachael and Claire have said they will not attend, either.

The letter fluttered from her fingers to the grass. Dear God in heaven, it was happening already. And not only affecting her sisters, but her cousins, too.

Her throat tightened like it did when she ate strawberries. She couldn't seem to breathe.

A high-pitched voice snapped her to attention. "Lady Hawkridge?"

She quickly gathered the letters. "Here, Peggy! In the gazebo!"

Peggy hurried into the little garden, tray in hand. "Your luncheon, my lady." She squeezed into the tiny structure and set the tray on the bench, then pulled a folded paper out of her bodice. "And the list you asked for, completed."

"Oh!" Alexandra started breathing again as she took it. Once she cleared Tris's name, her sisters would be just fine. But she was disappointed to see only four entries. "Is this all?"

"Not many people leave Hawkridge, my lady. Kinder employers are difficult to find."

"I know." And she knew she should be happy about that. She was happy. Just seeing the list was a huge relief. "Thank you. And for writing down everyone's direction as well. They all live close by."

Peggy shrugged. "Not many travel too far from the place of their birth."

People, common people especially, usually seemed more comfortable with the familiar. Which was a lucky thing, Alexandra thought, because she should be able to pay calls on these four in short order. Her spirits rose as she realized that, very soon, she might have the information she needed.

She'd lost her appetite, but since Peggy had gone to the trouble to fetch luncheon, she thought she'd better eat something. "Let me just have a few bites, and then we'll be off. I want to ride today. It will be much faster than taking a carriage. Would you ask a groom to saddle three horses? And see if Ernest is free to accompany us again, if you will. Oh, and ask Mrs. Pawley to put some of my sugar cakes in a basket. Then meet me upstairs—I'll need to change into a riding habit, and so will you."

Peggy shuffled her feet. "I cannot ride, my lady."

"Pardon? If you don't have a habit, I'll be pleased to give you one. I have several, including one or two I'd like to retire. I plan to order some that aren't blue," she added with a soft laugh at herself.

But Peggy showed no signs of humor. "I cannot ride. I don't know how. As a housemaid I never had reason to learn, and the last Lady Hawkridge never rode anywhere. She was very proper and always took a carriage."

"Is that so?" Perhaps riding to pay calls wasn't quite so ladylike—A Lady of Distinction might not approve—but Alexandra didn't want to waste time. "Make it two horses, then. Ernest and I shall do fine on our own."

"Are you certain, my lady?" Peggy didn't look at all happy. "I believe his lordship would prefer you to take a carriage."

"Nonsense—he said that only because he was afraid breathing the gas had weakened me. I'm perfectly healthy today." And the sooner she finished this investigation, the happier Tris would be—no matter what the outcome.

"I'd prefer to go with you," her maid said quite peevishly.

Alexandra couldn't figure why the woman would be so testy, but she decided to ignore it. "That's very thoughtful, Peggy, but there's no need. Two horses, please. I'll meet you upstairs in ten minutes."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Delicate notes from the harpsichord greeted Tristan when he arrived home that evening. Carrying the large, plain box he'd brought from Windsor, he made his way upstairs and paused in the north drawing room's doorway.

Alexandra sat with her back to him, focused on some sheet music, her graceful fingers moving over the antique instrument's keys. Watching her, he clutched the box tighter. He hoped she would like what was in it. He wanted to give her a nice night. Just one nice night. And, all right, it wouldn't be so bad if the niceness extended into tomorrow and the next day, too.

Their first night had been so wonderful, but since then, everything between them seemed to be going so very wrong.

As he watched, she raised a hand from the lower keyboard to the upper and hit a sour note. "Drat," she said softly and resumed. More notes tinkled through the air, sounding lovely for a few bars until she switched keyboards again and made another mistake. "Drat!"

"Good evening, sweetheart."

She startled and snatched her fingers from the keys, turning on the stool to face him. "You're home," she said, sounding surprised.

"I said I would be."

Her cheeks turned a delicate pink. "I hope you didn't hear too much of that. I'm sure I'll get better with practice."

"There's no need to practice," he said cryptically, knowing she'd understand tomorrow. Already dressed for dinner, she looked beautiful in a pale green frock with a scooped neckline and his cameo on a matching green ribbon. She glanced curiously at the box in his hands, making him smile to himself. "Give me ten minutes to allow Vincent to fuss over me before dinner. Will you meet me in the dining room?"

"All right," she said, her gaze lingering on the box before she turned back to attack the keyboard with renewed vigor.

A quarter of an hour later, having instructed Vincent as to the box, he strolled into the dining room and bent to give Alexandra a long, thorough kiss. "Hmm," he murmured low, his hand wandering between her body and the back of the chair down to her bottom. "Still no drawers."

As he seated himself beside her, she blushed, her gaze going to the two footmen in the room.

"They didn't see or hear anything," he assured her in a whisper, and then louder, "How was your afternoon?"

"Peggy gave me the list of former servants," she said rather breathlessly. One of the footmen put a bowl of soup before her, and she lifted her spoon, the simple motion seeming to calm her. "Four names. I visited three of them and learned nothing."

He spooned some soup, wondering how he would get it into his mouth between his clenched teeth. But he wanted this to be a nice night, so all he said was, "I wish you hadn't done that."

"I know." Somehow she managed to look both sorry and determined at the same time. "If it's any consolation, there's only one name left. A woman in Swangate. Unless she astounds me by being the only one to have seen suspicious dealings, I'll be finished after I talk to her."

Although she sounded mournful, he couldn't help celebrating privately. And he certainly didn't want to argue and ruin this night. Instead, he made light conversation through the next two courses, his blood humming with anticipation.

At last the table was cleared. Hastings brought in and opened a bottle of port. A footman presented a platter of fruit and biscuits. No sooner had they departed when Mrs. Oliver walked in, placed the box—now gaily wrapped and ribboned—at the far end of the table, and promptly left.

Tristan poured Alexandra a very tiny glass of port—he didn't want her falling asleep tonight. He poured himself a larger one.

Alexandra glanced at the box, then lifted his empty dessert plate. "Grapes? Biscuits?"

"Surprise me," he said, thinking he couldn't wait to surprise her. He sipped, savoring the heady flavor of the fine, sweet wine and enjoying the quizzical look on his wife's face.

She filled his plate and took a single biscuit for herself. "How was your afternoon?" she asked, her gaze drifting again to the box.

"Extremely successful."

She took a small sip of the deep red port. "Your business in Windsor went well?"

"Exceedingly."

She hadn't touched her biscuit. "Would you mind if I asked what you did there?"

"Not at all." He popped a grape into his mouth, enjoying this exchange immensely. "I visited the shops." Seeing her startled gaze fly toward the box once more, he smiled to himself again. He seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight. "Would you like to open it?"

"Is it for me?" A tinge of excitement threaded her voice. "This was your business?"

He loved seeing her happiness. He hadn't given her enough since he'd brought her home. "Part of my business. Another parcel should arrive tomorrow." He moved the platter to make more room near her on the table, then rose, fetched the box, and placed it in the space he'd created. "Open it," he said, lifting his glass as he sat again.

The box was so large she couldn't see into it while seated. Slowly she pushed back her chair, stood, and untied the ribbon. The paper fell open, and she raised the lid, set it aside, and reached inside with both hands to part the tissue that protected the contents.

"Ooooh," she breathed.

"Take it out."

She did, lifting it by its handle. Polished silver gleamed in the gaslight. "A basket," she said reverently. "A…solid silver basket?"

"Sterling," he confirmed. "For your sweets. The Marchioness of Hawkridge's specialties deserve much better than wicker." He sipped, watching her stare at the basket, letting the potent liquid slide down his throat as her expression stole his heart. "It won't be too heavy to carry with you when you go visiting, will it?"

"No." She clutched it like she might never let it go. "It has a glass liner," she informed him as though he might not know.

"You wouldn't want to be trailing crumbs."

She still stood there, slowly turning it this way and that, watching the light bounce off its shiny surfaces. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"I'm glad you like it," he said, although glad seemed a very tame word. Thrilled would more accurately describe his feelings. He'd wanted so much to find something she'd like. He hated visiting shops—Vincent ordered all of his clothes—but he'd walked from shop to shop all afternoon, searching for the perfect thing. Refusing to buy anything until he found it. And it seemed he had.

She was looking a little bit shaky, so he rose just long enough to move behind her and push her chair toward the back of her knees. "Sit, before you drop it."

She lowered herself gingerly, holding the basket on her lap, her fingers tracing the chased and pierced decorations, the floral swags and raised ribbons and bows all fashioned out of silver.

He moved the box from the table to the floor by her chair, where she could reach into it. "There are more gifts inside," he pointed out.

"I can see." She folded the basket's fancy handle down and pulled it back up. "Why?" She looked over at him, dewy-eyed. "When you have so much to do, why would you spend your day buying me something like this?"

Because he wanted to give her a nice night.

No, that wasn't the whole truth.

Because he couldn't say the words she needed to hear. Because he couldn't risk loving her. Because he was sure she'd leave him when she failed to clear his name, and he was hoping against hope that a silly silver basket would keep her near.

But he didn't say any of that.

"Because you deserve it," he said instead.

"I do not," she said, her voice thick. "I defy you at every turn."

"Every other turn," he disagreed agreeably. "At the alternate turns, you delight me."

She sighed and reached into the box, pulling out a book bound in fine leather dyed robin's-egg blue. The cover was embossed with gold designs, the pages edged with gold leaf. "This is lovely," she said though an obviously tight throat.

"It's blank inside. For your recipes. After you copy the ones you like, I thought you could start your own tradition. Our family could add to it every year."

"Our family," she echoed softly, not quite meeting his gaze. She set the book aside and pulled the next item from the box, her eyes widening as the fabric unfolded in all its transparent glory. "Dear God in heaven, what is this?"

"A nightgown," he said.

At that moment, two footmen returned to clear their dishes. Her cheeks burning, she stuffed the garment back into the box and plopped the book on top. "It's lovely, too," she said quickly, sounding like she wasn't quite sure.

It took everything he had not to laugh. "Shall we take it upstairs and have a closer look at it?"

He couldn't wait to see her in it.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The nightgown was only the first of the scandalous garments in the box. There were seven nightgowns, in fact—one for each day of the week—of delicate silk gauze, gossamer georgette, and tissue-thin tiffany. As Alexandra pulled them out, she draped them on the bed. She'd never seen a nightgown that wasn't white, but these were almond and pale blush pink, powder blue and soft peach, with delicate edgings of lace and intricate, exquisite embroidery.

Under the nightgowns lay seven chemises of nearly transparent Swiss muslin. They weren't shapeless like every other chemise she'd ever seen, but fitted to mimic a woman's curves. Instead of plain white, they were various pastel colors adorned with elegant trimmings and needlework.

There were stockings of the finest silk. There were satin garters with dainty rosettes.

"There are no drawers," Alexandra noticed.

Tris just grinned.

He seemed different tonight. More relaxed, less worried. She didn't know what had prompted his change of heart, but she didn't want to question it. She'd rather enjoy it instead.

After the afternoon she'd had—starting with Elizabeth's letter and ending with three fruitless interviews—she wasn't about to risk the one thing that seemed to be going right.

By the time she finally reached the bottom of the box, the bed was strewn with garments that made her blush to look at them. She suspected there was only one kind of woman who wore these sorts of things, and she didn't even want to think about where Tris might have found them.

Windsor must be a very wicked town.

"Are you going to model something for me?" he asked.

She felt her face heat even more.

He chose a nightgown off the bed, palest lavender with black lace and violet embroidery. "This one," he said, handing it to her.

It felt like nothing. Silky, slinky nothing.

"Do you require assistance with your dress?"

"Just the buttons," she said, and turned to let him unfasten them. She shifted the nightgown in her hands. Silky, slinky nothing.

"There," he said when the back of her green dress gaped open. He kissed her softly on the nape of her neck, then settled on one of the striped chairs, sipping from the glass of port he'd brought upstairs with him. "Use the dressing room. I'll be waiting."

In the dressing room, she shakily stripped out of her frock, chemise, shoes, and stockings, then dropped the nightgown over her head and smoothed it down over her hips. The fabric whispered against her legs. It felt like nothing on her body. Silky, slinky nothing.

She turned to see herself in the looking glass. Dear God in heaven, it was more shocking than nothing.

Her nightgowns all had high collars that tied at the throat. This one had a wide, low neckline. Her nightgowns all had long, full sleeves. This one had tiny puffed sleeves that began halfway off her shoulders. Her nightgowns were made of yards and yards of billowing, opaque fabric. This one was a slender column of diaphanous material that clung to her every curve.

She could see right through it.

The small bodice was split in the middle and gathered beneath her breasts. Strategically embroidered blossoms didn't conceal, but rather served to draw the eye. A narrow, black satin ribbon secured the top…a single tug to untie that bow was all it would take to have the bodice fall open and expose a scandalous amount of bosom.

"Are you ready yet?" Tris called.

Alexandra swallowed hard. A man didn't buy a woman a nightgown like this unless he wanted her. And heaven knew she wanted him.

She was as ready as she'd ever be.

Drawing a deep breath, she exited the dressing room, walked quickly through the sitting room, and paused in the bedroom's doorway. She dropped her gaze, then raised her lashes, giving him the look.

Juliana had said it would make men fall at her feet, and it seemed she'd been right. Judging from the expression on Tris's face, Alexandra figured it was a good thing he was sitting.

The way his eyes widened and filled with hunger made her heart begin to pound. He rose and started toward her. He'd already stripped to his trousers and turned down the gaslights, and the contours of his naked torso gleamed in the faint glow.

She met him halfway, licking suddenly dry lips. "Will you kiss me?" she asked softly, reaching up to sweep that always unruly lock off his forehead.

It worked this time. He crushed his mouth to hers.

This—the two of them together without the realities of life coming between them—was the one thing that seemed to work. She wrapped her arms around him and let herself sink into the kiss.

He tasted of rich port and hot desire and his own unique flavor she'd come to crave. Her fingers twined in the too-long hair that covered the back of his neck. As his hands wandered, a shimmering haze seemed to creep over her, obscuring her thoughts, dissolving her bones. She leaned toward him, into him, pressing herself against his hard, warm body, already wanting to take him inside her.

"Hurry," she whispered.

"Not tonight," he said with a low laugh, pulling the pins from her hair and dropping them to the floor with little pings.

He'd removed all the garments from the bed, and he laid her upon it, gently, spreading her long curls out over the pillows. Unable to resist him hovering above her, she reached to touch his bare chest, to smooth her palms over taut skin and muscle.

"You're beautiful," she said.

"That's supposed to be my line."

"But you are."

"You're beautiful," he countered, his gaze wandering the length of her in the transparent nightgown.

She knew he could see everything…and if his expression was any indication, he plainly liked the view. She flushed from her head to her toes. Wordlessly, his gaze locked on hers, he shucked off his trousers, climbed up beside her on the bed, and proceeded to kiss her until her head swam.

When he finally released her lips, his mouth trailed past her chin and down her throat, blazing a warm trail toward her breasts encased in the gossamer nightgown. His lips skimmed the violet flowers, his breath hot through the thin material. As she arched up to meet him, he closed his mouth over a nipple, suckling through the fabric.

A Lady of Distinction would definitely not approve of this nightgown. It was so flimsy and immodest, she felt his mouth on her almost as though the garment wasn't there. But it was there, and she wanted it gone. She wanted his mouth on her skin. This was torture. Pure torture. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, but he just switched to the other breast, lavishing it with similar torturous attention.

She really couldn't take it.

She tunneled her fingers into his hair and lifted his head, noting his look of stark surprise. "Here," she whispered, pulling one end of the black satin bow that secured the nightgown's tiny bodice. It fell open, baring her to him, and she held her breath.

After a moment, she raised her chest, offering her breasts to him like they were some irresistible sweet.

Not, however, a sweet there was a recipe for in her family's cookbook.

His lips quirked in a half smile, and he moved down, skimming his mouth across her nightgown-clad stomach instead.

More torture. He kissed across her waist and down her belly, tender kisses she could feel, but not the way she wanted. He kissed his way down one of her legs, slowly and sensually, and even more slowly and sensually up the other.

She was melting. She was dying, and she was melting. She was melting into the bed, and if he didn't touch her skin—bare skin—she'd dissolve into a puddle of need.

"Tris," she whispered.

"Hmm?" He spread her legs, pushing the nightgown down between them to kiss the insides of her thighs. Each kiss sparked a thrilling spurt of pleasure, not only where he was kissing, but also higher. Where a hot ache was building to unbearable proportions.

"I want this nightgown off," she told him. "I cannot stand this."

He raised his head for a moment, his smile one of masculine pride. "Ah, then I'm doing my job," he said. And he returned to it, spreading her legs even wider to place a kiss in the most intimate place imaginable.

She shuddered and gasped, and he kissed her there again. This was wicked. It was more wicked than the nightgown. It was more wicked than the most wicked thing A Lady of Distinction mentioned in her entire, pedantic book.

And it was making that hot ache escalate to something all but unendurable.

Then he inched the nightgown up to her waist and kissed her in the same place without it between them.

And that was more wicked than anything she'd ever imagined.

"Oh!" she breathed as she felt his mouth caress her, wet and hot, his tongue soft and slippery sweet. She wanted to say more—her mind shouted You cannot! and You shouldn't!—but all she could seem to manage was that little mewling oh!

He widened her legs with his hands, releasing a hum of pure enjoyment that vibrated all the way to her core as his tongue found the secret place her fierce ache was centered.

And then she quite simply couldn't say anything, couldn't form anything more than incoherent little moans. But that oh! must have made an impression, because he flicked that place again and again until she sobbed with pleasure, arching against his mouth as waves of exquisite passion rippled through her.

Only when the last tendrils of sensation had faded did he finally lift his head and draw the nightgown farther up and off.

Still trembling with the aftermath of his loving, she thought she might expire from utter bliss when his warm weight came over her, when he slipped inside her to join his body with hers. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tight, wanting more than anything for him to find the same pleasure he'd given her.

And she was shocked to find the feelings building in her once again.

He moved slowly, reverently. "Look at me," he whispered, and she raised her languid lids to see him gazing into her eyes, the familiar silver darkened with desire. He bent his head to take her mouth, and she tasted herself on his lips. The blood rushed faster through her veins.

Tristan took his time, deriving joy from her reawakening, the warm slide of her skin against his, the sweet shudders as his tongue swept her mouth. He could feel warmth turn to heat, feel her wrap herself around him, feel her quiver as the passion spread through her supple body. And when they were both ready, her beautiful low moan sent him hurtling over the edge.

It was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous span of time he'd spent with any woman, ever.

And now he had to end it.

Their bodies still joined and clinging, he kissed her forehead, both cheeks, her nose. "I need to leave you now," he whispered before settling full on her mouth.

"Hmm?" she murmured when he finally allowed them both to draw breath.

He hated this. But he had no choice.

"I'm going to sleep in the Queen's Bedchamber. Vincent will lock me in."

She blinked hard, and her soft mouth dropped open. "You're going to leave me?"

He eased out of her, wincing at her little sound of loss. "Just until morning," he promised as he levered himself to her side. "For your own protection. If I sleepwalk again, I don't want to be able to leave the room. I don't want to be able to get to you or to anything that might harm you."

"I don't want your protection, Tris." He'd never heard such hurt in her voice. And disbelief. "I want you here with me. How can you make love to me and then just…leave?"

"How can I not? How can I keep endangering you night after night? What kind of man would that make me?"

She offered no answer, but her eyes were pleading. They were going to destroy him, those eyes. Destroy his resolve, and destroy everything he was trying to be.

Before that could happen, he climbed from the bed and went to fetch his dressing gown.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Alexandra lay in her marriage bed, stunned.

And alone.

She could scarcely believe Tris had left her. Not after the evening they'd just spent. Her gaze went to the filmy lavender nightgown pooled on the floor, to the silver basket and the beautiful book beside it. Gifts, she knew, from his heart.

Perhaps he couldn't bring himself to say he loved her, but men—especially enterprising men like Tris—didn't care to visit shops. Only love could drive him to spend his day choosing such perfect presents for her. Presents that demonstrated thought. Presents that showed he understood her. Presents that fit her, specifically, not any other woman.

Well, with the possible exception of the wicked underthings. But she didn't want to think about other women those might fit.

Of course, he'd left for Windsor before learning she'd gone off to interview three former servants. Perhaps he wouldn't have bought her beautiful things if he'd known that. Had he really left her alone in bed as a precaution to protect her? Or was he drawing away because he was angry she wouldn't call off her investigation?

She didn't really believe it was the latter, especially considering the way he'd made love to her. She blushed just thinking about that. Those hardly seemed like the actions of an angry man. But she wasn't sure…because perhaps he'd been angry but then found himself lost in temptation when he saw her in that wicked nightgown.

She just wasn't sure. And she wanted answers. And she wasn't the type of person to sit and wait for answers to come to her. Or lie in bed and wait for answers to come to her, either. She was the type of person who went out and found answers for herself.

One would think Tris would have figured that out by now.

If he thought she'd just meekly go to sleep while he locked himself in another room, he'd best think again.

She rose and washed up, then retrieved the lavender nightgown, hoping he'd still find it tempting enough to entice him to talk. A few more kisses wouldn't be unwelcome, either, she decided as she wiggled back into it. Her pulse quickened at the thought.

After covering the nightgown with a very modest wrapper, she took time to brush her tangled hair and pin the front off her face. Feeling she looked as well as she could for a woman so recently ravished, she made her way from the room.

No sooner had she opened the door than Rex came trotting up and followed her down the corridor to the Queen's Bedchamber.

She knocked briskly on the queen's fancy gilded door. "Tris?"

Rex barked.

"I'm sleeping," Tris lied.

She knew he was lying—because if he were sleeping, he wouldn't have answered her, would he? Besides, he quite obviously wasn't in bed. She could hear him on the other side of the door almost as clearly as if it wasn't between them.

"I want to talk to you," she said.

"We'll talk in the morning."

She wondered whether he was sitting or standing. Whether he was upright or leaning against the door. Was he wearing his dressing gown still, or was he stark-naked?

That image made her heart skip a beat. "I want to talk now."

Rex barked again, adding his own demand.

But Tris was having none of it. His heavy sigh emanated from the room. "The door is locked, and only Vincent has the key."

"I'll get it from him, then. I want to talk. And I want you to come back to bed." She pictured him lying beneath the turquoise and gold canopy with the absurd ostrich-feather poufs at its four corners. "You hate this room."

"I'd hate hurting you even more. Vincent has gone to sleep—you're not to bother him. Go to bed, Alexandra."

"No," she said. She needed the door opened in order to tempt him again with the wicked nightgown. But she wouldn't bother Vincent. For one thing, she hadn't the slightest idea where the man slept. She needed to schedule another appointment with Mrs. Oliver to learn where everyone was lodged.

In the meantime, she pulled a pin from her hair and stuck it into the lock, poking it around.

"What are you doing?" Tris asked after a moment.

"Picking the lock." She'd seen Griffin do this more than once, and she'd read of many a protagonist doing it in books. Surely it couldn't be that difficult. But despite the fact that she heard many clicks, nothing seemed to actually move.

Rex barked his encouragement, slapping the wall with his tail for good measure.

"Are you giving up yet?" Tris asked, sounding amused.

"No." She dropped to her knees in order to get a better angle.

"Now?"

"No." Clenching her teeth, she rooted around harder.

"Now?"

"Drat," she gritted out. This wasn't going to work. She plopped to sit on the floor and leaned sideways against the door. "This is ridiculous, Tris. You belong in our bed."

"It's only one night. A few hours. I'll see you in the morning. Good night, Alexandra."

"Good night," she returned, but she didn't move.

Rex gave her a disgusted look and padded away, his huge paws thudding on the wood floor.

"The dog gave up," Tris pointed out. "It's time you did, too."

She never gave up. Perhaps that was a character flaw rather than a trait to be admired, but regardless, there it was. She didn't go back to bed. If she couldn't tempt him into more kisses, perhaps she could at least get some answers.

"Are you doing this because you're angry with me?" she asked.

"I'm doing it to protect you."

"Are you certain? Because I know you're unhappy that I won't give up the investigation."

"That has nothing to do with this," he insisted—rather patiently, she had to admit. "Except in a peripheral way. If you'd stop your investigation, perhaps I'd stop sleepwalking, in which case I might not fear doing you harm in the night. But it isn't anger driving me to do this. It's concern and sheer fright. Can't you understand that?"

She could, damn him.

If she hadn't been blinded by hurt, she'd never have thought any different. He'd convinced himself he was a danger to her, and unless she proved otherwise, he would stay convinced. But he didn't want her to prove otherwise.

What an impossible mess she found herself in.

But she did understand. And she also understood that, in his own, twisted way, he was doing this because he was honorable.

Damn him.

"I love you," she said.

He didn't answer that. Not that she found that surprising.

She shifted to sit with her back against the door, her knees drawn up toward her chest. She wrapped her arms around them. Just because she understood didn't mean she didn't find his attitude exasperating. "You're acting like your father," she said.

That elicited a response. "What the devil do you mean by that?" A rather hostile response. "A single glass of port hardly makes me a drunk, and I rarely gamble."

"You said he was so convinced love would never happen for him again that he never bothered trying to find it."

"I also said I don't believe each one of us has a perfect person."

"You didn't mean that."

"The hell I didn't. We're not all of us destined for bliss, Alexandra. The sooner you accept that, the happier you'll be."

"Like you're happy?" she countered softly.

He was silent so long, she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. But then he shifted against the door, and she knew he hadn't.

She'd have to give him more time. Three women he'd loved had left him. No, make that five—his mother and his sister had left him, too.

The women he'd loved had been leaving him since he was seven years old.

She laid her head on her bent knees, hugging herself. "I'm not going leave you, Tris. No matter what I do or don't learn tomorrow, I'm not going to leave you. Ever. Not next week or next month or next year. You married me, and you're stuck with me. If you open the door, I'll be right here. Always."

As it turned out, she was right there for only part of the night. As the tall-case clock in the round gallery struck four in the morning, she woke, stiff and sore, and took herself back to bed.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"Good morning, my lady." Peggy bustled into the bedroom and threw open the drapes. "It's nine o'clock, and I brought your breakfast." She placed a tray on the bed. "Shall I have the carriage brought round for your visit today?"

Nine o'clock? Alexandra blinked in the harsh light, wondering where the night had gone while at the same time happy those long, uncomfortable, restless hours were over. She struggled to sit up against the pillows and took a slow, bracing sip of hot tea. "I wish to ride again today. The sooner I complete this final interview, the happier my husband will be."

"I've been thinking, my lady. Perhaps, since you enjoy riding, it may be time for me to learn."

"That's a fine idea." Alexandra spread jam on her toast, checking first to make certain it was cherry. "We shall arrange for a groom to give you lessons."

"I meant today. I believe I should start riding with you today."

"Oh, I don't think so." Picturing middle-aged Peggy mounting a horse for the first time, Alexandra hid a smile behind her teacup. "I shall be in quite a hurry today, and you'll need a few lessons before you go galloping off. I believe I shall just take Ernest with me and get this done."

She'd quite enjoyed riding with Ernest yesterday. Unlike Peggy, who talked her ear off, Ernest was quiet and deferent. He never asked to come in during her interviews, nor did he ask what happened afterward. He allowed her time to think.

Peggy scowled, clearly unhappy that Alexandra was going off without her again. As the maid helped her into a riding habit, Alexandra did her best to ignore the woman's bad mood. Peggy had seemed so pleasant and accommodating the first few days—even going to the trouble to make the list—and it was good of her to want to learn to ride.

When Alexandra was dressed and coiffed, she handed Peggy her gorgeous new silver basket, waiting for a reaction.

There was none. "Yes, my lady?"

"Please ask Mrs. Pawley to fill this with the rest of my sugar cakes. I shall meet you in the main parlor."

"As you wish," Peggy said coldly and took herself off.

Alexandra heaved a sigh as she started downstairs. If the woman was going to sulk whenever things failed to go the way she wanted, perhaps she'd be happier with a different lady's maid, after all.

When she entered the main parlor—or rather, tried to—her mouth dropped open. "What's this?"

Two muscular strangers were blocking the door as they maneuvered a large object through it.

An excessively large object.

"A pianoforte," one of them said in answer to her question.

"I can see that." She hurried around to the front and read the name above the keyboard. "Erard," she breathed in wonder, running her hand over the shining, dark mahogany. Sebastien Erard was known to build the very best pianofortes—why, it was said that Beethoven himself owned one. "And it's six octaves."

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but we need you to move."

"Right. Of course." She looked toward three footmen who were inside the room rearranging the furniture. "Might any of you know where Lord Hawkridge is at the moment?"

"The vineyard, I believe." One of the Johns hefted a small table onto his shoulder. "Or so I heard him tell his valet before he left this morning."

"Thank you," she said and turned away—then turned back. "Um…where is the vineyard?" Hopefully it wasn't as far from the house as Griffin's. "Will I need a horse?"

"Not at all." The man set down the table. "Just walk across the west courtyard, past the icehouse and through the hornbeam arch. You cannot miss it."

It was a pleasant walk. The icehouse was brick with a domed roof, and she found the long hornbeam arch to be delightfully shady. At the far end of the leafy tunnel, she exited to find sloping land covered with rows and rows of staked vines, the spaces between them only wide enough to walk single file. Spotting Tris in the middle, speaking with another man, she hurried toward him, her skirts brushing the vines on either side.

"Excuse me," she heard him say as she came up. "I'd appreciate privacy for a moment." The man tipped his cap and walked a decent distance away, bending to tend a vine.

"A pianoforte?" Alexandra said the moment he was out of earshot. "An Erard pianoforte?"

Tris's eyes looked silver in the sunshine. She thought perhaps she saw an apology in them, mixed with excitement at surprising her. "I did say another parcel would arrive today."

"That's quite a parcel," she said, determined to forget last night. Or the last part of last night, in any case. "Thank you. Thank you ever so much."

She threw her arms around him, feeling euphoric when he wrapped his arms around her, too.

Their kiss was sweeter than the fruit ripening in the sun all around them and as heady as the wine it would become. "I hope you'll enjoy it," he said when their lips reluctantly parted.

"Oh, I will. The men delivering it made it clear I was getting in the way, but I can hardly wait to try it." The world seemed brighter this morning, as though the Queen's Bedchamber last night had been no more than a bad dream. She breathed deep of the fragrant air, reaching to touch a bunch of grapes. "How fat they look!"

"In a month, they'll be ready for harvest."

She began walking along the row, touching a plant here and there. "The vines seem so sturdy. Their trunks are so wide."

"Compared to Griffin's vines, you mean?" Sounding amused, he followed behind. "A hundred years from now, their trunks will be wide as well."

"If he can make his vineyard pay well enough to keep it."

"He can make it pay. With the duties raised during wartime to nearly twenty shillings a gallon, French wine is no longer affordable for a man of moderate income. People will be happy enough to stock their cellars with what Griffin produces."

"If it tastes as good as yours does, they will." She paused to pluck a grape and sniff it. "Is this a certain kind of grape?"

"Doubtless, although I confess I don't know the variety. In the old records they're noted only as English sweet-water grapes."

"Well, they make truly wonderful wine," she said, popping the fruit into her mouth.

"I'm glad you think so," he said and added teasingly, "as long as you drink only half a glass at a time." He shot a glance to the other man. "I'm afraid I'm not finished here."

Swallowing the sweet flesh, she nodded. "I must leave, anyway. Ernest must be waiting with our horses. We're going to visit with the final former servant. Lizzy, her name is."

"I wish you wouldn't." A hawk wheeled overhead, and a sudden breeze kicked up, making the vines rustle around them. She saw something twitch in Tris's jaw. "I sleepwalked again last night."

"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it. He looked tormented. "Have you suffered these incidents so closely together in the past?"

"Never. It's always been weeks—if not months or years—between episodes. But this morning, after locking myself in that room, I woke to find the window wide open." He sounded totally disgusted that his plan hadn't worked. "The lock kept me from sleepwalking around the house, so I sleepwalked outside instead."

"Did you wake up outside?"

"No, but that doesn't mean I didn't go out. In the past, I've often ambled around and ended up back in my bed."

"But the Queen's Bedchamber is upstairs. You would have killed yourself climbing out that window. I'm sure you simply opened it because you wanted fresh air." When she saw that he was going to argue, she put a hand on his arm. "Let me go see Lizzy. And then this might be over, and maybe you'll be able to sleep."

He just looked at her for a while. Just looked. And it made something tighten in her chest, because every time she thought they were making progress, stepping forward together, it seemed they took two steps back.

But she had to go see Lizzy. Her sisters were being ostracized already, and this was her last chance to discover information that might lead to a solution for them all. Her last chance to prove to Tris that he wasn't the dangerous man he feared.

"You may not be happy with what you learn from Lizzy," he finally said, the warning sounding bitter on his tongue. "And it's not going to change anything." Then he turned and left her, his shoulders looking tense beneath his dark blue coat as he strode toward the other man.

The hornbeam arch didn't seem nearly as delightful when she traversed it in the opposite direction. And at the other end, Vincent, Hastings, and Mrs. Oliver all stood waiting for her.

"May I help you?" she asked, puzzled.

Hastings glanced at the other two and then spoke for all three. "May we have a word with you, Lady Hawkridge?"

"Of course."

"Lady Hawkridge," Hastings repeated, then stopped.

"Yes?"

"We're concerned," Mrs. Oliver continued. Her kindly chocolate eyes did look concerned. "These mishaps that keep occurring…"

"We fear that if someone did indeed murder the last Lord Hawkridge," Vincent hurriedly finished for her, "he may be trying to kill you now to stop you from finding him."

Alexandra blinked, taken aback by the mere idea. It hadn't, of course, occurred to them that Tris might be causing the mishaps while sleepwalking, since other than Vincent—and she was certain he'd keep Tris's secret—they probably had no knowledge of his night wanderings. But it had never occurred to her that it could be anyone else.

For a moment, her heart raced.

Then she told herself not to be ridiculous. "I appreciate your concern," she said carefully, "but I truly believe both incidents were accidents."

"But what if they weren't?" Hastings asked.

"Everyone has assured me the marquess's death was natural," she reminded him.

"But what if it wasn't?" Mrs. Oliver blurted. "What if there's a murderer among us? Should you continue your investigation, even worse could happen."

It was obvious that recent events had them nervous and suspicious. Even of each other. Mrs. Oliver was looking at Hastings. Hastings was looking at Mrs. Oliver.

And they were both looking at Vincent.

"We brought this up for your own good," Vincent said now, his gaze steadfast. He had too much dignity to shrivel under their scrutiny. "We worry for you. If you would discontinue—"

"I cannot," she interrupted. "You're all dears to worry for my safety, but I must leave no stone unturned in my quest to clear my husband's name."

The three of them exchanged glances and subtle sighs.

"Do please be careful, then," Hastings finally said.

"I will, I assure you. Thank you for coming to me with your concerns. I consider myself very lucky to be surrounded by such caring people."

She watched them walk off, praying that she was right and they were wrong. She felt a little shaky. The thought of Tris attacking her was one thing—she didn't believe it and never would. But the thought of someone else…

She didn't believe that, either, she decided firmly.

And besides, even if it were true…there was a good side to that.

The quiet ride with Ernest had done little to calm Alexandra's nerves.

She was still shaking when she dismounted in front of Lizzy's small cottage. For the second day in a row, Hawkridge's villagers had stared at her as she rode through. Between that, defying Tris, and dealing with doubts the staff had brought up, she felt like a wreck.

Walking up Lizzy's pretty flower-lined path, she half hoped this interview would lead nowhere, because that would mean this would all be over. No, she thought with a sigh…she didn't really hope that.

But perhaps she felt she should.

The woman who answered the door had soft white hair, kind blue eyes, and a pronounced stoop. "Yes, dearie?"

"Might you be Lizzy?" Alexandra knew that, unlike the others, Lizzy had retired rather than leaving for a new position. Still, she hadn't expected someone quite so old. Lizzy looked ninety if she were a day. "I'm Lady Hawkridge."

"A new Lady Hawkridge!" Lizzy's weathered face crinkled with delight. "Come in, dearie, come in."

Alexandra waved to Ernest where he was patiently waiting with their horses, then stepped inside. The cottage was a single room with a living area on one side and a bed on the other. "Would you care for a sugar cake?" she asked Lizzy, pulling one from her silver basket.

"Why, thank you." The woman pulled a chair out from the simple oak table and gestured for Alexandra to sit. "I will have one, if I may."

"I've been told you were employed at Hawkridge Hall when the last marquess died."

"And for sixty-two years before that." She munched on the cake, seating herself across from Alexandra.

"My husband, the current marquess—"

"I remember your husband, my child." Lizzy licked crumbs off her fingers. "Bless you. It's long past time that dear boy's innocence was proven."

For what must have been the dozenth time, Alexandra's hopes soared. "Did you see anything that night or morning? Anyone suspicious? Have you reason to believe anyone at Hawkridge Hall may have wanted the marquess dead?"

"Alas, no." Lizzy's hand inched toward the basket. "But someone must know something. Whom have you talked to so far?"

"Everyone," Alexandra said with a sigh, handing her another sugar cake.

"Names, dearie. I want names."

Lizzy devoured two more sugar cakes while Alexandra recited the list.

"How about Maude?" Lizzy asked when she was done.

"Maude?"

"The marquess's old nurse—after his wife and children passed on, she was the closest person to him. If anyone saw anything that night, it'd have been she. She left very soon after he passed…I wonder if she's still alive." She reached for yet another sugar cake, her face wrinkling so much in contemplation that her eyes all but disappeared. "Maude was old as dirt even then."

Alexandra felt an urge to laugh, though she wasn't quite sure whether it was from the joy of learning her search wasn't over yet or the wrinkled old woman across from her calling someone else old as dirt. "Do you know where Maude went, by any chance?"

"When she left, she was headed for Nutgrove. Maude was born there, and she said that there she'd die."

Alexandra could only hope she hadn't already.

She gave the rest of the sugar cakes to Lizzy as a thank-you and hurried back outside, unable to believe her good fortune. Not only was Maude her most promising lead yet, but she remembered passing through Nutgrove on the way here. It would be a simple matter to stop and talk to Maude on the way home. And with any luck…

Elated, she slanted Ernest a glance. "Are you up for a good gallop?"

"If my lady pleases," he said stoically.

She mounted, shoved the basket handle over her arm, and lifted the reins.

Tris had an excellent stable, and she had borrowed a fine mare. She flew over the countryside, the horse's hooves pounding the dirt road at a measured, rhythmic clip. Her hat tumbled back, held on only by its ribbons. She laughed, enjoying the fresh air, the light wind, the renewed hope that she might prove successful in this search, after all.

She didn't hear a snap. There was nothing to warn her. Her saddle just slid sideways and off—and she screamed as she went with it.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Clucking her tongue, Peggy placed a glass of water by Alexandra's bedside. "Whatever did you learn from old Lizzy that made you ride off so recklessly?"

"I don't wish to speak of it now. My head hurts."

"Hmmph." Peggy leaned to plump her pillows, which Tristan suspected only made Alexandra's pain worse. "Serves you right for going off without me there to watch out for you. If you ask me, you should go home until all these dangerous happenings cease. I vow and swear, if you ask me—"

"No one asked you," Tristan interrupted, rising from one of the striped chairs. He'd be vowing and swearing if he had to listen to her a single moment longer. "Leave us. Lady Hawkridge needs her rest."

"Well!" Peggy said and took herself out the door, closing it more forcefully than necessary.

Alexandra winced at the resulting bang. "You could be a bit kinder to her."

"Why in blazes do you put up with her?"

"She has her moods, but she's nice and helpful most of the time." She threw off her covers. "I'll have a talk—"

"Stay in bed!"

"I'm fine, Tris." As though to prove it, she sat up and swung her legs off the side. "A little bumped and bruised, is all—"

"You're not fine." He walked closer and slid his hands into her hair, probing gently. His fingers met a hard, raised lump. "No wonder your head hurts."

He'd nearly had a heart attack when Ernest rode up with Alexandra, scraped and bleeding, the two of them sharing the same horse with her mare tied behind. Thankfully, most of her wounds were superficial and had cleaned up rather nicely, but he cringed to see the remaining bruises.

Right now, he was grateful for Juliana's concealing nightgown, even if it was hideous.

He stepped back. "You took several years off my life. You're going to be the death of me, Alexandra, if you don't manage to kill yourself first. Or if I don't manage to kill you instead," he added in a disgusted mutter.

"Don't start that again. You were miles away when this happened."

"Leather straps don't simply split all by themselves. Someone must have cut partway through it sometime before you left." He paced over to the fireplace and leaned an elbow on the mantel, watching her. "Like me, last night, when I climbed out that window."

"Leather can weaken over time," she argued. "And you didn't climb out a window. The room felt overwarm in the night, so you got up, opened the window, and went back to bed." A thread of exasperation—or perhaps desperation—tinged her voice. "Must you make everything more complicated than it is?"

But it couldn't be as simple as she was claiming. This incident fit the pattern perfectly. The window had been wide open in the morning, and he had no memory of opening it. And, once again, his wife had been injured by an accident he'd had clear opportunity to arrange.

"Come sit by me," she said after an awkward moment of silence. She patted the mattress beside her.

He crossed the room and sat, but not too close.

He didn't feel worthy of touching her.

"You would never do anything to hurt me, Tris," she said quietly. "If I believe that, why can't you?"

Because his nights were voids in his memory. Because too many coincidences were impossible to ignore. Because someone else had died on a night when he knew he'd wandered.

He sighed. "This has to stop."

"I can't stop. That would mean dooming my sisters to dreary lives as spinsters and ourselves to an unhappy marriage."

"You must stop. Hastings came to me after you left, along with Mrs. Oliver and Vincent. They said they speak for the entire staff and are concerned that someone may be after you."

"They've all been accidents," she insisted stubbornly.

"What if they weren't accidents, Alexandra? Our own servants are worried for your safety. Have you any idea how frightened that made me while I waited for your return?" He was surprised he had any hair left, he'd run his hands through it so many times. "And then you rode up, all bruised and bloody—"

His voice broke, and he tried for a calming breath. Tried being the operative word.

But he had to calm down, because she was hurt. And seeing her hurt made him hurt in a way that Griffin's fists hadn't. He didn't want to yell at her.

He just wanted to make her understand.

He took a second breath, and then a third before he continued, as calmly as he knew how. "Someone could be after you in order to stop this investigation, or it could be me during my stressful, sleepwalking nights. Either way, you must cease."

"I won't," she said stubbornly.

It seemed she said everything stubbornly. He'd never met anyone quite as stubborn as Alexandra.

That made it very hard to maintain his newly acquired calm. "They're looking at Vincent," he said, the words coming out in a staccato cadence. "He's the only one who was new at the time, and his skin is darker than theirs, and they're looking at him."

"I'm sorry for that." She truly did look sorry. "Is he overwrought?"

He shook his head. "I'm overwrought."

"I'm sorry for that, too. But can't you see, Tris? If these three incidents were accidents, there's no reason for me to discontinue my efforts. And if they weren't accidents, that's even more reason for me to persevere. Because if someone is after me, that would mean your uncle was, in fact, murdered—and if there's a killer, that means we can find him and clear your name."

Tristan stared at her, mute, unable to believe his own ears. He was stunned by her convoluted logic.

Was he supposed to be grateful she was putting her life on the line in order to prove his innocence?

Well, he wasn't.

He finally found his voice. "Am I to understand you actually think it's good news that someone might be trying to kill you?"

"Yes," she said shortly.

He hadn't been expecting a different answer, but he recoiled just the same. He wasn't sure which would be worse: to have Alexandra's investigation prove he'd committed the murder himself, or to have some other murderer cut short her search by cutting short her life. Either possibility was chilling.

And that wasn't even taking Vincent into account. If this continued, people would be looking for a scapegoat. The man could be prosecuted and convicted regardless of his innocence—a Jamaican ex-slave was unlikely to find justice in this world.

But she was hurt, he reminded himself. And so he said very calmly, "You must stop." And then he remembered something that made him wonder why they were arguing about this. "You're finished now anyway, aren't you? You interviewed Lizzy, and now you're finished."

"I'm sorry," she said, and she really did look sorry again. "But Lizzy gave me another name today. I'm not going to stop until I've talked to Maude."

"Maude." A vivid picture of a sweet old lady flooded his mind. How odd. He hadn't thought of the woman in years. Not at all. It was as though she'd somehow been stripped from his memory.

"You knew her?" Alexandra asked.

"She was a kind woman. Uncle Harold's old nurse. His nanny, actually, when he was a child." For some reason, talking about her was making him feel uneasy, but he couldn't figure why. It was ridiculous, really. "She was his children's nanny after that. And when he lost heart and fell ill, she nursed him all over again."

She shifted on the bed to face him. "Why didn't you tell me about her?"

"I didn't remember her." Strangely enough, it was true. Not that he'd have assisted Alexandra's search even if he had remembered. All he wanted was for her to stop.

Maybe if he told her several hundred more times, she might start listening.

Probably not.

"Evidently nobody else remembered Maude, either," she said. "I find it very odd that she wasn't on Peggy's list."

"She was a little bird of a woman, quite elderly. I wonder if she's even still alive."

"Lizzy wondered that as well, but I'm hoping she is. As she was closest to your uncle, she's my best hope for information. Ernest and I were on our way to see her when I took my little tumble."

"It wasn't a little tumble," he snapped, forgetting to stay calm. Leave it to Alexandra to trivialize such a thing. "You could very well have broken your neck." Remembering something, he dug a small bottle out of his pocket. "I fetched this from my uncle's rooms."

"I thought you avoided going in there."

He shrugged, handing it to her. "I thought it might help you. Dull the pain and help you to sleep. It's laudanum."

"How old is this?" She popped the cork and sniffed. "There's hardly any in here."

"You'll want to take only a little, anyway. You can overdose on laudanum."

"I don't hold with taking medicine. Not unless I have to, and I've told you, I'm fine." She replaced the cork and handed back the bottle.

"Lie down at least," he said with a sigh. "Your head will feel better if you rest."

For once, she listened, which made him suspect she felt worse than she'd admit. "It's dented," she said mournfully when she was once again settled on the pillow.

"Your head?"

"My beautiful basket." She gestured to where someone had set it on a table. "It took the tumble with me."

He rose and went to examine it in the light from the window. "It's not too bad. I don't expect anyone would ever notice, although I'm certain we can have it fixed."

"No." She gave him a shaky smile. "I believe I shall think of it as a battle scar."

"I only hope your own battle scars end up being so minimal." He set down the basket. "Maybe Peggy was right. Maybe you should go home until everything here is back to normal."

"This is my home," she said quietly.

The simple statement touched him to the core. Despite all his worry, all his dread, all the anger beneath the surface of his calm, her words warmed something deep inside him.

"I'm not sleepy," she said. "I hurt, but I'm not tired."

That was why he'd brought the laudanum, but he wouldn't force it on her. He should have known she'd be too stubborn to take it.

Her family's cookbook and the blank book he'd given her were stacked together on the bedside table. "Here," he said, handing them to her. "You can copy the recipes you wanted." He shifted on his feet, and then, unable to help himself, added, "And think about whether continuing this investigation is really wise."

Her eyes flashed, as he'd known they would. "If Maude knows nothing, there will be nothing left to investigate. But I'd be a fool not to question her."

He'd known she would say that, too. "It isn't foolish to protect yourself, nor to abide by your husband's wishes."

She kept quiet for a moment, but something in her expression hardened.

"This is beautiful," she finally said conversationally, turning the blue leather book over in her hands. After another moment, she looked up at him. "But I hope you haven't been trying to buy my cooperation with these gifts, because my convictions aren't for sale."

He hadn't known she would think him so calculating. The warmth inside him went cold as he walked out the door.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

LEMON PUFFS

Beat the whites of four eggs till they rise to a high froth. Then add as much sugar as will make it thick; then rub it round for half an hour, put in a spoon of lemon peel gratings and two spoons of the juice. Take a sheet of paper and lay it on as broad as a sixpence and as high as you can. Put them into a moderately heated oven half a quarter of an hour, and they will look as white as snow.

Give these sweet-and-sour biscuits to a sour person you wish to turn sweet.My husband has never proved immune.
—Elizabeth, Countess of Greystone, 1747

All that long afternoon and evening, Alexandra had a lot of time to think.

After a short nap, her head felt better. The rest of her was achy, but not intolerably so. She copied some of her favorite recipes as Tris had suggested, then called for Peggy to help her dress for dinner. The maid was still in a snit, so for once she didn't babble, which suited Alexandra just fine. When she was ready, she waited for Tris to come escort her to the dining room.

A tray arrived for her instead.

She ate little, the food sticking in her throat. She knew she had hurt Tris terribly. I hope you haven't been trying to buy my cooperation…even as she'd said that, part of her had been shocked to hear the words come out of her mouth. She wondered what had happened to traditional, accommodating Alexandra. This quest for truth and justice had turned her into a woman she scarcely recognized.

And it was tearing apart her marriage.

At ten o'clock she changed from the dinner dress into one of her new nightgowns, a sheer blush-colored confection that she hoped would tempt Tris to forgive her. She belted a wrapper over it and waited. The clock struck midnight before she heard his footsteps in the corridor.

She hurried to open the door, to welcome him, to do what she could to mend things between them. But he wasn't coming toward her. At the far end of the corridor, he was opening the door to the Queen's Bedchamber.

Wearing only tight trousers and a white shirt, with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, he looked worn out and wonderful all at the same time.

"Tris," she called softly.

He turned. "Good night."

"You're not going to sleep in there again, are you?" She started down the corridor, forcing her lips to curve in a smile. "If you're going to go out a window anyway," she said lightly, "there hardly seems a point."

"I had bars put on the windows. I won't be going anywhere tonight."

"Bars?" Having reached the room, she looked past him and inside. It was dark outdoors, but she could just make out faint stripes that must be iron rods outside the glass. "That seems a little extreme, doesn't it?"

"Nothing is too extreme to protect you," he said unblinkingly.

Unemotionally. Unfeelingly.

She swallowed hard, any pretense of normalcy gone. "I'm sorry for what I said. Please don't pull away from me, Tris. I love you."

"Good night," he said again and turned to enter the room.

Although she certainly hadn't expected to hear those three words echoed back at her, neither had she expected them to be ignored entirely. "Wait," she said, grabbing his wrist.

She'd been fighting it all along, but she knew what she had to do. She'd thought of little else for the past few hours.

He glanced dispassionately down to her hand. "Yes?"

His skin felt warm, but his arm felt tense. She grasped him tighter. "I'm not going to do the last interview. I'm not going to talk to Maude."

He looked up and blinked. "Why?"

"It's the only way I can prove I love you. The only way I can prove I'll stay with you even if you remain in disgrace. I don't care about society, Tris—I don't need their parties or their approval. I never have. I've been doing this for you and for my sisters. But my sisters will cope. You're my husband, and you're more important. My loyalty to you comes first."

She couldn't think of anything else to say. So she waited. He looked down again to where her fingers gripped his arm, and she released him and waited some more.

"All right," he said at last. "Thank you. I'm sure I'll sleep quite soundly tonight." Then he stepped into the room and closed the door between them.

He was going to bed without even so much as a kiss.

While she stood there, stunned, Vincent walked up, as if on cue, and slid a key into the lock. "Are you all right, my lady?"

His low, musical voice failed to soothe her. "I'm fine," she said woodenly. "I believe I shall go make some sweets."

"Now?" Vincent asked in surprise. His gaze went to her bare feet.

"Now," she said, belting her wrapper more tightly.

She refused to spend another night on the floor outside her husband's room.

"Well." He seemed at a loss. "The ovens will be cold. Let me accompany you downstairs and light them for you."

She fetched her new recipe book before following him down the gaslit staircase, flipping pages as they crossed the great hall to the back passage.

"Lemon puffs," she decided. According to some long-dead cousin or aunt, they were supposed to turn a sour person sweet. Heaven knew, given Tris's current attitude, she could use all the help she could get.

In the kitchen, she gathered eggs, sugar, and lemons while Vincent started the brick ovens. Just as she began separating the first yolk from the white, Mrs. Pawley walked in. "What's going on here?" she asked through a yawn.

The cook's round body was covered by a plain, voluminous white nightgown—not at all transparent—and her feet were as bare as Alexandra's. Still dressed like a perfect gentleman, Vincent answered with great dignity. "We're making lemon puffs."

"We?" Alexandra and Mrs. Pawley said together.

"We," he confirmed, reaching for a lemon.

Mrs. Pawley went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of sherry and three glasses. When she filled Alexandra's to the brim, Alexandra didn't protest. Instead she took a big sip and felt the rich wine warm her all the way down her throat and into her stomach.

She hadn't realized she'd been so cold.

She pushed up her sleeves and cracked another egg.

Grating sugar, Mrs. Pawley eyed a bruise on her arm. "You had a rough day, from what I've heard. Are you up to this, my lady?"

"Oh, quite. I'm halfway healed already." She took another sip, deciding the sherry must be healing her even faster. "Tomorrow I'm sure to be good as new."

Two kitchen maids wandered in, also wearing plain nightgowns. "What's going on here?" one of them asked.

"Come in," Alexandra said brightly. "We're making lemon puffs." She took another sip. "However did you know we were in here?"

"They sleep right down the corridor," Mrs. Pawley said, fetching another bottle of sherry and two more glasses.

There was much beating to do of the egg whites, in order to make them nice and stiff. And after that, they were supposed to be rubbed together with sugar for half an hour. Alexandra appreciated all the help. She was a bit sore to be doing something so strenuous, and while the others had their turns, she could relax and drink more sherry.

Before long, three housemaids and two footmen had joined them, and it was quite a while before her turn came to beat the eggs. In fact, she was so busy sipping sherry that she missed her turn twice. When they weren't occupied beating eggs, the servants took turns telling jokes. Alexandra thought they were quite the funniest jokes she'd ever heard, and when she told one or two herself, everyone laughed even when she stumbled over the words.

She rather suspected they laughed mostly because she was their mistress, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

By the time the lemon puffs came out of the oven, shiny and white as snow, five bottles had been emptied and the kitchen rang with laughter. "You must serve these to my husband first thing in the morning," Alexandra told Mrs. Pawley as she peeled the finished puffs off the brown paper on which they had baked.

"Our fine master cannot abide sweets in the morning," the cook pronounced with formal reserve. Then she dissolved into laughter that brought tears rolling down her plump cheeks. Everyone else laughed, too. One of the footmen—Alexandra couldn't remember his name—even snorted once or twice.

"For luncheon, then," Alexandra instructed. Noticing no scullery maids had joined them, she waved a hand magnanimously—or rather, flung it somewhat flamboyantly. "You may leave this mess until morning," she trilled as Vincent grabbed her to stop the momentum from tipping her over.

She quite liked her new servants, she thought as she giggled her way up to bed, Vincent close behind in case she should fall. She'd never had so much fun in the kitchen at Cainewood Castle.

The lemon puffs had better turn Tris from sour to sweet, because she wasn't going to be leaving Hawkridge Hall anytime soon.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The next day, Alexandra was not good as new. To the contrary, her head ached abominably, her stomach felt queasy, and her body was stiff and more sore than ever. She didn't know whether Tris was served the lemon puffs with luncheon, since she couldn't seem to force herself out of bed. Even the daylight seemed to make her hurt.

Peggy came in from time to time, clucking and leaving Alexandra cup after cup of strong, hot tea. Alexandra wasn't certain whether the clucking indicated sympathy or disapproval, and she didn't really care. As long as Peggy left the drapes closed tight and the gaslights off, she could ignore the clucking. She ignored the tea as well for the first few hours, but after a while she started sipping it, and after a few cups, she started feeling a bit better.

By late afternoon, she finally felt well enough to dress and rejoin the world. Since her battered body didn't want to move, she allowed Peggy to help her, enduring still more clucking. At long last, she painfully made her way downstairs, going straight to the main parlor and the new pianoforte.

It was magnificent. She walked around it reverently, trailing a hand along the fine, polished mahogany. Finally, she stopped in front and hit middle C. The single note sounded so rich it sent a tingle down her spine.

She sat down to play, choosing Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14, long one of her favorite pieces of music. "Quasi una fantasia," he'd called it…"Like a fantasy."

Indeed, only a few notes into the first movement, she lost herself in the fantasy that was the beautiful music coming out of her beautiful new pianoforte. The minuet and trio that made up the second movement flowed more easily from her fingers than ever before. And when she reached the stormy final movement, she played it with more passion than she'd thought herself capable of producing.

As the last note faded away, she heard applause. "Brava," Tris called from the doorway.

She turned to him with a tentative smile. "You're not scandalized? Most of the older people of my acquaintance find Beethoven's style too emotional and therefore unfit for young, impressionable ladies."

"Do you think me that old?" he wondered aloud.

"I remember a time when you thought our six-year difference made me much younger than you."

He nodded slowly, as though he were remembering, too. "You played the piece wonderfully," he said, "scandalous or not."

"It's a wonderful pianoforte." She wouldn't pretend modesty, because she'd played better on it than she ever had before. "I thank you for it."

"I didn't buy it to bribe you," he said quietly.

"I know."

The two words hung between them for a long, silent moment. "Shall we go in to dinner?" he finally asked.

It was her turn to nod. She rose so stiffly, he came to help her, placing a hand beneath her elbow to lend her support. Funny, but when she was playing, she'd forgotten all about her assorted aches and pains.

Not to mention the awkward state of her marriage.

If Tris wasn't dismissive, he wasn't particularly friendly, either. Their dinner passed in relative silence, the rattle of dishes and clang of cutlery more prominent than conversation. It seemed forever before Hastings placed the bottle of port on the table and left them alone, closing the dining room door behind him.

"None for me," Alexandra said.

"Hmm." Tris poured some for himself, a wry smile curving his lips. "Could it be you overdid it in the kitchen last night?"

He'd heard. Well, of course he'd heard. Not only was he the lord of the manor, his own valet had been there as witness.

"I made some lemon puffs," she said, ignoring his implication.

"Yes, and they're quite delicious. I had two after luncheon. While you were sleeping off the drink."

"I was sleeping off the pain," she protested. "My body is complaining even more today than yesterday."

He nodded. "That's not unusual following an injury. You'll doubtless feel better tomorrow." He paused for a long sip, then met her eyes, his own a penetrating gray. "I'll take you to see Maude tomorrow."

She couldn't have heard right. "Pardon?"

"We'll take the curricle, since I'm certain you won't feel up to riding."

Tristan watched the parade of emotions cross her face: disbelief first, followed by relief and then cautious joy. "Are you sure?" she asked.

"I'm sure."

"I told you I was giving up. I meant that, Tris. It's what you wanted."

He took her measure for a moment and decided she was sincere. "Are you trying to talk me out of it?"

She shook her head emphatically.

"I appreciate your willingness," he told her. He appreciated that more than she'd ever know. "But I cannot allow you to give up."

Although he feared learning the truth, he couldn't let her wonder all her life if she might have restored his reputation and spared her sisters grief. But he also couldn't let her ride off again with only a footman as protection. Not when a murderer might be after her.

"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes shining.

He nodded shortly. "Whoever is trying to stop you—if not myself—is obviously part of this household."

"They were accidents, Tris."

"Let's not go over this again, shall we?" He raised a brow to emphasize his point. "In case someone should try to follow us, I don't want anyone to know where we're going or what we're doing."

"All right," she agreed slowly.

"We shall say you require fresh air to aid your recovery, so we're going on a picnic. A honeymoon picnic."

"I suppose it won't hurt to be cautious."

"Have you told anyone about Maude?"

"No. I've been languishing in the bedroom since the accident." When he cocked his head at her, she added, "Maude's name never came up in the kitchen."

"How about Ernest?"

"Not with him, either. The man doesn't care to talk much. Besides, we'd only just got underway when the strap on the saddle snapped. I didn't have time to say anything before, and after…well, on the ride home I didn't feel much like making conversation."

He supposed she wouldn't have—she'd have been occupied gritting her teeth against the jarring pain of that ride. "Good. Then no one has any reason to suspect we'll be doing anything besides enjoying a honeymoon picnic." He rose, yawning. He hadn't slept much last night. Having one's wife offer up a sacrifice tended to disturb a man's equilibrium. "We should both get a good night's sleep."

A hesitant smile curved Alexandra's lips. "Shall I go up and change into another of my new nightgowns? Or do you wish to come along and help me?"

"Neither. I'll be sleeping in the Queen's Bedchamber again. For your safety." He leaned and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Hearing her disappointed sigh, he raised her chin and met her eyes. "You're still entirely too bruised and hurting for any love play. When we've finished this thing you've started, perhaps we'll both feel better."

For a long while after he left, Alexandra just sat in the dining room. She'd thought since Tris was being so cooperative, he'd want her back in his bed. And she wanted so much to be there…even if only to be held.

He was right: She was battered and bruised. But it was her heart that had taken the beating.

On her way from the dining room to the stairs, she nearly bumped into Mrs. Pawley.

"My lady! Will we be seeing you in the kitchen tonight?" The cook's blue eyes danced. "I expect we shall have a great crowd to assist in the sweet making. There are many who are sad to have missed our little impromptu party."

Alexandra hated to disappoint the staff, but a party was the last thing she felt like tonight.

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Pawley," she said, watching the light fade from the older woman's eyes. "Perhaps another time."

"Very fetching," Peggy said, eyeing Alexandra's chemise-clad form in her dressing room the next day. Alexandra blushed, knowing the new garment was all but transparent, but Peggy only smiled. "I'm so pleased to see that you're feeling more the thing today."

"Oh, I truly am." Alexandra wondered at her maid's sudden good mood, but she wouldn't risk ruining it with any questions. "I'm going on a picnic today!" she said brightly instead. "What do you expect I should wear to picnic with my husband?"

"With your husband?" Peggy flipped through a few dresses, then held up a pretty blue frock for Alexandra's approval. At her nod, the maid started toward the bedroom, slanting a sly glance over her shoulder. "Aren't the two of you rather estranged?"

Alexandra sighed, supposing their separate sleeping arrangements had prompted much speculation belowstairs. It was so tempting to tell Peggy the truth about everything, but she'd promised Tris she would stick to their story. "I'm hoping a picnic will help us reconciliate," she said carefully. "And—"

A knock at the door interrupted her.

"Yes?" she called, hurrying into the dress.

Tris poked his head in. "Mrs. Pawley has requested your silver basket to fill with our picnic luncheon."

A clever ruse to support their story. Still unbuttoned, she fetched the basket and brought it to him. "Please ask Mrs. Pawley to include some lemon puffs," she said, thinking she needed some sweets to bring to Maude. "I haven't found a chance to even try them yet."

"Will do." He planted a light kiss on her lips, a kiss that turned to more when their mouths clung for a long moment. "Are you about ready?" he asked when he pulled away.

He hadn't kissed her for days. Her lips tingling, she wondered whether the kiss had been for show or for real. "Almost."

He smiled, reaching around her to run a finger down her bare back, making her shiver. "I shall wait for you in the curricle," he said, then walked away.

She slowly closed the door.

"It looks like you're reconciliated already," Peggy commented as she did up her buttons.

"We're both trying." Blushing for the second time inside of ten minutes, Alexandra took a seat at her dressing table so the maid could work on her hair.

"I wish to apologize for being such a crab the past few days," Peggy said from behind her. "I admired you so for your investigation, and I was disappointed to find myself no longer part of it." She deftly twisted and pinned. "Do you expect you could ever forgive me?"

"Of course," Alexandra said. Peggy had been her strongest ally until that first time she went off without her, and she'd missed having a woman here at Hawkridge to confide in. "I collect I haven't been a very pleasant person myself the last day or two."

"But you're the mistress," Peggy pointed out. "You're allowed to be a crab." They both laughed; then Peggy sobered. "I fear for you, though. All the buzz in the servants' quarters is that someone is after you—I'm thinking you should be leaving Hawkridge to save your life, not going on picnics."

The maid's concern warmed Alexandra's heart. "I know tales of danger have been bandied about by the prattleboxes belowstairs, but I assure you there's nothing to fear. A few unfortunate accidents do not a plot make. Besides, my investigation is all but over. I have only one person left to interview."

In the mirror, Peggy looked surprised. "Did you fall from your horse before visiting Lizzy, then?"

"No, I spoke with Lizzy. She told me of another departed servant called Maude." Too late Alexandra remembered Peggy's propensity to gossip and Tris's wish that no one learn about Maude. She watched Peggy's face in the mirror. "I wonder why she wasn't on your list?"

"We all thought the old woman was dead," Peggy said, looking shocked. "Are you certain she isn't?"

"Lizzy wasn't sure, but I hope not. I collect I will find out tomorrow when I try to pay Maude a visit."

"You'll take me along this time, won't you?"

"If I'm still not up to riding, most assuredly." Alexandra turned to her maid, putting a finger to her lips. "Tell no one else, I beg you. You know his lordship doesn't want me continuing this investigation. I cannot risk any word reaching him concerning my plans for tomorrow."

"Mum's the word," Peggy promised. "But I do believe the old woman is dead. Why make the journey at all when you'll most likely put your reconciliation in jeopardy for nothing?"

"Perhaps you're right." Hoping to keep her maid in such good humor permanently, Alexandra made a big show of sighing. "I shall think on it," she told her and rose to collect her bonnet.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

"Peggy thinks Maude is dead," Alexandra told Tristan as he helped her into the curricle. "But I want to try to visit her anyway. You won't mind, will you? Even if the journey proves to be fruitless?"

"I said I'd take you, and I don't intend to go back on my word. But whyever would Peggy say she's dead?" He climbed up beside her and pulled the hood over their heads to shield them from the bright sun. "I thought no one knew about Maude."

She winced. "I mentioned her without thinking. But it's just Peggy," she added quickly as he lifted the reins. "I made her promise not to tell, and she also believes that I plan to visit Maude tomorrow, not today. I made the timing very clear."

Annoyance tightened his jaw, but he didn't want to start this outing with a disagreement. As he drove away, he told himself firmly that what was done was done. Nothing untoward was likely to come of it, since it was plain no one was following them. By all appearances, everyone had bought their story that they were off for nothing more interesting than a honeymoon picnic.

Alexandra took up the silver basket and wrapped their luncheon in one of the large napkins, leaving only the lemon puffs in the bottom. "For Maude," she explained. "Thank you so much for doing this. It means a lot to me."

He slanted her a glance. "It means a lot to me that you were willing to forgo it."

"I'm glad," she said softly and left it at that. They rode silently for a few minutes before she turned to him again. "Would you care for something to eat?"

He shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"Neither am I. I'm too nervous to eat. This is our last chance…"

She trailed off, and little was said for the rest of the ride.

But he hadn't missed the "our." Our last chance.

Like most servants, Maude hadn't gone far from the place of her birth to find employment. Nutgrove was less than an hour away, an hour Alexandra spent rubbing up against Tristan. Innocent though she had come to him, she was a temptress, and he suspected she knew it. Their kiss earlier that morning had been intended for show, but the feel of her mouth on his had jarred him to the core.

He wasn't ready for this—he couldn't allow her to steal his heart. She was about to come to the end of her search. As she'd said, this was their last chance. Once she believed he would never be free of scandal, it would be only a matter of time before she left him.

He couldn't bear to think of that—to think of going on without her. Alexandra's presence had changed the very substance of Hawkridge Hall, filled it with music and life and lightness that he now knew had been missing for years. Even the servants walked with more spring in their steps and smiles upon their faces. He didn't want to go back to the way it had been without her.

He could no longer imagine living there without her.

He couldn't imagine living anywhere without her.

But it was only a matter of time…

And that, of course, was assuming she was convinced he would never be free of scandal. The other possibility—that she would discover he was guilty of murder—was even worse. Then she would leave immediately. And he wouldn't be able to blame her.

Hell, she'd be a fool not to leave immediately.

So he sat beside her, determined not to succumb to her temptation. Meanwhile, his body reacted to every move she made. Her head on his shoulder prompted him to wrap an arm about her involuntarily. He found himself breathing in tandem with her. Her thigh pressed to his was a constant reminder that she wasn't wearing drawers.

All in all, despite his anxiety concerning what she might or might not find, he was rather relieved when they passed the signpost that read NUTGROVE.

Alexandra immediately sat straight and called excitedly to an elderly gentleman walking a tiny dog. "Good sir! If I may bother you…might you know the direction of a woman who goes by Maude?"

And it was the oddest thing…but just hearing Alexandra say "Maude" again, that vague, niggling sense of unease Tristan had felt two days ago came back.

The old man cupped a hand to his ear. "Eh?"

"Maude!" she shouted as they rolled along beside him. She turned to Tristan. "What is Maude's surname?"

He shrugged. "I never thought to ask." He'd forgotten her. How was it that he'd forgotten her?

"Maude!" Alexandra yelled again. "Might you know anyone named Maude?"

"Ah, Maude." The man smiled, revealing gaps where he'd lost several teeth. "Down the corner," he said, gesturing and pulling his dog's leash in the process, nearly choking the poor little beast. "Turn left. Honeysuckle Cottage."

"She's alive," Alexandra breathed, hope flooding her brandywine eyes. "Dear God, I hope she knows something that will help us."

"It could be someone else named Maude," Tristan cautioned, that sense of unease growing stronger.

"It isn't. I just know it."

Somehow he also knew it wasn't someone else. And in any case, there was no sense arguing the matter, when in a few minutes they'd know for sure. "Honeysuckle Cottage," he muttered. "That isn't much of a direction."

"The man seemed to think it would do," she said as they turned the corner. "Look! There it is!"

Sure enough, about halfway down the lane stood an old stone cottage wreathed in pale-flowered honeysuckle vines.

No sooner had the curricle rolled to a stop than Alexandra hopped down, basket in hand, and started for the door. Tristan just sat there for a moment, feeling the unease tangle into a knot in his gut.

Finally, he climbed down and followed her. "You're supposed to wait to be handed down," he chided.

"Oh, bosh," she said and knocked on the weathered wood. "There are some things more important than propriety."

How much she had changed since he first met her.

She shifted on her feet. "What's taking her so long? Sweet heaven, I hope she's home. Lizzy said if anyone saw anything that night, it'd have been she."

And suddenly he knew why he'd forgotten Maude. He hadn't forgotten her. He'd simply pushed her clear out of his mind.

She'd been the person closest to his uncle. The person most likely to have seen him if he'd sleepwalked into his uncle's rooms that night.

The door swung open, and Maude stood on the other side, leaning on a cane and looking much like Tristan remembered her. A faded linen dress hung on her slight frame. She'd always seemed so frail she might break.

"Good afternoon, Maude," he said.

Her pale green eyes widened, looking apprehensive. "Lord Hawkridge?"

She knew something. She wouldn't look like that unless she knew something. The knot tightened in Tristan's gut.

He wrapped an arm around Alexandra's shoulders and forced a smile. "This is my wife, Lady Hawkridge."

Alexandra reached into her basket. "Would you care for a lemon puff?"

"No. Thank you." Maude's blue-veined hand went up to pat her gray curls nervously. "Why are you here?"

The knot twisted. "We wish to talk to you," he said. "May we come in for a moment?"

She looked like she wanted to say no, but then turned abruptly, her cane tapping across the wood floor as she led them inside and to a small table. "These are all the chairs I have," she said, her voice wavering.

There were two. And they were rickety. "I'm perfectly content to stand," Tristan said, helping the elderly woman to sit while Alexandra took the second chair. He made a mental note to send the old nurse some decent furniture next week—that was, assuming he wasn't locked up in some prison. He'd been the marquess for less than a day before she'd departed, but that was no excuse for not seeing that a long-term employee was comfortable in her retirement.

Perhaps he'd have done that if he hadn't forgotten her.

Maude held on to her cane, still leaning on it even while she was seated. Alexandra reached across the little table to touch her other hand. "I've been told you were very close to the last marquess," she began gently.

"Y-yes." The old woman's eyes looked everywhere but at her.

"Do you remember anything that happened the night he died?"

"Y-yes."

Tristan stopped breathing.

"Did you see anyone go into his room?" Alexandra continued. "Anyone who might have done him harm?"

"Y-yes."

Alexandra sent Tristan a startled glance—a hopeful glance—before she looked back to Maude expectantly.

No further information seemed to be forthcoming. Tristan thought he'd expire if he didn't breathe. He wished Maude would accuse him already, so he could breathe.

Alexandra's gaze darted to his again before her smooth hand tightened over the wrinkled one. "Who was it, Maude?" she whispered, her eyes flooded with not just hope, but a measure of self-protective doubt.

The cane crashed to the floor as Maude covered her face with her hands. Beneath her cotton dress, her bony shoulders shook with silent, racking sobs.

Terrified and resigned, Tristan crouched beside her chair. "Maude? What is it?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," came a muffled wail through her fingers. "It was a mistake, I swear it."

"Of course it was a mistake, but that doesn't make me any less guilty." Ignoring Alexandra's gasp, he eased Maude's hands away from her face. "Whether intentional or not, I'm still responsible for his death."

His life was over. Or at least it was meaningless, which was the same thing.

"I'm s-sorry," Maude repeated. She stared into space, tears rolling down her parchment cheeks. "It was a mistake."

Except for the painful knot, he felt dead inside. So dead inside he wouldn't have thought he'd have it in him to feel sympathy for her. But she seemed so damned miserable. "What was a mistake, dear lady?"

Her tears flowed faster. "The l-laudanum."

Tristan dug a handkerchief from his pocket. "The laudanum?" His memory flashed on the nearly empty bottle he'd taken from his uncle's rooms and tried to give to Alexandra. You'll want to take only a little, he'd told her. You can overdose on laudanum.

He hadn't thought the knot could tighten more, but it did. He must have poisoned his uncle with that very same bottle.

"I just wanted him to stop hurting." Maude took the proffered white square and dabbed her eyes with it, then balled it in her fist, staring at her hands in her lap. More tears splashed down on them. "H-he was coughing. He couldn't sleep. I gave him too much. Too much. I used all of it." She was babbling so fast Tristan couldn't seem to keep up. "Perhaps I gave it to him twice that night. I didn't intend to. I couldn't remember. I'm old."

"Could you mean…" Her words were confusing. A mist had obscured his brain. He'd stopped breathing again. He took both of Maude's hands. "Do you think you may have accidentally caused my uncle's death?"

She nodded and met his gaze, her eyes reddened. "I should have died instead of him."

"No." He couldn't catch his breath. His vision clouded. His pulse felt thready and weak.

"I told you," Alexandra murmured.

He was innocent. He hadn't killed his uncle, after all.

Relief flowed through him, blessed relief after all these years. He felt a different kind of weakness now, and lightheadedness, too, and giddiness, like Alexandra when she drank too much wine.

Alexandra. She'd had faith in him all along.

"Maude." He swallowed past a lump in his throat. "Will you tell this to the authorities?"

She looked back down at her lap. "Th-they're going to hang me."

"I won't let them." His knees hurt, but he remained crouched there, holding both her hands, when all he wanted was to collapse in relief. "You did your best, didn't you? Always. You cared for my uncle when he was a child, then his children, then him again. No one will hang you for doing the best you could. Everyone makes mistakes."

He heard a little noise from Alexandra and turned to see her. A fat tear rolled down her cheek, cracking his heart.

"They're going to hang me," Maude repeated.

"No." He looked back to the older woman. "I won't allow it. I promise your safety, Maude, if you'll only explain what happened to the authorities."

She stared at her lap. "You promise?"

"I do. No one will hurt you. You can come back to live at Hawkridge, if you'd like. We'll take care of you."

A long moment passed when all Tristan heard was the beat of his own heart pounding in his ears. At last Maude lifted her red-rimmed gaze to meet his, her eyes filled with gratitude and relief of her own.

"I'll talk," she said. "I lied to the sheriff before, but this time I'll tell the truth."

CHAPTER FIFTY

When Maude's door closed behind them, Alexandra and Tris paused on the garden path and turned to each other. And just stood there, looking at each other, for a very long time.

"Alexandra," Tris finally murmured. He took the basket from her hand and set it on the gravel, then cupped her face in both hands. He searched her eyes, rubbing his thumbs beneath them as though gently swiping away tears. "I've never seen you cry before," he said softly.

"I wasn't crying," she said as her eyes glazed, proving her a liar. "It was just that when you said everyone makes mistakes…well, I'm sorry for mine, Tris. I'm sorry I was so obstinate that I drove you away."

Slowly he shook his head. "I'm not sorry you were obstinate. Look where it led. I was too obstinate to see you were right." He shook his head faster, harder. "I even thought Maude was telling me I was guilty."

"Everyone makes mistakes," she reminded him with a watery little chuckle. She blew out a shaky breath. "Goodness, Tris, we did it."

"You did it," he said. "By God, you did it." Then he swept her up to twirl her in a wide circle right there in the cottage's little garden.

Her heart soared. "I told you," she crowed. "I told you that you weren't responsible for your uncle's death." He set her on her feet, where, unable to help herself, she rose to her toes and pulled his head down for a smacking kiss. "I knew you couldn't have hurt him. And you haven't done anything to hurt me, either."

"They were accidents. You were right about that, too." He yanked her close and squeezed her so hard she felt every one of her unhealed bruises.

"Oof!" she said with another laugh. "Maybe now you have hurt me."

"I'm sorry." He set her carefully away and bent to retrieve her basket. "But I've never been so happy to hear I told you so in my entire life."

He led her back to the curricle and helped her climb up. Then he clambered up beside her and pulled her close for a kiss so long and thorough, it completely stole her breath.

"Let's go home," he said, lifting the reins.

The curricle jerked as they pulled away. She unwrapped their luncheon, spreading the napkin over her lap with all of Mrs. Pawley's offerings. She was starving. She couldn't remember ever being so hungry.

"Everything is going to be so wonderful," she said, taking a big bite out of a chicken leg. "All of society will have to apologize to you, and my sisters are both going to marry dukes."

"Marquesses aren't good enough?" he asked with a raised brow.

She slapped a chicken leg into his open hand. "I suppose marquesses will do."

They laughed and ate all the way home, talking about their future. Tris still hadn't said he loved her, but she really didn't care. She was certain he did, and if it took him ten years to admit it, she would just wait.

"I've never been so happy," she said as they headed up Hawkridge Hall's drive. "I never thought I could marry you, and now look at us!"

The whole world seemed bright in her elation. The sun sparkled on the Thames, the sky had never been a more brilliant blue, and birds trilled in the trees along the drive.

Tris was more cautiously optimistic. "I'm thrilled to know I'm in the clear, but let's not celebrate until the authorities have taken Maude's statement. At the rate the law moves, she could die before they get out to Nutgrove."

"Dear God—"

"I was jesting," he said with a grin that would have been annoying if it wasn't so wickedly charming. He pulled up before the steps. "That old woman will probably outlive us both. Besides, I'm going to find the sheriff right now and drag him there directly. But it won't do to celebrate prematurely. Let me take care of tying up the details, and we can celebrate tonight."

Tonight. His voice, deep with meaning, sent a tremor rippling through her. Passing the reins to a groom, he lightly jumped to the gravel and came around to hand her down.

She rose, ducking her head to avoid the hood and sticking her low bodice in his face in the process. His gaze lingered there for a moment, and she wondered whether he was staring at his cameo or her bosom. But her breasts tingled as though his eyes had touched her.

A faint smile curved his lips before he grinned up at her and held out his hand. "You waited this time."

"I would wait forever for you, Tris."

"I can hardly wait for you," he murmured, forgoing her hand to grasp her under her arms and swing her down. "Don't tell anyone the news—I want to announce it together tonight, after everything is settled."

He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then finally settled on her mouth for a long, satisfying moment.

Drawing back, he smoothed a stray curl from her face. "You must be exhausted, considering your injuries. Go inside and have a nap while I take care of getting Maude's statement. I may even bring her back with me."

He pulled her close once more, running his hands down to her drawerless bottom as he claimed her mouth for another kiss.

While her senses were still spinning, he reached back into the curricle for her silver basket and pushed it into her hands. "Go, will you? Before I'm tempted to go upstairs with you."

She watched him climb back up and drive away before she turned to go into the house, swinging her basket as she headed upstairs and into their bedroom.

She was exhausted.

Peggy seemed to be nowhere about, so she kicked off her shoes and burrowed, fully dressed, under the covers, where she dreamed of her wonderful new life while her husband secured their future.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Alexandra was still snug in bed when she heard the door quietly close, followed by the clack of an engaging lock.

She opened her eyes and yawned. Light streamed through the windows, and she hadn't expected her husband home until dark. Everything must have gone well.

"Tris?" she queried, rolling languidly to face the door. She couldn't wait to see him.

But instead she saw Peggy.

Holding a gun.

For a moment, that was all that registered: Peggy holding a gun. It was surreal, really. Why would Peggy be holding a gun?

Then Alexandra's sleep-fogged brain cleared a little, and she bolted upright in the bed.

"I'm sorry," Peggy said, walking closer. She hadn't aimed the gun; she just held it in her right hand. But the hand shook. She was nervous. Which made Alexandra more nervous than she already was, which was very nervous indeed. Her heart was hammering against her ribs and threatening to climb out her throat.

Her maid was walking toward her, holding a gun.

And then Peggy raised it, and Alexandra was staring down the barrel of a gun. A gun pointed at her.

It was, quite undoubtedly, the most frightening moment of her life.

She stared down that barrel, thinking it the longest, darkest, most menacing thing she'd ever seen.

But she couldn't just sit there staring at it. She had to get her mouth to work. She had to say something. "Y-you cannot shoot that," she stammered desperately, still wondering why Peggy had a gun. "It'll be heard. You'll be caught."

"But my mother won't," Peggy responded through clenched teeth. "And at this point, that's all that matters."

"Your mother?" Alexandra squeaked, inching toward the edge of the bed. Peggy was too old to still have a mother. Or at least she'd never mentioned a mother. What in heaven's name was she talking about, and why did she have a gun, and would that hand ever stop shaking?

And then something clicked in her head, just as her feet hit the floor. "Maude is your mother?"

"Yes," Peggy gritted out, and she brought her second hand up to steady the first, and her shaking finger moved toward the trigger.

Alexandra didn't think anymore. She just sprang, one palm hitting the maid's chest while her other hand grasped her wrists and forced them up toward the ceiling. A sharp bang rang out, the recoil making them both fall as plaster rained down on top of them.

Peggy dropped the gun. Or rather, it skittered from her hands and went clear under the big bed.

Relief sang through Alexandra's veins. The bullet was spent. Peggy couldn't shoot her anymore, at least not without reloading. And first she'd have to get the gun, which was under the bed. All Alexandra had to do was get out of the room. She'd run for help.

She scrambled up and dashed for the door, reaching for the key.

"Oh, no, you don't," she heard just before hands clenched painfully on her shoulders, wrenched her back, then bodily tossed her on the bed.

Whoever would have guessed Peggy was so strong? Alexandra twisted on the mattress to see her, then blinked, her heart racing even faster than before. This wasn't Peggy, not the Peggy she knew. Or thought she knew. Peggy didn't have such a deranged look in her eyes.

And this deranged woman was coming after her.

There was no way to get to the door without going through Peggy. Alexandra slid off the far side of the bed and went under it.

It was dark, and she didn't fit very well, but she wiggled and wiggled some more, forcing her way under the bed, straining to reach the gun. She didn't think Peggy had supplies to reload, but she wasn't going to take any chances. Her heart beat so loudly it seemed to be thundering in her ears, ricocheting around the cramped space. If she couldn't get the gun, maybe at least under here she'd be safe from Peggy, and Peggy's crazy eyes, and Peggy's strong, hard hands.

A fist started pounding on the door. And then another, and another, all accompanied by wild, angry barking.

"Lady Hawkridge!" Mrs. Oliver called. "Was that a shot?"

"Are you all right?" one of the footmen asked.

"Open up!" That was Vincent, followed by a vicious kick at the door.

Alexandra had warned Peggy people would hear. But being right brought no satisfaction. The doors at Hawkridge were thick, and the hinges were heavy, and there was nothing Vincent or anyone else could do.

"Oh, no, you don't," Alexandra heard, then felt Peggy tugging on her foot, dragging her backward. She yanked her ankle from the maid's grasp and wiggled farther under the bed, trying to regain lost ground.

The pounding on the door grew louder as more servants arrived, adding voices and fists to the commotion. Alexandra stretched toward the gun, almost touching it. Almost.

Then a cackle echoed under the bed, and a hand reached out and snatched the gun from her grasp.

Peggy. She'd scooted in from the other side.

And now she was pointing the gun at Alexandra under the bed.

It isn't loaded, Alexandra told herself, reassuring herself, forcing herself to breathe. There was nothing to do but back out, wiggling in reverse as fast as she possibly could, which wasn't nearly fast enough.

"I'm going to get you," Peggy said. "I am not going to let you take my mother."

Alexandra kept wiggling. Her heart was pounding, and her blood was pumping, and she was gulping spastically and trembling all over. But Peggy wasn't trying to reload the gun. What the devil did she want with the blasted thing anyway, then?

Rex's barking seemed to be getting even louder. "Lady Hawkridge!" the servants shouted. "Let us in!"

If only she could. She and Peggy rose from beneath the bed at the same time, on opposite sides, and as Peggy rounded the bed, coming toward Alexandra with her arm raised, it became clear what she was planning to do with the gun.

Hit Alexandra with it. Very hard, if Alexandra could judge by the maniacal look in the woman's eyes.

Panic rising in her throat, Alexandra scrambled backward, frantically glancing around. A glint of silver caught her eye. As Peggy bore down on her, she snatched her sterling basket off the table and bashed it down on the woman's dratted, curly head.

The maid collapsed like a sack of flour.

Alexandra rushed across the room to unlock the door, her trembling fingers slipping off the key. Again and again. Finally, she managed to turn it. But as she began to twist the knob, she heard a moan behind her and whirled.

Peggy was rising up from the floor.

The maid's eyes—unreasoning green eyes—radiated pure hate. One too-strong hand flexed, as though she were preparing to clench it around Alexandra's throat. Amazingly—petrifyingly—her other hand still held the gun.

With an animal-like growl, she gained her feet and rushed headlong.

At that moment, behind Alexandra—who indeed seemed petrified and powerless to do anything except gape in terror—the door burst open. And Rex bounded in, straight for Peggy.

His huge paws came up and knocked the maid to the ground, and before she could as much as move, he'd draped his body full on top of her.

The gun thudded from Peggy's fingers to the floor. Pinned by two hundred pounds of dog, she couldn't budge. In fact, from the looks of it, she couldn't even draw breath. Not that Alexandra particularly cared. As the servants poured in to surround her, she quietly sank to the floor and just sat there breathing.

The staff erupted in excited babbles, Peggy regained the use of her lungs enough to howl, and Rex, staying put, was barking up a storm. But Alexandra just sat there and breathed.

Until she heard a "Holy Christ" and glanced over, through many livery-clad legs, to see Tris standing in the doorway.

He looked whiter than Juliana's nightgown.

"What happened here?" he husked out.

"Peggy." The liveried legs parted as Alexandra crawled through them, making her way toward her husband. "Maude is Peggy's mother. She thought I wasn't going to see Maude until tomorrow, and she was trying to stop me."

"With a gun?" Tris stared horrified at the pistol on the floor.

"The bullet is already spent." Peggy's hands had seemed as much a weapon as the gun, anyway.

He pulled Alexandra to stand and wrapped her tight in his arms. "Maude is Peggy's mother?" he asked in a dazed tone, apparently just registering her words.

"I am," Maude said, stepping out from behind him.

The room hushed as she walked slowly toward her daughter, her cane clicking as she went. Even Rex shut his big mouth and remained quiet.

"I was but eighteen when I arrived here at Hawkridge," Maude said in a flat voice, as though she had rehearsed this many times. The rhythmic clicks accompanied her resolute words. "I considered I'd landed in heaven when I was offered a position as nanny to the marquess's son. But at twenty the head groom raped me, and I landed in hell instead."

The clicking stopped as she stood there, gazing down at her daughter pinned beneath the massive dog.

"Had the master known I was with child," she continued, "I would have been turned out without a reference. I was a mite plumper in those days, but at seven months I was forced to feign illness and return home. After birthing the child, I left her to my mam to raise. When she reached the age of fourteen, I found a position for her here, but we never told anyone we were related." She heaved a great, shuddering sigh. "My Peggy, what have you done?"

Maude's eyes rolled back in her head as she collapsed in a rather graceful heap.

"I tried to scare her into leaving," Peggy answered her mother's still form, "but she just wouldn't, the stubborn chit."

Ernest knelt down to feel Maude's blue-veined wrist for a pulse. "She's only fainted," he reported.

Everyone released a collective breath.

"Excellent," Tris said. "Please move her to the bed and then go fetch the sheriff. The man is earning his keep this day."

He was still holding Alexandra. While they waited for the authorities, he finally released her and took her hand instead, clutching tight as they told their rapt audience all about Maude and his uncle's accidental poisoning.

Maude woke from her faint, rolled over, and went to sleep. Rex remained sitting on Peggy until the sheriff arrived and hauled her away. It seemed hours before the servants finally drifted back to their jobs, leaving Alexandra and Tris alone in their room.

Well, except for a slumbering Maude and a slobbering mastiff.

Tris was still holding Alexandra's hand. "Good dog," he told Rex, then turned to her. "See, I told you he didn't hate you."

"He saved my life," she said in wonder.

"There's no need to give him quite that much credit. There were twenty-odd servants waiting to rescue you if he hadn't. They all love you, Alexandra. And I love you, too."

"You…what?" Had he really said those words?

He glanced again at Rex, then at Maude still in their bed. With a sigh, he drew Alexandra from the room and down the corridor. "I love you," he repeated quite clearly.

And with that, he pulled her into the Queen's Bedchamber, used one booted foot to slam the door shut in Rex's face, and backed her up against it, crushing his mouth to hers.

The kiss was wildly possessive, a blatant statement of ownership that weakened her knees and stole her breath. And through all of it, she heard Tris's words repeating in her head.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

She'd known it, but she hadn't known how much it would mean to hear it. Tears sprang to her eyes.

"You cannot cry now," he admonished, his hands working the buttons on the back of her dress. "I cannot ravish a sobbing woman." He kissed her chin and her throat, nibbling his way down toward her bosom. "I love you. Have I told you I love you? You may not have saved my life, but you rescued it from oblivion, you stubborn chit."

Wrestling his coat down his arms, she laughed. "I did it for myself as much as for you. I'm a selfish chit as well."

"You're an irredeemable chit," he said, tossing his cravat to floor. He started lowering her dress, then stopped and brushed at it. "How the devil did you get so dusty?"

"I scooted under the bed to hide from Peggy."

"I love you," he said and laughed, either finding it funny she'd scooted under the bed, or perhaps from nervous relief—she wasn't sure which. And she didn't really care. She felt free and easy with him for the first time ever, and that mattered so much more.

"I shall have to have a talk with Mrs. Oliver," she said, looking down at herself in disgust. "There is no excuse for such muck to be under the beds."

He laughed even harder. "I love you," he said.

"Where did Peggy get a gun?" she suddenly wondered.

Tris shook his head. "She nearly killed you," he murmured, still looking rather pale.

"I guess she did." Alexandra took a bracing breath. "Are you going to tell me you told me so?"

He shook his head again, appearing dazed.

"How can someone named Peggy have done so many terrible things?" she asked. "It's such a sweet, innocuous name."

That seemed to jar him out of his stupor. "I love you," he said, and this time the laugh rumbled in his chest as he held her close for a long moment. Then he pushed her dusty dress down and off, stepping back to view her in the sheer blush-toned chemise.

It seemed like forever since she'd put it on before the "picnic." So very much had happened since then.

His voice went lower and husky. "That chemise would tempt a monk, my lady marchioness. Wherever did you get something so wicked?"

She grinned as she unbuttoned his waistcoat. "Will it also tempt a marquess?"

"Hmm. I think it just might." He wrapped her in another hug, squeezing her so tight she groaned in protest. "Sorry," he said. "I seem to keep forgetting you're still bruised. But that's because I love you. I think I will tell you I love you every five minutes for the rest of our lives."

"That won't be necessary," she told him with an amused smile. "But I'm glad you finally figured it out."

He sobered, skimming the backs of his fingers alongside her face. A hush seemed to fall over the room.

He tilted her chin up, meeting her gaze, capturing it in the intense silver of his own. "I couldn't admit it before. Not even to myself. I was too afraid of losing you. I thought I would lose you when you chose to leave, but instead I almost lost you when Peg—"

"Shh," she said. "I know."

And they slowed down then, removing the rest of each other's clothing with the reverence the moment demanded. There were times that called for wild passion, but this was a time that called for sweet, cherishing love. When Tris finally laid Alexandra on the bed and joined his body with hers, tears came to her eyes for the third time in a single day.

"I love you," they whispered together. And they soared together to a wonderland of their own making, a place they would make together time after time in the months and years to come.

Sometime later, sprawled on his back with Alexandra lying on top of him, Tris looked up at the gaudy turquoise and gold canopy. "I think I like the Queen's Bedchamber after all," he said.

EPILOGUE

CHOCOLATE PUFFS

Beat the white part of a good-sized egg till very stiff and then add a handful of sugar. To this add finely grated chocolate and then put small spoonfuls on a flat buttered pan with an area between them. Bake in an oven not overly warm for an hour or until the puffs are very dry.

Everyone loves chocolate, so these are perfect to take on a family picnic!
—Anne, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1773

Two weeks later, on the peaceful rise overlooking Griffin's vineyard, in the last sweet days of summer, Tristan and Alexandra picnicked with her family once again on the red blanket. Her siblings and cousins gasped as she told the adventurous story of her quest for truth and justice.

At least, she made it sound adventurous. Griffin suspected it had been rather more dangerous than she was letting on—and he wasn't happy about that.

Brooding, he watched Claire lift the silver basket and turn it in her hands. "This is gorgeous. But it's dented."

"In two places," Alexandra agreed. "Peggy's hard head left quite a mark."

"I can fix it," Claire offered, having taken up an old family pastime of making jewelry.

Alexandra smiled. "I think not. I like it just the way it is."

Apparently still mulling over the tale, Corinna reached for another of the chocolate puffs Alexandra had brought. "So Peggy offered to make that list in order to control who was on it?"

"Exactly," Alexandra said. "There were others who knew Maude was alive, even if they didn't know Peggy was her daughter."

"And Tristan hadn't done any of those things while sleepwalking," Elizabeth said, her green eyes wide.

"Of course he hadn't." Alexandra scooted closer to her husband and leaned dreamily back against him. "I knew he hadn't all along."

"Have you sleepwalked since then?" Juliana asked him.

"Not once," Tristan said.

"And I'm sure he won't ever again," Alexandra declared.

"I wouldn't wager on that," her husband disagreed wryly, tilting her face up and back for a quick upside-down kiss. "Something tells me this irredeemable chit is likely to cause more tension sometime in the future."

Everyone laughed. Except for Griffin. He was glad to see his sister happy, but that didn't alleviate his misgivings.

Alexandra frowned at his clenched jaw. "What's wrong with you?"

"You should have come home," he gritted out. "When all that was happening, you should have come home."

"That's what Peggy wanted, but Hawkridge is my home now." She exchanged a glance with Tristan, apparently realizing Griffin was as disappointed with his friend for not making her come home as he was with her for not doing so on her own. Extricating herself from Tristan's embrace, she rose to her feet. "Let's walk," she said to Griffin, taking his arm to pull him up before he could protest.

"I could have lost you," he said as they headed down the rise to the vineyard.

"Have you not figured out yet that you're never going to lose any of us, Griffin? Not even after we're all married and gone from Cainewood. You're stuck worrying about us forever," she said all too truthfully and cheerfully.

They walked for a few minutes, sharing a healing, companionable silence that went beyond words. When they reached the vineyard, they headed into the middle of it, toward where Rachael wandered in the distance.

"What's wrong with her?" Alexandra asked.

"I don't know. Would you care to ask her?"

"I'll let you ask her."

"Hmmph."

She bent to touch a minuscule grape. "Your vines are bearing fruit!"

A ridiculous sense of pride washed over him. "Nothing worthy of wine yet, but it's something to celebrate."

"We'll toast your success with Hawkridge's wine in a few minutes." She wandered the row, still heading toward Rachael. "Are they English sweet-water grapes?"

"They're Rhenish." A few months ago he wouldn't have known the variety, but the vineyard truly felt like his now. "Since when do you know anything about grapes?"

"I have a vineyard now, too, you know. It's my responsibility to learn everything about Hawkridge."

His sister always had been rather responsible. But she was changing, Griffin thought. He couldn't put his finger on how, but he knew it was for the better.

"You should have come home," he repeated doggedly, "but I must thank you for persevering. Because of you, Juliana and Corinna have bright futures."

"Thank you for allowing me to marry Tris," she returned, then shot him a grin that was much more impish than the old Alexandra. "And for the excellent advice you gave me the night before my wedding."

He felt his face heat and suspected he was as red as the blanket on the hill. "I think I shall talk to Rachael now," he said and walked off.

Rachael turned as he approached, her cerulean eyes laced with unmistakable pain. "Leave me alone," she said miserably. "I came out here to be alone."

"My sister sent me to talk to you."

"Do you always listen to your sisters?"

"Only when I agree with what they say." He stepped closer and trailed a fingertip down her wan face. "Tell me, Rachael. What's wrong?"

"Oh, hell," she said, then pressed herself into his shirtfront and sobbed.

He patted her awkwardly, feeling her hot tears wet through to his skin. Even miserable, she felt entirely too good in his arms. He sent a murderous glance back toward Alexandra before patting Rachael some more. "Whatever it is," he said soothingly—at least, he hoped it sounded soothing—"it cannot be that bad."

"I'm not a Chase," she whispered through a sob.

"What?" His hands froze on her slim back. "How can that be?"

"I found a letter." She pulled away, not looking quite so beautiful as she swiped at her reddened eyes. "This morning, when I was clearing out the master suite for Noah's homecoming. It was from my mother to my father. From before I was born."

He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket, and she took it and blew her nose. Noisily and not prettily.

Good, he thought. She was getting less sultry and tempting by the minute. "What did the letter say?"

"It said…it said she would always be grateful to him for wedding her even though she was a widow already with child. She prayed I would be a girl so he wouldn't be stuck with another man's son as his heir. She—"

"Did she say she loved him?" he interrupted pointedly.

She nodded. "But—"

"They were in love, Rachael. Anyone could see it just looking at the two of them. Don't you ever doubt it."

She shrugged, following that with a long, sorrowful sniff. "But he wasn't my father. Whoever my real father was, he wasn't a Chase."

"Did the man who raised you ever, for one minute, treat you as anything but his daughter?"

"No." The tears continued to flow as she shook her head. "But I'm not a Chase. I don't know what I am if I'm not a Chase."

"You're Rachael," he said. "Noah and Claire and Elizabeth are still your brother and sisters. You still live at Greystone. Nothing has changed. What's in a name? It will change when you marry, anyway."

But her family name wouldn't change if she married him. And he was aware, quite suddenly and uncomfortably, that the cousin standing before him wasn't actually his cousin.

Thankfully, she hadn't seemed to make that connection. "You're right," she said, straightening her shoulders and taking a big breath.

She didn't look like she really believed him, but she looked like she wanted to believe him. And the shaky little smile she aimed at him had nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with family comforting each other.

"Thank you," she added. "I don't know when you became so reasonable, but I do appreciate your calm, considered approach."

If only she knew. He hadn't been calm and considered since inheriting the marquessate. All in all, he'd felt calmer on campaign with the enemy bearing down.

Panicked would describe his current state better.

He had two more sisters to marry off, an estate that came with entirely too much responsibility, and now a cousin who wasn't his cousin.

And since she'd stopped crying, she was looking sultry again, damn it. Those huge, amazing eyes would bring any man to his knees.

In fact, his knees seemed to be aching right now. "I am glad I could help," he said stiffly.

His voice wasn't the only thing that was stiff.

"I think…" she said, licking her lips, "I think I'm ready to go back to the others."

"Thank God," he said under his breath.

"Hmm?"

"I'm thankful to God that you feel much better."

She cocked her head at him, no doubt remembering he'd never been a man given to prayer, his frequent use of the Lord's name notwithstanding. But she followed him back down the row, and for that he was thankful, too. Mostly because she was behind him, which meant he didn't have to watch her swaying derrière.

It was a good thing she'd said she'd never marry him, because the last thing he needed was a wife.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear Readers,

Do you know any sleepwalkers? Two of my children occasionally sleepwalk, so I know firsthand that it doesn't look as scary in real life as it's usually portrayed in movies. Sleepwalkers look and act quite awake—if a little bit addled—but they never remember anything of their escapades in the morning.

Much mystery has been attached to sleepwalking, yet it's really no more mysterious than dreaming. The main difference between the two is that a sleepwalker's brainwave patterns are a combination of the type produced during deep sleep mixed with awake patterns. This second type of brainwave reflects waking behaviors like walking and talking while the person is still asleep enough so that he's not aware of what's happening and isn't forming memories of his actions. In adults, sleepwalking is most likely to occur during times of emotional stress and usually stops when the source of anxiety disappears.

Can people really initiate sex in their sleep? The answer is a resounding yes! Researchers have named this phenomenon "sexomnia" and consider it a distinct variation of sleepwalking. As to whether sleepwalkers can be dangerous, although violence while sleepwalking isn't common, sleepwalkers aren't allowed in the armed services of the United States, in part because of the threat they pose to themselves and others when they have access to weapons and are unaware of what they're doing while asleep. There are at least twenty documented cases where defense against a murder charge was "I was sleepwalking and therefore, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I was not myself at the time I killed him and so deserve acquittal." The argument has proved successful more than once.

If you're musically inclined, you may know Alexandra's favorite piece of music, Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14, as the "Moonlight Sonata." It wasn't given that name until after Alexandra's story, though. Beethoven wrote the sonata in 1801 and dedicated it to the seventeen-year-old Countess Giulietta Guicciardi, with whom he was said to be in love. In 1832, several years after Beethoven's death, the poet Ludwig Rellstab compared the music to moonlight shining on Lake Lucerne. Since then, it's been known as the "Moonlight Sonata."

Tristan's hydraulic ram pump was invented by a Frenchman, Joseph-Michel Montgolfier, in 1796. In 1821, Ackermann's Repository, a very popular magazine, published an article with instructions on how to build a ram pump, calling it "A simple Hydraulic Engine, which will raise Water to a very considerable elevation, without manual force or assistance." The article included engravings very similar to the drawings Tristan sketched in this book, which you can see on my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com. Ram pumps are still built and used today.

Unfortunately, Tristan was too optimistic when he predicted that slavery would soon end in Jamaica. Slavery wasn't abolished until nineteen years after this story, in August 1834, and, as he feared, the transition from a slave economy to one based on wage labor proved difficult.

Although gas lighting is often thought of as a Victorian invention, it actually came into use during Regency times. It was developed by a Scot named William Murdock. The story is told that, as a child, Murdock heated coal in his mother's kettle and lit the gas that came out of the spout. In 1794, he heated coal in a closed iron vessel in his garden and piped the resulting gas into the house. That was the first practical system of gas lighting to be used anywhere in the world. In 1805, gas lighting gained public awareness when the Prince of Wales (later the Prince Regent) had it installed in Carlton House, his London home. Two years later, gas lamps were installed in Pall Mall, the first street to be lit by gas. The UK's first gasworks was built in 1812 to light the City of Westminster, and 288 miles of pipes had been laid in London by 1819, supplying more than 51,000 gaslights.

Most of the homes in my books are inspired by real places you can visit. Cainewood Castle is loosely modeled on Arundel Castle in West Sussex. It's been home to the Dukes of Norfolk and their families, the Fitzalan Howards, since 1243, save for a short period during the Civil War. Although the family still resides there, portions of their magnificent home are open to visitors Sundays through Fridays from April to October.

Hawkridge Hall was modeled on Ham House, a National Trust property located just outside of London. Known as the most well-preserved Stuart home in England, Ham House was built in 1610 and remodeled 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 Saturdays through Wednesdays from April to October.

Those of you who have read my previous books may have recognized Cainewood Castle or some of the people in the old portraits on the walls. Perhaps one of the nineteenth-century Chases reminded you of a Chase from the seventeenth century. And if you've read Lily, you know why there's always a mastiff named Rex at Hawkridge Hall, even though the characters in this book didn't! In creating this trilogy, I had a fabulous time writing stories for the Regency-era descendants of my Restoration-era characters, and I hope you enjoyed reading the first book of the three.

To see pictures and learn more about the real places in Lost in Temptation, please visit my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com, where you can also enter a contest, sign up for my newsletter, and find modern versions of all the recipes in this book. Alexandra particularly seemed to like puffs, didn't she? She made three different flavors! If you try any of the recipes, I hope you'll e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com and tell me which sweet you enjoy most.

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 Lost in Temptation—thank you for reading!

Till next time,

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks:

To this book's editor, Laura Cifelli, for so cheerfully taking on another author and helping to make this story the best it could be.

To best friend and fellow historical author Glynnis Campbell, for calling around Napa Valley to find the elusive grape-growing information I needed (thank goodness I have such a good friend, since I'm allergic to the telephone).

To Sara Rodger, librarian at Arundel Castle, for tracking down and sending me nineteenth-century floor plans (twice…thanks to a less-than-reliable postal system).

To Brent Royal-Gordon, for developing the awesome Mac app I use to format my e-books (watch for Novelty Press, coming to the Mac App Store soon!), and for designing my award-winning website.

To Jack Royal-Gordon, for maintaining said website without complaining—even though I think of something new I want there at least once a week.

To Jack, Brent, Blake, and Devonie, for being happy I sold another trilogy even though that meant I'd be disappearing back into my deadline cave.

To my parents, Herb and Joan Royal, as always, for everything.

To my official First Readers, Ken and Dawn Royal, Herb and Joan Royal, and Taire Martyn, for honest first impressions.

To my Awesome Publicity Engine—Rita Adair-Robison, Debbie Alexander, Dick Alexander, Joyce Basch, Alison Bellach, Diana Brandmeyer, Carol Carter, Elaine Ecuyer, Dale Gordon, Darren Holmquist, Catherine Hope, Taire Martyn, Sandy Mills, Karen Nesbitt, DeeDee Perkins, Jack Poole, Jerry Royal, Ken Royal, Stacey Royal, Wendi Royal, and Diena Simmons—for all their hard work on my behalf.

To my incredible Street Team (you can see all their names on my website) for all of their enthusiastic support.

And to all my readers, whose wonderful letters, kind words, Facebook posts, and tweets make me want to sit down every day and write.

Thank you, one and all!

For my best friend and fellow writer
Glynnis Campbell,
because she hates stories that include dancing at balls,
so I couldn't resist dedicating this one to her.

Thanks for your friendship—it means more than I can say.

CHAPTER ONE

The Foundling Hospital, London
Saturday, June 8, 1816

Lady Juliana Chase's family often accused her of looking for trouble. Of sticking her nose where it didn't belong. Of exaggerating—if not outright imagining—other people's problems and sorrows and miseries.

But she would swear she'd never seen anything quite so sad in her life.

Upstairs in the Foundling Hospital's picture gallery, she stared through the window down into the courtyard. There, arranged in six neat, regimented lines, a hundred or more young girls performed calisthenics, resignation written on their faces. In all of her twenty-two years, Juliana couldn't remember ever feeling that grim.

"William Hogarth was a genius."

Sighing, she turned from the window to see her younger sister scrutinizing the art on the gallery's pale green walls. "I thought you preferred the Dutch masters."

"I do," Corinna said. "But look at the characters in this painting."

The work was titled The March of the Guards to Finchley, and the people depicted were, indeed, characters. Humor, rowdiness, and disorder abounded. "The drummer looks quite amused," Juliana said, swiveling back to look out the window.

The painting seemed a complete contrast to the figures outside.

Miss Emily Neville, Juliana's eight-year-old next-door neighbor, stood gazing through the glass beside her. "The girls don't appear to be ill. So why are they in hospital?"

"Hospital is an old word that originally meant 'guesthouse,'" Miss Strickland, the battle-axe of a woman assigned to shepherd visitors through the orphanage, explained in her no-nonsense way. "This is a charitable institution for children whose mothers couldn't keep them."

"My mother died." Still gazing outdoors, Emily absentmindedly raised a hand to stroke a slim, olive green snake that rested upon her shoulders. "May I play with the girls?"

Ranging in age from about five to perhaps fourteen, the children all had identical haircuts and wore aprons of stiff, unbleached linen over brown serge dresses. Juliana smoothed her palms over her own soft yellow skirts. "I'm afraid your snake might scare them."

"The girls aren't playing." Miss Strickland crossed her arms across her ample bosom. "They're exercising. Outdoor exercise is advocated for maximum health. And you couldn't play with them in any case, young lady, with or without that horrid creature."

"Herman isn't horrid," Emily said, slipping her hand into Juliana's. "He's just a common grass snake. Can't you tell by the black bars along his sides and the yellow collar behind his head? He's absolutely harmless, I assure you."

Juliana hid a smile. My, such a vocabulary for a girl of eight. Emily certainly was articulate.

But carrying a snake around was just not done.

Emily was Juliana's latest project, and Juliana was sure—positively sure—that with a bit of patience she could turn the girl into a perfect little lady. A few more outings with Herman ought to convince the child that the creature wasn't welcome in public.

She squeezed Emily's hand and turned back to Miss Strickland. "Do the girls ever play?"

"Of course they do," Miss Strickland said. "For an hour every Sunday." As though suddenly remembering her duty—principally to encourage donations—she stretched her lips in a smile that appeared rather forced. "Are you ladies enjoying your visit to the gallery?"

"Very much." Corinna moved to view the next painting. "George Lambert," she breathed. An artist herself, she'd suggested this day's outing to the Foundling Hospital's gallery. "What a lovely scene."

Mr. Lambert's picture was lovely, but Juliana couldn't peruse the painted people for long. Not when there were real people—disadvantaged children—to consider.

"What do the foundlings do all day?" she asked. "If they don't play?"

Miss Strickland squared her shoulders and began reciting by rote. "They rise at six and prepare for the day, the older girls dressing the younger children, the boys pumping water and such. At half past seven they breakfast, and at half past eight they begin school. At one o'clock they dine and return to school from two until dusk." She paused for a much-needed breath. "After supper, those not employed about the buildings are instructed in singing the Foundling Hymns and anthems, and in their catechism. At eight they go to bed."

What a life. Thinking about her own days and nights filled with parties and shopping and dancing, Juliana swallowed a lump in her throat. Still, the children looked healthy, warmly clothed, and well fed—which she supposed was more than could be said for much of London's youth.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"Certainly, my lady. We are always pleased to accept monetary donations."

Juliana knew that was one of the purposes of the gallery. Popular artists donated paintings and sculpture, a scheme that not only gave the artists a chance to cement their social positions through well-publicized acts of charity, but also ensured that their work would be seen by those most wealthy and aristocratic—exactly the sort of people who might commission works of art for themselves and be persuaded to become patrons of the Hospital.

It was a most satisfactory arrangement for all concerned. But unfortunately Juliana hadn't the option to become a patroness at present. While it was true that her late father had provided a substantial dowry, and she wasn't in any way deprived—quite the opposite, in fact—as an unmarried woman she had no money of her own, other than a small allowance granted by her brother, Griffin. "I cannot donate significant funds," she said apologetically.

Miss Strickland aimed a rather disbelieving look down her knife-edged nose, pointedly skimming her gaze over Juliana's fashionable dress.

"I cannot," Juliana repeated. "But I should like to do something." She could ask Griffin to donate, of course—and she would. But she wanted to do something herself. "Perhaps I could make clothing for the children." Surely her allowance would cover the fabric.

"The children have no need of clothing. They wear uniforms, as you've seen."

Juliana had seen the boys eating luncheon in their dining room, all wearing white linen shirts with military-style suits made of the same brown serge as the girls' dresses. "But someone has to make the uniforms."

"The girls make and repair them during their sewing lessons."

"Then perhaps I can make treats," she suggested. "The ladies in my family are rather renowned for our sweets."

"The children are all fed a plain, wholesome diet. Sweets aren't allowed except on very special occasions. However, food does account for a large proportion of the Hospital's budget, so your monetary donation would be much appreciated." Before Juliana could repeat that she had no money to give, Miss Strickland continued. "This is a reception day. Perhaps seeing some infants might change your mind."

Though Juliana knew nothing could change her mind, she loved babies and could scarcely wait to have one of her own. "We should very much like to see the infants," she said, drawing Emily toward the door.

"I'm not finished looking," Corinna said, finally moving to view the next painting.

The battle-axe cast her a speculative glance. "Well, then, the horrid snake can stay with you."

"Herman isn't horrid!" Emily said, pulling her hand from Juliana's. "If Herman stays, I shall stay." She marched over to take Corinna's hand instead. "There's an infant right here in this picture."

Corinna nodded her dark head. "It's Andrea Casali's Adoration of the Magi."

Juliana would never understand how anyone could stare at a single painting for so long. Two minutes with any painting, and she was finished. But then, she'd never been as interested in things as she'd been in people. "What's a reception day?" she asked, following the battle-axe from the room.

Miss Strickland led her down a corridor. "On the second Saturday of every month, mothers are invited to bring their babies for possible admission."

"Possible?"

"They must meet specific criteria. An acceptable candidate must be under twelve months of age, the mother's first child, and healthy, so as not to risk infecting other children. In addition, although only illegitimate offspring are admitted, the mother must establish her good character. A secondary purpose of the Hospital, you see, is the restoration of the mother to work and a life of virtue. Some children are the result of rape, but most petitions come from women who claim to have been seduced with promises of marriage and then deserted when they became pregnant. In such cases, many mothers can avoid disgrace and find employment only if they don't have to care for their children."

"A sad truth," Juliana said, her heart hurting at the thought of women being forced to give up their babies.

Miss Strickland opened a door. "The Committee Room," she whispered.

And Juliana's hurting heart broke clear in two.

Inside the elegant chamber, a queue of young mothers clutched their infants tightly, the expressions on their faces a mixture of anguish and hope. Their simple cloaks and aprons were a poignant contrast to the silk gowns of a few fashionable lady patronesses who'd come to observe the spectacle.

And what a spectacle it was.

As Juliana watched, a young woman was invited to the front, where a well-dressed man held out a cloth bag. Shifting her whimpering baby, the woman reached a trembling hand into the bag and pulled out a little red ball. She swallowed hard and, gripping the ball in her white-knuckled fist, stepped off to join a small group of mothers and babies huddled at one side.

Abandoning the battle-axe, Juliana walked over to join the other spectators. "What does the ball mean?" she asked in a whisper.

A tall, middle-aged woman answered in kindly tones. "The system is called balloting. These mothers have already been screened and deemed acceptable. But the Governors can accept only ten infants at a time, and many more qualified mothers wish placement for their children. Balloting is the fairest method of allocating places."

As she finished her explanation, another young woman drew a ball—a black one—and dropped it to the floor, sudden tears spilling down her cheeks as she ran from the room, taking her baby with her.

"Black is bad?" Juliana asked.

"Mothers who draw black balls are immediately turned out of the Hospital. A white ball means the baby will be examined and admitted if it is healthy. Mothers who draw red balls are invited to wait to see whether any babies are refused admittance, in which case they are given a second chance to enter the lottery."

An agonizing lottery. Juliana watched as two more mothers drew black balls and one lucky woman nabbed a white one. "How many mothers are hoping for placement today?"

"About a hundred, which is typical."

And only ten would see their babies admitted. The fortunate woman with the white ball was ushered toward a corner, where a doctor waited to evaluate her child—a girl, if Juliana could judge by the scrap of ribbon crookedly tied in the baby's sparse, downy hair.

During the short examination, a dozen more mothers drew balls—nine chose black, one red, and two jubilant women got white. When the first baby was declared healthy, the mothers waiting with red balls visibly drooped, gripping their infants more tightly. The lucky mother—if one could call her that—was given a numbered document that certified the Hospital's acceptance of her baby, and a lead tag with a corresponding number was threaded on a necklace and placed around the child's neck.

A tightness squeezed Juliana's chest as she watched the tearful parting, the mother kissing her baby girl over and over before regretfully surrendering her to a Hospital employee. "Is she given that paper so she can reclaim her child?"

"Partly. The babies are baptized with Hospital names—the child is never told the identity of the mother, and the mother won't know her child's new name. But if at a later date she can convince the Governors of her reformed character and improved circumstances, the paper and matching necklace number will prove they restore the right child to her."

"But you said partly," Juliana prompted.

The woman sighed. "Truthfully, that seldom happens. She's more likely to use the paper for her own defense; if she's accused of having disposed of her baby by murder, the certificate might save her from the gallows."

"Dear heavens." None of the mothers looked like criminals—they were just women in tragic circumstances. "I saw no infants in either the girls' building or the boys'. Have the babies lodgings of their own?"

"The babies aren't kept at the Hospital. They'll be baptized with their new names at Sunday services tomorrow and then placed with wet nurses in the countryside on Monday. The nurses receive a monthly wage and keep the children until they are five years or thereabouts, at which time they return to live here."

Juliana watched as the infant was carried off. "Does anyone make sure the babies are treated well?"

"Oh, yes. Inspectors visit regularly. They're responsible for the nurse's pay and the child's medical fees, and for purchasing clothes for the infants—"

"Purchasing clothes?"

"Baby clothes. Babies are sent to their new 'mothers' with frocks and caps and clouts and coats and blankets—"

"Don't the girls make these in their sewing lessons?"

"The baby clothes aren't uniforms—"

"Then I can provide them, then!"

"Pardon?"

"I can make them. I can make baby clothes and donate them to the Hospital."

The kindly woman blinked at her. "I don't know about that. I don't believe anyone donates anything besides money."

Juliana watched another mother draw a red ball and, trembling, take her baby to join the small group of hopefuls. She imagined having to wish someone else's child proved ill so her own child could have a chance at a decent life. Or at least she tried to imagine it. The very thought was heartrending.

She turned back to the lady patroness beside her. "The fact that the Hospital hasn't accepted nonmonetary donations in the past doesn't mean it cannot do so in future." Maybe providing baby clothing would free enough funds for the Governors to accept another child or two. She wouldn't allow them to refuse her. "There's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

CHAPTER TWO

SPICE CAKES

Take three scoops of Flower and put into it a Spoon of ale-barm, crushed cloves, mace, and a goode deal of cinnamon. To a halfe Pound of sweet Butter add a goode deal of Sugar and mixe together. Stir in three Eggs and work until good and stiff, then add a little cold Rosewater and knead well. Knead again, pull it all in Pieces and bake your Cakes in a warm oven.

I've heard tell that should you eat one of these before a gathering where you are likely to meet available men, their spiciness will clear your head and allow you to choose wisely. This did not, however, work when I baked them for my daughter. In any case, they are delicious.
—Amethyst, Countess of Greystone, 1690

"How many baby clothes do you need to make?"

"A lot." In her bedroom at the Chase town house in Berkeley Square early that evening, Juliana set down her little pot of lip pomade and picked up the list the Governors had given her. "Three frocks, three caps, three nightshirts, one mantle, one coat, one petticoat, two blankets, and ten clouts. And that's per child. There will be ten babies."

Emily bit into one of the spice cakes she and Juliana had baked after returning from the Foundling Hospital. "So you need to make thirty frocks?"

"Yes." The girl was articulate and good with arithmetic. "And thirty caps, thirty nightshirts, ten mantles, ten coats, ten petticoats, twenty blankets, and a hundred clouts. All within a month, before the next reception day."

Juliana set the list on her dressing table. Upside down, so it would stop taunting her. Whatever had she got herself into? She'd been thrilled when the Governors accepted her offer to provide clothing for the next intake of infants—until she'd realized just how many clothes she'd need.

She wasn't worried about the cost of the materials, because she was certain she could cajole Griffin into paying for whatever her allowance wouldn't cover. But the mere thought of making so many items was daunting. "You'll help me, won't you?"

Emily frowned. "I'm not very good with a needle."

"You can hem blankets and sew clouts. That's not very difficult, and it will be good practice." Reaching over the girl's snake, Juliana wiped a few spice cake crumbs off her mouth. "I'm going to invite my sisters to help, too. We'll have a sewing party. It will be fun to work together." She dipped a finger into the lip pomade. "But I think you'll need to leave Herman home."

"I told you, he's not dangerous."

"His danger, or lack thereof," she told the child, watching her in the dressing table's mirror as she slicked pomade on her lips, "is not the point. Little ladies do not carry snakes."

Emily's delicate chin went into the air. "I do." She adjusted the long, olive green reptile where it was wound around her neck, the better to eat another spice cake. "What are these cakes supposed to do again?"

"Help me choose a husband wisely."

"All the gentlemen will want you. You look beautiful tonight, Lady Juliana. Of course, you always look beautiful," Emily added with a wistful sigh.

Juliana lifted a pot of rouge. "You'll look beautiful when you're my age."

It was true. Other than her unfortunate attachment to the reptile, the child was a model of femininity. She always wore pink. Emily's blond hair and large, luminous gray eyes held much promise, and she was tall for her age. Since Juliana was slightly built, the girl was nearly her height already.

"I'm certain you'll be wildly popular," she assured the child, "if only you'll get rid of the snake."

"Mama and I found baby Herman in our garden," Emily told Juliana for perhaps the hundredth time. "She said we could keep him and watch him grow."

Emily's mother had been dead some four years. Having lost her own mother three years prior—although, thankfully, at age nineteen, not age four—Juliana felt for the young girl.

"Your mother would understand," she told her gently. "Surely she didn't intend to keep Herman long. I'd wager she hadn't an inkling that little baby snake would grow to be five feet long, and I'm certain she didn't make a habit of carrying him around. Why, I'd warrant she's looking down on you right now, waiting for you to grow up and stop toting that horror-inducing creature everywhere."

"Herman isn't a creature. He's a pet."

"A cuddly kitten is a pet. A rambunctious dog is a pet. A snake isn't—"

"Are you ready yet?" Corinna arrived in the doorway and frowned. "A Lady of Distinction doesn't hold with wearing rouge."

Juliana's gaze flicked involuntarily to a book on her bedside table, The Mirror of the Graces by A Lady of Distinction. Their brother had given them both copies, hoping that learning deportment would help them find husbands more quickly.

"A Lady of Distinction is a twit," Juliana said. To emphasize her point, she brushed more color on her cheeks before rising. "Yes, I'm ready. Have a spice cake while I deliver Emily home."

Corinna took one. "Aunt Frances is already waiting in the carriage. You know she abhors being late to balls."

"Aunt Frances abhors being late to anything." Aunt Frances liked everything just so. But she was an endearing lady nonetheless, and it was quite kind of her to act as their sponsor and chaperone for the season, so Juliana didn't grumble. She took Emily by the hand and led her downstairs, Corinna following in their wake.

It was raining—it seemed to rain every day this summer—but a quick walk next door brought Emily safely to the house she usually shared with only her father and a gaggle of aging servants. Emily had two older brothers, products of two earlier marriages, but one was married and the other was away at Cambridge most of the year.

Their gaunt butler, a man who must have been eighty if he were a day, swung the door open as they arrived.

Emily stepped inside. "When shall I see you again, Lady Juliana?"

Who could deny that adorable, pleading face, even if it was framed by a snake? "Monday," she promised the girl. Rain pattered onto her parasol and puddled at her feet. "I'm sure your father is looking forward to being with you tomorrow, but on Monday the two of us shall visit the shops and choose fabric for the baby clothes."

"Will Lady Corinna wish to come, too?"

"I believe she'll prefer to paint." Corinna always preferred to paint; she was happiest when filling her days with color, oils, and turpentine. "I shall see you Monday," Juliana promised softly and headed through the drizzle to the carriage.

Inside, Corinna waited with Aunt Frances, their matching deep-blue eyes impatient. The women's eyes, however, were their only similarity. Aunt Frances's peered from behind round spectacles in a face surrounded by clouds of soft gray hair—prematurely gray hair, considering she was still in her forties. Corinna's hair was a swing of wavy brown, her face as fresh as only a twenty-one-year-old woman's could be. She had no need of cosmetics.

Juliana, on the other hand, figured she needed all the help she could get. Due to circumstances beyond her control—namely, several successive deaths in the family, which had kept her in mourning for many years—this was her first season. At twenty-two! And the season was more than halfway over already, yet she'd failed to find a man to catch her interest.

Not that her brother hadn't been trying his damnedest to locate one.

He was waiting at the ball when they arrived, looking over the crop of men. Unfortunately, this far into the season, Juliana had already met nearly everyone there was to meet. The ton comprised all the people who mattered in society, but that was a limited social group, after all. Yet he'd managed to line up candidates for her first three dances and was keeping an eye out for more.

Griffin was leaving no stone unturned in his quest to marry her off. She wasn't sure whether she appreciated her brother's efforts. But she knew his heart was in the right place, and she did enjoy dancing, so she dutifully danced with the three men, smiling and chatting pleasantly, even though none of them was even remotely what she was looking for.

Lord Henderson was too tall. Lord Barkely was too dark. And Mr. Farringdon was kind but a mite dim, not to mention he had a most unfortunate, distracting tic. She could hardly keep her eyes off his twitching cheek.

The spice cakes weren't going to help her choose wisely, she thought with a sigh, if no acceptable men bothered to attend this ball.

CHAPTER THREE

James Trevor, the Earl of Stafford, hadn't been to a ball in years. And he hadn't particularly wanted to come to this one. However, being a man who liked to look for the good in things, he'd decided to regard tonight as an opportunity to renew a few acquaintances. Griffin Chase, the Marquess of Cainewood, was one of them.

But his old chum didn't look very happy.

"Whom are you glaring at, Cainewood?"

"My sister." Cainewood's frown deepened. "She's not dancing."

James's gaze followed the marquess's across the ballroom, landing on what looked like a dainty sprite. He lifted his quizzing glass and squinted through it. "That wheaten-haired little thing?"

"Wearing yellow? Yes, that would be Juliana, wasting precious time."

"She's conversing with another woman—"

"Another sister. But Juliana is supposed to be meeting men. I despair of ever finding her a husband."

"Ah." Dropping the quizzing glass, James let it dangle on its long silver chain and focused on Cainewood, who'd been a boon companion in their days at Oxford. He hadn't seen the man in years, and he'd never met his family, but in an odd way he felt he still knew him. He couldn't help but smile at his old friend's consternation.

"Juliana is twenty-two," Cainewood added as though that explained everything.

"That doesn't sound particularly old." James himself was twenty-nine.

"I'll have to marry Corinna off after her." Cainewood gestured toward his other sister, a pretty girl with long, wavy brown hair. "I'd hoped to get them both settled this season, but Juliana isn't cooperating. And unfortunately, I believe she's already met everyone here, except…" His green gaze narrowed on James. "Perhaps you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Cainewood said with the easy smile that had won him so many women in their university years. "Will you at least suffer an introduction to Juliana? You're an earl now, aren't you? An earl needing a wife."

An earl needing a wife—the exact same words James's mother had used to describe him earlier this evening as she'd all but dragged him from the carriage into this house.

But although James had inherited the title nearly three years ago, he still had a hard time thinking of himself as an earl, let alone an earl needing a wife.

A second son raised in a close family, James had never thought he'd become the Earl of Stafford. That had been his older brother's future, not his. Following university, James's father had bought him a commission in the army. He hadn't ever minded being an officer. It was expected. He wasn't drawn toward the clergy, and many of his friends—Cainewood included—had embraced the military life. After less than two years, though, James had been wounded and sent home.

Thinking back to those days now, he shifted and flexed his left knee, which always ached in the sort of cold, wet weather London had seen this summer. On days like this he still walked with a slight limp, but he was profoundly grateful the army surgeons had managed to save his leg rather than amputating it. So grateful that, needing another profession after his recovery, he'd become a physician. He hadn't been long out of medical school before he'd realized he'd found his true calling. In the years following his return to England, James had been a man completely happy with his choice of work and his life, especially after he fell in love and married.

Then everything had fallen apart.

His brother had died first, leaving James reeling with the realization that he'd someday be the earl. He didn't want to be an earl—he liked being a physician. He liked helping people, and he liked feeling that he made a difference. Every day was unique and challenging, and there were always successes to balance the disappointments. Managing an earldom seemed such a tedious, thankless task in comparison.

Then, while he was still coping with the loss of his brother, his father's heart had stopped, and suddenly James was the earl, like it or not.

The first months after that had passed in a dark, painful blur, but his young wife had helped him through those days and weeks, until one morning James had awakened and realized he was happy. Perhaps a bit guiltily happy—he still mourned his brother and father, after all—but happy nonetheless. He'd found he quite liked sitting in the House of Lords—it was another chance to make a difference—and managing the earldom wasn't as thankless a task as he'd believed. And, in addition, his wife had convinced him that he could be a physician as well as an earl, regardless of the narrow views of society, and help more people than ever, now that he had no need of the income.

Utilizing the vast fortune left to him, James had opened a facility in London where children whose families were too poor to pay for doctors could get smallpox vaccinations, an endeavor dear to his heart. Life had been good again. And he and his wife were expecting a baby, their first child.

What man wouldn't have been happy?

Then his wife had died in childbirth, and their baby, born too early, had died along with her. All the physicians, James included, hadn't made a bit of a difference. And James had wondered if he'd ever be happy again.

Now, two years later, he was still wondering. But his mother was pressuring him to remarry and sire some heirs, and although he didn't expect to find happiness or love again, he figured he might as well at least consider making her happy. She was a good, caring mother, after all, and perhaps a wife, even one not loved, would ease some of the loneliness he'd suffered these two years past. So he'd allowed himself to be dragged to this ball. And now he forced himself to smile and answer Cainewood.

"Yes, I'm an earl. And I'd be pleased to meet your sister."

Cainewood wasted no time marching him across the room and introducing him to both of his sisters. As James bowed over Juliana's hand, he caught himself gazing into dancing eyes that were full of life. He'd thought he'd be immune to Cainewood's sister, so he found himself surprised. Or perhaps shocked would be a better word.

And it felt wrong somehow.

But Cainewood's sister was a pretty thing, and he couldn't seem to wrench his gaze from those eyes. Green eyes. No, blue. He couldn't decide. They seemed to change as he watched.

"Will you honor me with a dance?" he asked, bemused.

"It would be my pleasure," she assured him.

He hadn't danced since his wife died. He wondered if he remembered how. But there was a waltz playing, and Juliana fairly melted into his arms.

He remembered.

"What color are your eyes?" he asked.

She laughed, a joyful, tinkling sound. "Hazel. Why?"

"I couldn't tell. They looked green at first, but now they look blue."

"Well, they're hazel," Juliana repeated, wishing he would stop staring at them. It seemed almost as though he could see right through them, as though he could see into her head. As though he could glimpse her very soul. And that was an unnerving thought, no matter that she had nothing to hide.

She glanced away, her gaze landing on her married sister. Alexandra had come to town for the season while her new husband claimed his seat in the House of Lords. How happy they looked dancing together, Alexandra's dark eyes locked on Tristan's steady gray gaze. Their road to romance had been a rocky one, but they'd been fated to be together from the first—and Juliana had known that, of course.

If only she could find such a love for herself.

Still feeling Lord Stafford's gaze on her, she shifted in his arms and met his eyes, mentally daring him to look away. He didn't. His eyes were a warm brown, reminding her of chocolate. She loved chocolate. But she had to look up to see those eyes. Way up.

She could get a crick in her neck dancing with such a man.

"I haven't seen you at any other balls," she commented. "You must take your duty to Parliament seriously."

The corners of those warm eyes crinkled when he smiled. "That and my profession."

"Your profession?"

"I'm a physician."

"I thought you were an earl," she said.

One of his dark brows went up. "Can I not be both?"

"Of course you can," she said quickly, although she'd never heard of an earl-physician. "What do you do, exactly? Have you many patients?"

"Some, although I'm not taking on any new ones. Most of my time is spent at my facility, the New Hope Institute."

"New Hope," she mused. "I've heard of that. Something to do with smallpox?"

"I provide vaccinations, yes. To anyone willing to receive one, regardless of the ability to pay."

"That sounds like very important work," she allowed. He was a most unusual man. And an excellent dancer. Having noticed a slight limp as he'd initially approached her, she wouldn't have thought he'd dance so gracefully.

However, much as she enjoyed dancing, finding a man who excelled at it wasn't her priority. After all, it wasn't as though she had a shortage of dance invitations—she danced her feet off at every ball, with or without Griffin in attendance. She had no problem attracting men; the problem was finding one she considered husband material. And Lord Stafford had many shortcomings.

When the music came to an end, he led her by the hand off the dance floor. "It was a pleasure, my lady."

His voice was warm like his eyes, low and smooth, reminding her again of rich chocolate. The very sound of it seemed to weaken her knees. "Thank you," she said.

The musicians struck up a country dance, and as he was still holding her hand, she half expected him to lead her straight back to the dance floor. Instead, he raised her fingers toward his mouth. Then, rather than pucker his lips in the customary salute in the air above her hand, he lowered them to actually touch her glove.

Scandalous. She could have sworn she felt the kiss through the white silk. A tingly sensation.

"Thank you," she repeated more faintly.

"Thank you," he echoed with a smile.

A smile that looked as dazed as she felt.

No sooner had he turned to leave than Griffin descended, snapping her back to reality. "Well?" he asked.

She watched Lord Stafford walk away, shoulders broad beneath his tailcoat. Loose, tousled curls grazed his black velvet collar. Many fashionable men achieved a similar look with pomade and curl papers, but his hair looked naturally tousled. Like he was too busy to bother to control it.

"He's too dark," she said.

"Pardon?"

"You know I prefer golden-haired men. And he's entirely too tall—I felt like a child dancing with him."

Griffin looked down on her, both literally and figuratively. "Face it, Juliana—you're short."

As though she hadn't noticed most of the world towered over her. "He works," she said. "He has a profession."

"And this makes him unacceptable as a husband?"

"Should I marry him, he wouldn't have any time for me." She wanted a grand love, like Alexandra and Tristan's; she wanted a husband who loved her to distraction. She wanted endless hours spent in passion with the man she decided to marry. And for heaven's sake, this man couldn't even find a few minutes to comb his hair. "I'm sorry, but he just won't do."

The fact that Lord Stafford's work was important was hardly a mitigating factor—and the fact that her heart had stuttered when he'd so impertinently kissed her hand had no bearing whatsoever.

Griffin released a long-suffering sigh. "I shall keep looking."

"You do that," she said, patting his arm and silently wishing him luck. The spice cakes had clearly been a waste. Poor Griffin. "In the meantime, I must speak with Alexandra."

She scanned the ballroom in search of her older sister and finally found her talking to Aunt Frances.

"Who was that you were dancing with?" Alexandra asked as she approached.

"Lord Stafford."

"He's very handsome."

"His hair is too dark." At Alexandra's blank look, Juliana shrugged. "Can you come to the Berkeley Square house this Wednesday afternoon?"

"I expect so. Why?"

"I need help making clothes for the Foundling Hospital babies."

"Your newest project, I take it?" Alexandra's brown eyes sparkled with mischief. "What have you got yourself into this time?"

If only she knew. "Corinna wanted to see the Hospital's art gallery, but oh, the poor foundlings were heartbreaking. And their mothers." Just thinking back on the balloting, Juliana wanted to cry. "I must do something to help them."

"Of course you must," Aunt Frances said. "With you, it's always something."

That much was true; Juliana couldn't deny it. "And what does that make me?" she wondered. "Impulsive? Melodramatic? Judgmental, overwrought, overemotional?" She stopped there, knowing she was all of those and more. Honestly, she could go on and on.

Which was why she wanted to hug Alexandra when she said, "No. That makes you compassionate, giving, hopeful. Kind and unselfish and vulnerable." Her perfect, responsible, married sister gifted her with a quiet smile. "It makes you lovable, Juliana. That's what it makes you the most."

She did hug her sister then, and her aunt, too, her heart not broken now but aching with warmth and affection instead. Yet all the while she was wondering: If I'm so lovable, why can't I find a husband to love?

CHAPTER FOUR

"This pink is pretty," Emily said Monday at Grafton House, a draper's shop in New Bond Street.

"It is," Juliana agreed, watching a snooty woman give the girl and her ever-present snake a wide berth. "But silk isn't sturdy enough for babies. And pink won't do." She fingered a length of thick white wool. "The Governors want white, so all the clothes will suit both girls and boys."

Emily cocked her golden head. "Won't the babies be overly warm in frocks made of that?"

"I'm considering this for the blankets. We'll buy linsey for the frocks."

"I'll look for linsey, then," Emily said and walked away.

Juliana nodded absently, deciding the wool would do fine. She was about to ask the price when she heard a little shriek, followed by a familiar voice. "Gracious me, Miss Neville! Are you still carrying that varmint everywhere?"

Juliana turned, surprised to see another Berkeley Square neighbor, Lady Amanda Wolverston.

Young Emily looked much more affronted than surprised, however. "Herman isn't a varmint," she protested, returning to slip her hand into Juliana's. "He's a pet."

"Not a very proper one," Lady Amanda said.

Although she agreed, Juliana squeezed Emily's hand. Amanda could sometimes be a bit too proper. But she and Amanda had grown up as neighbors and played together as small children, so Juliana considered her a good friend.

"I'm so glad you've come to town," she told her with a smile. "I've invited my sisters to a little sewing party on Wednesday afternoon, to make some clothing for the Foundling Hospital babies. I do hope you'll join us."

Juliana's tall blond friend was slouching—a habitual posture for her. But she seemed to be slouching even more than normal, and she looked uncommonly pale.

Blinking, Juliana peered up at Amanda's wan face. "Where have you been hiding all season?"

"In the countryside. My father is still excavating the Roman ruins he found on the estate." Amanda gestured toward a chair in a corner of the shop, where her aunt sat primly. "Aunt Mabel came with me, which was very kind. She didn't want to come to town this year at all."

A slight, pinch-faced woman in a baggy gown, the poor lady was as pink-cheeked as Amanda was pale. She seemed to be wheezing a little. "You know she's always suffered from asthma," Juliana said sympathetically, vaguely musing that Amanda must have inherited her fashion sense—or rather, lack thereof—from her aunt. "The London air doesn't agree with her. However did you persuade her to come?"

"Father persuaded her. Or rather, he ordered her." Amanda took a deep breath. "Because…" Her gaze slid to Emily and back, wordlessly telling Juliana she had something to confide.

Dying to hear the news, Juliana squeezed the little girl's hand again. "Could you do me an important favor, sweetheart, and see if you can find that linsey?"

"All right," Emily said, happily wandering off.

"Well?" Juliana asked when Emily was out of earshot.

Amanda's voice dropped to a whisper. "Father has arranged my marriage. He sent me and Aunt Mabel to put together a trousseau, which is why I'm here at Grafton Hou—"

"He's arranged your marriage?" Juliana interrupted. "To whom?"

Amanda closed her blue-gray eyes for a moment and released a slow breath before she reopened them. "Lord Malmsey," she said despondently.

"Lord Malmsey?"

The man was shorter than Amanda, quiet, mild-mannered, and meek. But the predominant image in Juliana's mind was that of a creased forehead beneath a receding hairline.

"The man must be forty, at least!"

"Forty-five," Amanda corrected. Nearly twice her age. She was a year older than Juliana, which made her all of twenty-three. "I met with him last evening—not that either of us had much to say to each other. We're to be married four weeks from Saturday, in a private ceremony by special license."

The same day as the next Foundling Hospital intake, when Juliana had to have all the baby clothes ready. Amanda looked to be in the dismals, which was no wonder. "Can you refuse to wed him?"

She shook her head. "Father has made it clear that if I fail to go through with this wedding, he'll disinherit me—which would leave me slim chances of ever wedding at all."

It was on the tip of Juliana's tongue to argue the point, but she wasn't one to lie—not outright, anyway—and Amanda was only stating the truth. In five seasons, no one else had offered for her, and without her substantial inheritance, it was unlikely any man ever would.

"I'm miserable," Amanda added unnecessarily.

One thing Juliana was sure of: Griffin would never expect her to wed other than where her heart led her. For that, she was grateful. "Have you told your father how you feel?"

"Countless times. My protests fall on deaf ears. Nothing I can say will make him breach a contract. His honor is more important to him than my happiness."

Lord Wolverston had always been rather emotionless and uncaring, but this went beyond that. It was downright cruel. "There's nothing at all honorable about putting his reputation before his own daughter. He should want to see you in love."

"He believes that when it comes to marriage, there are much more important matters to consider."

Juliana couldn't disagree more—concerning her own marriage, at least. Her parents had wed for practical reasons, and her mother had never known true happiness. While she did realize that much of society had other priorities for evaluating matches, for her, love came first.

Amanda slouched even more. "He's pleased beyond belief to have an offer for my hand at all, let alone one from a baron. I suppose he's right when he says I'm lucky Lord Malmsey is willing to marry me."

"Amanda!"

"I'm a confirmed wallflower, Juliana."

Amanda did look rather plain, but Juliana had always assumed that was because her mother had died giving birth to her. Much like little Emily, she'd grown up without anyone to offer guidance. Her Aunt Mabel was certainly no help. Amanda wore dowdy clothes in all the wrong colors, her brows were too heavy, her blond hair was pulled back into an excruciatingly tight braided bun, and she never met anyone's eyes—not even Juliana's now. Her blue-gray gaze was focused in the vicinity of her unfashionably shod feet.

In short, Amanda was a project just waiting to be tackled.

"Who else knows about your engagement?" Juliana asked.

"We arrived only yesterday. You're the first one I've told."

"Excellent." Lord Malmsey wasn't the type to spread news, either. Although the man was a fixture at society gatherings, Juliana couldn't recall more than a dozen words ever leaving his mouth. "Don't tell anyone else. I shall save you from this dismal fate."

The older girl glanced up. "How? Do you truly believe it possible?"

"Without a doubt." Juliana had never been one to disregard anyone in need. "Let me think on the matter."

"Look here, Lady Juliana!" Emily returned, holding forth Herman coiled upon an armful of white fabric.

"Perfect, sweetheart." Juliana smiled, hoping the clerk wouldn't faint when she asked for a length to be cut. Or maybe hoping the clerk would faint, because that might convince the girl, once and for all, that carrying a snake around wasn't a good idea. She looked back to Amanda. "You'll come to the sewing party Wednesday, won't you? One o'clock. By the time you arrive, I'm certain to have a solution."

CHAPTER FIVE

"Where is Amanda?" Juliana said Wednesday afternoon in the drawing room.

Rain pattered outside the windows. "You've asked that more times than Emily's pricked herself," Alexandra observed as she patiently knotted a thread.

Alexandra could afford to be patient, Juliana thought, stitching a tiny frock more frantically than patiently. Alexandra wasn't the one who'd promised to deliver twenty dozen articles of baby clothing in one short month. "Amanda said she'd be here."

"No, she didn't," Emily pointed out, rearranging Herman on her shoulders. Unfortunately, the clerk at Grafton House hadn't fainted. She'd only glared, which had done little toward convincing Emily to part with the dratted snake. "You invited her, but she never actually said she would come."

"Perhaps not in so many words. But she'll come." Amanda had to come. Juliana had devised a plan. An excellent plan, which she couldn't wait to explain—

"Ouch!" Emily exclaimed for the fifth time, sticking her pricked finger in her mouth. She really wasn't very good with a needle. "This blanket is turning out dreadful."

Juliana leaned over to inspect the girl's handiwork. "It isn't that bad." The hem was rather uneven, but it wasn't dreadful. Luckily babies couldn't criticize. "The blanket will keep an infant warm no matter what it looks like."

"But I want it to look good."

"With more practice, it will," Corinna said. "You need to practice to become good at anything." She stopped sewing long enough to gesture toward an easel set up by the large picture window. Even in the dim rainy-day light, the scene on the canvas—a man pushing a laughing lady on a swing by a reflective lake—conveyed movement, vibrancy, a sense of life. "My first painting didn't look like that."

Still patiently working her own needle into the little cap she was making, Alexandra smiled. "If I recall correctly, your first painting was a willow tree that looked more like a haystack."

"We're none of us expert seamstresses, Miss Emily." Aunt Frances squinted at her own handiwork through her spectacles. "We've only ever done samplers and embroidery. After a few more practice blankets—"

"This isn't practice," Juliana interrupted. "Every single item will be used." If she was lucky, today's efforts would produce five or six finished garments. And she needed two hundred and forty! Although it was a bit early to panic, she realized already, less than an hour into her first sewing party, that she was going to have to host many more of them. "Where is Amanda?"

Just then the knocker sounded in the foyer.

"That must be Amanda," she said, the frock falling to the floor as she jumped up and rushed from the room.

Though their butler, Adamson, was nearly as short as Juliana, he always managed to look dignified nonetheless. "Good afternoon, Lady Amanda," he intoned as he opened the door.

"Good afternoon, Adamson," Amanda replied formally.

"Where on earth have you been?" Juliana asked, very informally indeed.

"Playing chess with Aunt Mabel. I couldn't leave in the middle of such an exciting game."

"Exciting?" Juliana could think of little less exciting than chess. She preferred games that were light and relaxing, not so cerebral. Even sewing was more fun. "Come into the library."

Amanda peeked through the open door across the way. "Isn't everyone in the drawing room?"

"Yes. That's exactly the point." Juliana took her in the opposite direction, closing the door behind them and ushering her friend toward two leather wingback chairs. "We must keep your engagement a secret. I've a plan to break it."

Amanda sat and clasped her hands in her lap, suddenly looking nervous. She blew out a breath. "All right. What's the plan?"

Picturing her sisters with their ears to the door—after all, she'd often done so along with them—Juliana lowered her voice. "We shall arrange to get you compromised by—and therefore betrothed to—a man closer to your age than Lord Malmsey. Once the public has seen you and this other man in a compromising position, your father will be forced to agree."

"A compromising position?" Amanda's sudden laugh was shrill enough to make Juliana wince. "Gracious me, I've never even been kissed!"

"I haven't been kissed, either," Juliana said. "Not that men haven't tried, mind you." To the contrary, men tried all the time. But she always managed to duck them, because as much as she wanted to experience her first kiss, she wished for it to be with someone she cared for, at least a little.

"Well, no one's tried with me," Amanda said dourly. "And it will take more than a kiss to force my father's hand. There's not a chance a young, eligible man is going to compromise me. Not willingly, anyway."

"I didn't mean unwillingly." Juliana would never be party to such a devious plot, and furthermore, such a thing wouldn't be necessary. When she was finished with Amanda, men would be falling over themselves trying to compromise her. "Not to worry, my dear." She leaned closer to pat her hand. "Are you free tomorrow and the day after?"

"To be compromised?"

"To be fitted for a few ball gowns. You'll require a new wardrobe, among other things. We'll need to visit a seamstress as well as comb all the shops."

Amanda appeared both dubious and hopeful, if such an expression were possible. "My father did give me leave to assemble a trousseau."

"Excellent." There was little Juliana enjoyed more than transforming an ugly duckling into a lovely swan. "We have a lot of work to do before Lady Hammersmithe's ball on Saturday."

"I cannot attend Lady Hammersmithe's ball."

"Of course you can. I shall summon Madame Bellefleur to trim your hair—"

"My hair has never been cut." Amanda's hands went protectively to her head. "And I cannot attend—"

"Ouuuccch!" The howl was so piercing, it shot from the drawing room, across the foyer, and through the library's closed door.

"That's Emily!" Juliana exclaimed, bolting from her chair. Lifting her skirts, she dashed out the door. "Emily!" she shouted, running through the foyer and bursting into the drawing room. "Emily, what's happened?"

And there she stopped, a sudden sickness in her middle, a disturbing lightness in her head.

Emily was bleeding.

"It hurts," the girl wailed, bent over her hand. Tiny red spots dotted her pink skirts. Although the injury clearly wasn't serious—they were tiny spots, not a stream—Juliana knew she should hurry to help. To comfort. To make everything all better.

But she couldn't. Because the sight of those red spots seemed to make it hard to breathe.

Thank goodness everyone else was helping. Well, maybe not helping, precisely, but at least they weren't riveted in place. In the scant seconds Juliana stood there—because that's all the time it was, really—her sisters and Aunt Frances leapt up and surrounded Emily, making all sorts of clucking, compassionate noises.

Thankfully, that hid the sight of Emily's wound. But all that sympathy seemed to do little but make the girl sob harder. "M-my needle s-slipped. It-it didn't just poke me this time, it ripped—"

"Gracious me," Amanda said in a rather disgusted tone, pushing past Juliana and into the little cluster of females. "It's just a little blood. For goodness' sake. Someone take the snake." While Corinna moved to do so, Amanda reached for some linsey and tore off a strip, then drew Emily to her feet. "Let's clean it up and bandage it, shall we?" she said, leading her from the room.

Juliana walked to her chair, her knees feeling shaky. Which was ridiculous, and she knew it. As Corinna seemed to delight in pointing out to her, it was absurd for any female past puberty to find the sight of blood distressing. But her own monthlies never bothered her. A woman's periodic blood was natural; other bleeding wasn't.

She was grateful Corinna hadn't seemed to notice her abysmal lack of action, and neither had anyone else.

"Emily will be fine." Corinna held Herman at arm's length, looking almost as ridiculous as Juliana felt. "Why didn't you bring Amanda straight in here?"

"I wanted to talk to her regarding Lady Hammersmithe's ball on Saturday. Talk her into attending, I mean."

"Why wouldn't she?" Alexandra asked.

Juliana shrugged—casually, she hoped. "She's rather shy around eligible gentlemen. I've offered to help her with a new wardrobe, which I'm hoping will boost her confidence."

"That's kind of you," Alexandra said.

Corinna looked suspicious. Or maybe just wary of the snake. "Whyever did you feel the need to talk privately? We could have helped you convince her—"

"Here she is, all repaired," Amanda announced, walking back in with Emily.

Emily sported a neat little linsey bandage wrapped around her finger. When she reached for Herman, Corinna didn't hesitate to hand him over. Juliana's sister still looked wary, though. Or suspicious.

Drat.

"Shall we get back to work?" Juliana asked cheerfully.

Emily shook her head. "I'm not sewing anymore."

"You can start cutting the clouts," Juliana suggested, handing her a bundle of cotton fabric, a pair of scissors, and a simple pattern. She hoped that when the cut rectangles were folded and sewn, they would turn out the right size to cover a baby's bottom. Refusing to even think about doing that a hundred times, she gave Emily's half-finished blanket to Amanda. "Here. This is almost done."

It wasn't, of course, and Amanda proved to be no handier with a needle than the rest of them. Not only was Juliana going to have to host more sewing parties, she was also going to have to invite more women—with luck including some who had sewn more than samplers. "I hope you'll all help me recruit more ladies at Almack's tonight."

"I'm not attending," Alexandra said, a sparkle in her brandy-brown eyes. "Since Parliament isn't sitting, Tristan wants to stay home, just the two of us."

It wouldn't be just the two of them, of course—a marquess had a bevy of household help. But still, Juliana envied her sister's settled life. Since Almack's was foremost a matrimonial bazaar, Alexandra could afford to skip going and spend a relaxing evening at home instead. At the rate Juliana wasn't finding a husband, she wondered if she'd ever have that luxury for herself.

Corinna looked up from the petticoat she was stitching. Suspiciously. "Amanda, you'll be attending Almack's, won't you?"

"No," Amanda said. Juliana held her breath, half expecting her to blurt out that she had no need to attend given that she was already engaged. To her great relief, Amanda added instead, "Aunt Mabel isn't feeling up to chaperoning me these days."

"Is it the asthma again?" Aunt Frances sighed. "Poor Lady Mabel. I shall have to pay her a call."

"She'd appreciate that very much," Amanda said, hemming the blanket almost as crookedly as Emily.

If anything, Corinna looked even more suspicious. "But Juliana said you're going to Lady Hammersmithe's ball."

"As I tried to explain to her, I don't expect Aunt Mabel will be well enough by Saturday, either. The London air—"

"Aunt Frances can chaperone you along with us," Juliana said.

Amanda's needle slowed, not that she'd been plying it with masterful speed in the first place. "There's no point in going to the ball. No one will ask me to dance anyway."

"Oh, yes, they will." Alexandra smiled down at her handiwork. "Juliana will teach you the look."

Now Amanda's needle stopped. "What look?"

"Allow me to demonstrate." Juliana looked up from her little frock. "First you choose a man you wish to entice—"

"Entice?"

"Enticement is the objective of the look. Trust me, should you do it properly, men are guaranteed to fall at your feet."

"Are they?"

"Positively," Alexandra declared, making Juliana speculate on her sister's life with her new husband.

Jealously speculate.

Amanda looked from one sister to the other. "I'm listening."

"Excellent. First you choose a man and command his gaze." Juliana focused on Amanda, making her eyes blatantly sensuous.

The older girl swallowed hard. "And then?"

"Glance down, bowing your head a little to display your lashes against your cheeks. Then sweep your eyelids up, gaze at the man full on again, and slowly—very slowly—curve your lips in a seductive smile."

Amanda's forehead wrinkled. "Show me again."

"Watch closely." Taking her time, Juliana silently repeated the demonstration.

Corinna snickered, but Amanda and Emily both sighed. "Can I learn, too?" Emily asked.

"It's never too early to begin practicing. Amanda, give it a try."

Amanda stared hard at Juliana, closed her eyes, popped them open, and stretched her mouth into a wide grin.

It was Juliana's turn to sigh. She had her work cut out for her.

CHAPTER SIX

"I really must be on my way, Aunt Aurelia." James forced his lips to curve in a smile. "You're healthy as the day you were born."

"Are you certain?" A tad plump but elegant nonetheless, Aurelia reclined on her peach-draped bed. Her entire house was decorated in peach. In fact, sometimes when James was here—which seemed to be way too often lately—he fancied he was in a peach. "My heart was paining me so," she continued. "I tell you I could barely breathe. Won't you check it one more time with that ingenious new instrument of yours?"

"If you insist." Suppressing a sigh, he opened his black leather bag and drew out the ingenious instrument, which really wasn't ingenious at all. It was simply a foot-long cylinder of wood. One end had a hole to place against the ear, and the inside was hollowed out in the shape of a cone. The thing was so uningenious, in fact, that James was tempted to kick himself for not thinking of something like it years ago. Instead, just this past March, a young French physician named Laennec had invented the instrument and christened it the stethoscope, derived from the Greek words for "I see" and "the chest."

James leaned close and placed the wider end of the instrument over his aunt's heart. Her scent wafted to him, a unique combination of camphor and gardenias, the latter applied a little too liberally. On second thought, he silently thanked Laennec for his brilliance. Without the stethoscope, he'd have to press his ear to Aunt Aurelia's potent, pillowy chest.

Her heartbeat sounded strong through the tube, the thump-thump clear and distinct. "Regular as Grandmother's clock," he assured her.

"You're certain?" She shook her coiffed gray head disbelievingly. "And my lungs?"

"Sit up, if you will." Bracing a hand on the headboard, he applied the stethoscope to her corseted back. "Breathe in," he said as patiently as he could. "Out. In. Perfect. As I said, you're healthy as a newborn babe." He dropped the instrument back in his bag and fastened the clasp. "Now I really must leave, Auntie."

She climbed from her bed and accompanied him downstairs. "You're expected in Parliament?"

"Not today. It's Wednesday." The House of Lords sat on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. "But I was expected at the Institute hours ago. Only one other doctor volunteered for the early shift today."

"I do appreciate your visit." She squeezed his hand, making his heart squeeze as well. Aunt Aurelia was a dear, even if she was a hypochondriac. In the foyer, she glanced at Grandmother's tall-case clock. "Such a shame that Bedelia hasn't returned. She'll surely want to see you, too. She had a horrid case of the putrid sore throat this morning."

Bedelia, his mother's other sister, shared the house with Aurelia. Two childless widows whose lives centered on their imaginary physical ailments.

"Tell Aunt Bedelia to gargle with salted water. I'm certain that will cure her."

"Do you expect so?" Aurelia's blue eyes looked dubious.

"Absolutely." James doubted Bedelia's throat was putrid; if her throat hurt her at all, it was likely due to nothing more serious than incessant chattering. "I'll see you again soon," he added, escaping to his carriage before Aurelia could ask him to clarify what he meant by soon. If she had her way, soon would be tomorrow—if not an hour from now.

On the way to New Hope Institute, he scribbled more notes for the speech he planned to deliver in Parliament, recommending compulsory smallpox vaccinations for infants. So immersed was he in his work, his carriage drew up to the door of the Institute before he noticed all the people queued in a line that stretched down the street.

Way down the street.

They might be London's poor, but they were good people, trying to do their best for their children. Mothers shivered in the cold, damp air, their expressions unhappy and resigned. Babies cried. Small children whined, and restless older children taunted one another. Rather than wait, people were giving up and leaving, walking away from the Institute.

For the second time within a month.

Without waiting for the steps to be lowered, James bounded from the carriage and dashed through the drizzle into the building. In the reception area, more babies wailed on impatient mothers' laps. Two boys playing tag raced around the room, bumping into the knees of those seated.

Slipping off his tailcoat, James looked to the counter for help. No one was behind it. He untied his cravat as he pushed through the door into the back.

His private office was tiny—not much more than a desk and chair, since he preferred to do paperwork in his study at home. He tossed his coat and cravat onto the chair, then poked his head into the first of three treatment rooms, finding it empty although the next patient should be waiting there. The second room held one harried-looking physician along with a mother and her teary-eyed three-year-old.

Unfastening the top button of his shirt, James frowned. The vaccination procedure went more smoothly with a cooperative patient, and candy—a real treat for a poor child—usually proved a good distraction. "Where are the sugar sticks?" he asked.

Dr. Hanley shrugged, setting aside the ivory lancet he'd used to inoculate the little girl. "I haven't a clue where…what is that new assistant's name?"

"Miss Chumford."

"Ah, yes. " He tied a fresh bandage around the girl's arm. "I haven't a clue where Miss Chumford keeps the sugar sticks. I cannot seem to locate anything on those shelves. I consider myself lucky to have found a supply of the vaccine."

"Where is Miss Chumford?"

"In the next room. Crying her eyes out. And I don't expect a sugar stick will help." Dr. Hanley stood the sniffling child on her feet. "There you go, sweetheart. If you want a sugar stick, follow Lord Stafford."

"Dr. Trevor," James reminded him. He preferred not to be called Lord at the Institute—it intimidated the patients. As did his aristocratic clothing, which was why he always shed the more formal items. "I shall send in the next patient," he added as he ushered the girl toward the reception area. "Did Dr. Hanley tell you what to expect?" he asked her mother.

Clearly awed to be in a peer's presence, the woman answered shyly. "Yes, my lord. A big blister but no pox."

"That's correct. It may take some weeks for the blister to heal, and it will leave a scar. But your daughter will be spared from the smallpox."

"Thank you," she breathed, lifting the little girl and holding her close. "If I could pay you, I would."

Noting the telltale pox scars on her face, he knew her words came from the heart. He usually encouraged parents to be vaccinated along with their children, but that had obviously been unnecessary in her case.

"Thank you," he returned, "for doing your part. We're not in need of your money. But please tell your friends and neighbors about New Hope Institute. With your help, we can annihilate this dreadful scourge once and for all."

James would be happy with no less. It was his belief that if only everyone everywhere were vaccinated, smallpox could be wiped off the globe. It was a daunting task, he knew, but he was determined to do his part in London.

Unfortunately, London wasn't particularly cooperative. The poor were sadly skeptical and uninformed, and some churchmen preached that vaccination interfered with the will of God, believing smallpox was sent to chasten the population. In addition, the Institute could handle only a certain number of people per day. But James paid men to canvass the poorer parishes and talk people into bringing their children, which made it all the more frustrating when those who agreed were forced to stand out in the cold and rain.

He found a box of sugar sticks and sent the girl and her mother on their way, then settled the next patients in the two vacant treatment rooms. Once he ascertained that Dr. Hanley had a quantity of vaccine, sugar sticks, and other necessary supplies, he knocked on the door to the third room. "Miss Chumford?"

A prolonged sniffle was the only answer.

"Miss Chumford, may I come in?"

"It's your Institute," the young woman pointed out in a tiny voice.

Yes, it was. He opened the door. Then almost closed it at the sight of Miss Chumford's red, splotchy face.

There were few things James avoided more than a female's tears. Emotional tears, in any case. As a physician, he'd learned to endure tears caused by pain, but the other sort was another matter altogether.

With a sigh, he stepped into the room. "There's a queue outside, and if it grows any longer it's likely to reach all the way to Surrey."

"I'm sorry," she whimpered.

"Whatever could be amiss?"

Both of her hands pressed to her middle, she raised flooded eyes to meet his. A lone tear trickled down her cheek. She said nothing.

He shifted uncomfortably, torn between heartrending sympathy and heart-hardening annoyance. He had the Institute to run. People in need. He'd employed her to keep the physicians well supplied and make sure the patients were seen as quickly and efficiently as possible. A simple job, really, and necessary to the smooth operation of the facility. And she was the second assistant within a month to…

He looked back to her hands, which were rubbing her middle now. "You're with child, aren't you?" he suddenly realized, even though her belly looked flat.

After all, that was the reason his last assistant had left.

She nodded miserably, with the longest, most pathetic sniffle yet.

"And you're not wed, of course," he surmised less than brilliantly. After all, she was Miss Chumford.

This time she nodded and words tumbled out of her mouth. "Papa will k-kill me, or at least throw me out of the house. Harry, my…the f-father of my child, cannot afford a home of his own. We shall have to live with his p-parents, and his mother hates me, and his father—"

"Your Harry is willing to marry you?" James interrupted. "To take responsibility for his offspring?"

She nodded again, still blubbering. "H-Harry is a good man, m-my lord, and a hard worker. B-but—"

"Wait here, Miss Chumford." He could take no more of her tears. There were plenty of things to be miserable about that couldn't be fixed. Fixing this would be a simple enough matter.

He had a small safe in his private office, from which he withdrew fifty pounds. A pittance to him, but enough to cover a small family's rent and food for two years or more. It would provide Miss Chumford and her baby's father with a start, and should Harry be as good a man and hardworking as she claimed, he and his new wife and child would weather this disaster quite well.

After Miss Chumford left—tearfully blubbering her thanks—James sighed and lettered a HELP WANTED sign, propped it in the Institute's front window, and settled down behind the counter for what he knew from experience was likely to be many hours spent interviewing candidates.

Well, at least his mother wouldn't be able to drag him to Almack's tonight.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TRIFLE

Take yokes of four egges and a pinte of thicke Creame, and season it with Sugar and Ginger and Rosewater, so stirre it as you would then have it and make it warme on a chafing dishe and coales, and after put it into a Silver piece or a Bowle, and so serve it to the board.

Extra-strong Rosewater will put Roses into your cheeks.
—Lady Jewel Chase, 1687

Over the next two days, Juliana helped Amanda order an entire new wardrobe. They shopped for cosmetics, hats, shoes, hosiery, and other assorted fripperies. They practiced posture and walking, devised new alluring smiles, and perfected the look. Juliana taught Amanda how to apply the cosmetics so skillfully that no one would notice she was wearing any. She plucked Amanda's heavy brows, hardening her heart to the older girl's squeals of pain and protest—after all, all but the luckiest of women suffered for their beauty.

With each hour, Amanda's confidence grew, as did Juliana's certainty that her plan was going to work.

At last, Saturday dawned.

Juliana dragged Corinna out of bed early—at noon—to help her make trifle before Amanda arrived to dress for Lady Hammersmithe's ball. Unfortunately, Corinna was hopeless in the kitchen on the best of days. And considering she'd stayed up until seven o'clock in the morning to finish a painting, this day wasn't her best.

"My arm hurts," she complained. "And I'm tired."

"Just keep beating those eggs until they're creamy, please." Juliana added two more handfuls of rose petals to the water she had boiled. She was determined to make sure Amanda's cheeks would be nice and rosy. "I cannot understand why you won't go to bed at a reasonable hour."

"I'm not a reasonable person—I'm an artist," Corinna reminded her. "I cannot understand why you won't ask a kitchen maid to beat these eggs."

Juliana consulted their family's heirloom cookbook, an ancient volume to which each lady in the family had traditionally added a recipe every Christmas since the seventeenth century. Many of the sweets were thought to be magic charms. She poured the rosewater into a pot of cream and sprinkled it with a bit of ginger. "How many times must I tell you that the Chase family recipes must be made by Chase family members if they're to work?"

Corinna rolled her eyes. "You and your traditions. I cannot countenance why you and Alexandra believe such nonsense."

"It hurts no one to try. Besides, the trifle will be delicious—you'll have some, won't you? If you and I and Amanda all have rosy cheeks tonight, perhaps we'll all find husbands."

"A rouge pot would be a more efficient method of obtaining rosy cheeks, regardless of A Lady of Distinction's opinions on the matter." Corinna began grating sugar into the eggs. "Although I suppose poor Amanda can use all the help she can get."

"I've worked wonders with her," Juliana said, giving her mixture a vigorous stir. "Wait until you see. Her gown will be exquisite, her complexion flawless. I've summoned a hairdresser—"

"Just don't make Amanda so beautiful she steals your own suitors."

"That's an unkind thought." Juliana snatched the sugar loaf from her sister before she could add too much as usual; Corinna's sweet tooth was legendary even among the sweets-loving Chases, and she had no concept of the proper amount of any ingredient. "I've no suitors I wish to marry anyway," she added with a sigh.

"You're trying too hard," Corinna said. "Just relax and enjoy all the attention."

But how could Juliana relax? Next year she'd be twenty-three. Twenty-three and unmarried. At what age did one become a spinster, and how did one know when one reached it? Had Aunt Frances simply awakened one morning and decided to put on a spinster's cap?

"There, it's creamy." Corinna banged the bowl onto the big wooden table and rubbed her arm. "Am I finished? Assuming I can still hold a brush, I'd like to varnish my painting."

"Varnish away," Juliana said and watched her sister leave the kitchen.

Even without the security of a happy marriage like Alexandra's, Corinna seemed content with her life.

She wished she could say the same for herself.

The trifle was chilled in its silver bowl by the time Amanda arrived with two footmen carrying boxes. The French hairdresser was waiting, and less than an hour later, Amanda's once knee-length hair reached only the middle of her back. She watched in Juliana's dressing table mirror as her golden tresses fluttered to the floor, her face white as linsey, her eyes wide and apprehensive.

Juliana scooped trifle into a cup, thinking it might distract her friend. "Eat this. It will make your cheeks rosy."

"What is it?" Emily asked, adjusting Herman on her shoulder. "May I have some?"

"It's trifle, and yes, you may."

The girl cocked her blond head. "Our cook's trifle has cake and fruit."

"This is a very old recipe."

"Our cook is probably older," Emily said, then spooned the sweet into her mouth and smiled. "It's good. Your hair looks pretty, Lady Amanda."

Amanda drew a sharp breath. "Do you truly think so, Miss Neville?"

"Absolutely," Juliana answered for the girl. "Shorter hair is the thing. I cannot imagine why you hid those gorgeous curls in that plait." Juliana had always despaired of her own stick-straight hair, but at least she knew better than to scrape it all back into a braid so tight it looked plastered to her head.

Amanda grimaced at another snip.

"Hold your head still, if you will." Madame Bellefleur clipped off a final inch. "Parfait."

"It's trifle," Emily corrected. "Not a parfait."

"In French," Juliana told her, "parfait means 'perfect.' That length will be so much lighter and easier to put up."

Madame smiled and nodded. "Now, some shorter tendrils around the face, oui?"

"Brilliant." Juliana resumed unpacking the boxes, admiring all the dresses they'd ordered. The seamstress had sent only one of the ball gowns, but promised the rest would be ready next week. "Your hair will be stunning," she assured Amanda.

Amanda responded with a rather maniacal laugh.

Juliana winced. "You must practice a new laugh. An alluring laugh, like tinkling bells."

"Like this?" Amanda attempted a girlish giggle—and even Herman recoiled.

By the time they'd perfected the new laugh, Madame Bellefleur had experimented with different hairstyles, ultimately choosing one in which Amanda's blond mane was loosely gathered, twisted up, and pinned, with the remaining curls arranged artistically on top of her head. The hairdresser left, and Juliana swept the ball gown off her bed.

Amanda looked from the lavender silk dress, to Emily and Herman, and back to Juliana. "I'd prefer not to disrobe in front of a snake," she said stiffly.

"So that's why you refused to strip to your chemise in order to be measured." Juliana saw a chance to use this as an example. "The seamstress, Mrs. Huntley, also wasn't very keen on working with Herman in attendance. People don't wish to be in the company of your snake," she pointed out to Emily.

"I don't care," Emily said.

Juliana called her maid and asked her to walk Emily and the creature home. But after Juliana and Amanda were alone, it turned out Amanda didn't want to undress in front of her, either.

"Turn around," the older girl instructed.

"It's just me."

"Turn around."

Sighing, Juliana did so, hoping this didn't mean Amanda would be unwilling to bare a little skin in front of the man she chose to compromise her.

Much rustling followed, evidence of Amanda's struggles dealing with garments that weren't meant to be donned without help. "Gracious me!" she finally exclaimed, sounding anything but gracious. "I cannot wear this."

Juliana spun around to find her friend staring down at her chest in dismay. "Of course you can. You look beautiful." She could hardly wait to see society's reaction to the new Amanda. "Turn around and let me button you up in back. Once you see the dress properly fastened, you're going to love it."

Unfortunately, turning around brought Amanda face-to-face with the looking glass. Her hands flew up to cover her cleavage. "This is entirely too low," she complained. "I'll have to wear a different gown."

"You have no other suitable gowns. Besides this, Mrs. Huntley sent only a few day dresses. The rest of your order won't be ready until next week."

Frowning, Amanda yanked up on the bodice. "I'm certain the example Mrs. Huntley showed me had a much more modest neckline."

Of course it had, else Amanda would never have approved it. But that was before Juliana gave Mrs. Huntley her instructions, which, thankfully, the seamstress had followed to the letter.

Although Juliana had always considered her friend a bit chubby, Amanda had a surprisingly lovely shape once she was rid of her baggy clothes. And Juliana intended to show that off, the better to snag a young husband. "It's not too low," she said, reaching around to tug the bodice back down.

"It is so." Amanda pulled it higher.

Watching her friend in the mirror, Juliana could only laugh. "Look at yourself!"

Amanda's neckline was indeed very near her neck—which meant the ribbon sash that was supposed to ride beneath her breasts was perched absurdly on top of them. Her mouth quirked, then spread into a reluctant smile, followed by a nervous titter.

"Tinkling bells," Juliana reminded her, and Amanda responded with her new, practiced laugh.

"Much better." Juliana reached once more to pull the bodice into place, dragging it a bit too low in the process. When an unusual fleur-de-lis shaped birthmark was revealed on Amanda's left breast, a delighted smile curved Juliana's lips. "Quite seductive," she murmured, raising a brow.

"Pardon?" Amanda looked down, then tugged the lace-trimmed bodice up to cover it. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"Whyever not? It's a delicate, pretty thing. I'm sure a man would find it enticing."

"Enticing?" Clearly scandalized, Amanda blushed. "It's private."

Tying the sash, Juliana sighed, wondering again if—in spite of her newfound beauty—Amanda might be rather too reserved to attract men. But at least the blush brought out the roses in her cheeks.

She gave her more trifle, just in case. And brushed on a little extra rouge, as Corinna had suggested. As she applied the rest of her friend's cosmetics—as artfully as her sister painted—she drilled Amanda over and over. "Let me see your smiles one more time. And you must practice the look again before we leave."

All of this preparation was not going to be for nothing.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"There he is," Amanda said dourly as they stepped into Lady Hammersmithe's ballroom.

"There's who?" Juliana asked.

"Lord Malmsey." A frown marred Amanda's newly flawless complexion. Apparently questioning Juliana's plan, she turned to her surrogate chaperone. "Should I dance with him, Lady Frances?"

Unaware that Amanda was engaged to him, Aunt Frances patted her hand. "I expect someone younger would suit you better, my dear. But if you've already been introduced, of course you should dance with him if he asks."

Juliana doubted Lord Malmsey would ask—although if she could judge by the man's pained expression, he was attempting to screw up his courage. Figuring ten seconds in his arms would cure Amanda's second thoughts, she laid a gentle hand on her friend's back. "You definitely should dance with him," she declared, subtly steering her protégé toward her ill-chosen fiancé. "It would be the polite thing, after all. And after that, we'll see about having Aunt Frances introduce you to some more-promising men."

Lord Malmsey's eyes widened as they approached, and Juliana saw him swallow hard. Taking pity on the poor man, she smiled when they drew near. "Good evening, Lord Malmsey. Lady Amanda was just telling me she hoped you'd ask her to dance."

"Very well," he said.

Amanda said nothing.

The strains of a waltz rose into the air, and the two of them walked off.

Or rather, they shuffled off.

Frances joined Juliana and watched them face each other and begin dancing. "They don't seem a proper match."

"No, they don't," Juliana agreed. She'd never seen a more awkward couple. Due to Amanda's height, she and Lord Malmsey danced eye to eye. But beneath his high, creased forehead, Lord Malmsey's gaze looked shy and hooded, flicking only briefly toward his fiancée. Amanda looked utterly despondent.

On the other side of the ballroom, Juliana spotted Lord Neville ambling out of the refreshment room. "Wait here," she told Frances. "I see Emily's father, and he rarely stays long at any ball." Since the man had two heirs and no plans to take a fourth wife, he spent his evenings with various mistresses or gambling at his club. "I simply must speak to him about that snake before he leaves. It will take but a moment, and then as soon as Amanda is finished dancing, we'll find some men who are more suitable."

What a lucky thing Aunt Frances had her head perpetually in the clouds. Amanda's own aunt would have been unlikely to cooperate with undermining her father's plans, Juliana thought as she made a beeline for Viscount Neville.

"Lord Neville, if I may speak with you for a moment?"

"Ah, yes, my dear, of course." Emily's father was blond and gray-eyed like his daughter, tall and a bit hefty—not fat, but a big man. As he seemed to overindulge in everything, Juliana wasn't surprised to see a plate in his hand, filled with a variety of morsels from the refreshment room. He took a hearty bite of a biscuit. "What can I do to help you?"

"It's about Emily—"

"Ah, yes. I do appreciate the interest you've taken in my girl."

"She's a delight." Juliana smiled as he swallowed the biscuit and followed it with a grape. "But I'm wondering if I can prevail on you to discourage her from taking Herman out in public. It's not the thing for a young lady to carry a snake."

"Ah, yes," he repeated. "But my Emily is very attached to Herman. She and her mother found him in the garden the very day before my wife died." He plucked three more grapes off the bunch and popped them into his mouth.

"I'm aware of that, sir. But earlier this week when we visited the shops, a patron at Grafton House fainted dead away at the sight of Emily's snake." While that wasn't precisely true, it could have been true. A number of customers at Grafton House had been horrified, not to mention the poor seamstress, Mrs. Huntley. "If only you'd heard the shrieks of dismay, Lord Neville. It wasn't the sort of scene a young lady should inspire."

Apparently the viscount found that more amusing than distressing, because he laughed.

And then he stopped.

In fact, not only had he stopped laughing, it looked as though he'd stopped breathing. The plate dropped from his hands, shattering on the parquet floor as he clutched at his throat and chest. His mouth was open, but he seemed unable to speak. His skin was turning blue.

"Dear heavens!" Juliana exclaimed loudly enough to make the people nearby look over. "Lord Neville, are you all right?"

Clearly he wasn't.

"Help!" she yelled, moving to thump him on the back, the way people did when someone swallowed the wrong way and went into a coughing fit. But it seemed he couldn't even cough. His eyes bugged out in his blue face, panicked.

Just then, Griffin ran up with his friend Lord Stafford in tow. "A chair," Lord Stafford instructed. "Now."

Griffin rushed to do his bidding. In the meantime, Lord Stafford very quickly—and rather calmly, under the circumstances—untied the viscount's cravat and loosened the buttons at his throat. All the while, he murmured soothing words in the same smooth, chocolatey voice that had weakened Juliana's knees when they danced together last week.

But Lord Neville didn't look soothed. In fact, Juliana feared he might die right there on the spot. Lord Stafford didn't seem to think so, though. Decidedly unpanicked, he continued to murmur calmly while he waited for Griffin to bring him the chair.

She couldn't imagine why Lord Stafford wanted a chair, but when it appeared a moment later, he plunked it down in front of the viscount and shoved the man's big body to lean over the back. Quickly, again and again. After several thrusts, an intact red grape shot out of Lord Neville's mouth and landed at Juliana's feet.

The viscount took several gasping, gulping breaths while Lord Stafford moved the chair around and helped the man lower himself onto it. Lord Neville slumped there, the color returning to his face while he breathed deeply, as though the simple act of drawing air was the most satisfying thing he'd ever done.

Juliana released a long sigh of relief, in concert with several other people who had become riveted by the emergency.

"You saved his life," she told Lord Stafford, impressed. After all, she was a woman intent on helping others, and Lord Stafford clearly did the same. But rather than acknowledge her compliment, he only shrugged and crouched down by Lord Neville, asking to have a look in his throat.

Supposing now was not the time to press Lord Neville about his daughter's snake, Juliana turned to see how Amanda was faring on the dance floor. But apparently the waltz had ended sometime during the excitement. A quadrille was playing instead, and Amanda was nowhere to be seen.

"I told you Lord Stafford was a good man," Griffin said beside her.

She glanced at the man, who was now examining the back of Lord Neville's throat through a silver quizzing glass attached to a chain around his neck. His dark, tousled curls flopped over his forehead.

"He saved the viscount's life," Griffin added.

"That's his job," she snapped. Lord Stafford's quick, skillful actions didn't mitigate his shortcomings. He was not what she was looking for in a husband. "Where in heaven's name is Amanda?"

"Right there," Griffin said, gesturing toward a cluster of men across the room.

If Amanda hadn't been tall enough that Juliana could glimpse the blond curls piled on her head, she'd never have believed it. And to think she'd fretted earlier concerning Amanda's ability to attract suitors. Her worries had proved to be groundless.

The trifle was clearly working.

By all appearances, Amanda hadn't needed Aunt Frances to make any introductions. She was completely surrounded by men. Old men, young men, and men in between. Even Lord Malmsey was there. He stood at the edge of the clutch of admirers, looking somewhat disconcerted to find his betrothed suddenly commanding so much attention.

Juliana went over and wormed her way into the crowd. She touched Amanda on the arm, and when Amanda glanced down, she whispered, "The look." Evidently flustered by her new popularity, Amanda appeared nonplussed for a moment, but quickly smiled one of the smiles Juliana had made her practice over and over, then chose a man and flirted through her newly darkened lashes.

"Would you honor me with a dance?" he asked immediately.

"With pleasure, my lord," Amanda said, just as Juliana had taught her. As she went off on the man's arm, she glanced back to meet Juliana's gaze, her own eyes filled with wonder. "They're falling at my feet," she mouthed silently.

Of course they were. Hadn't Juliana told her that would happen?

It certainly looked as though they'd be able to find a man willing to compromise Amanda. Now all Juliana had to do was find the right man—a man who would make her friend happy.

More than a dozen men were showing keen interest in Amanda. The fact that Juliana herself had rejected each and every one of them had no bearing whatsoever. She and Amanda were very different women, with very different requirements in a husband. And half of the men met Amanda's foremost requirement—that is, they were young men, or significantly younger than Lord Malmsey, at least.

One of them ought to do just fine.

Without Amanda at the center of it, the group slowly dispersed. But Lord Malmsey still stood there, gazing toward the dance floor dejectedly. Although Juliana didn't know him well, he'd always seemed a kindly man. If he wasn't precisely handsome, at least he was pleasant-looking, even now, with his mouth set in a straight line. But his pale green eyes seemed haunted.

Quite suddenly, Juliana realized there was a flaw in her perfect plan. In seeing to Amanda's happiness, she was making Lord Malmsey unhappy. And that would never do.

"What are you plotting now, Juliana?"

She looked over to see Corinna and Alexandra. "Nothing," she told them both.

"I recognize that look on your face," Alexandra said.

Juliana never had been able to fool her older sister. "Oh, very well," she admitted. "I'm trying to find a match for Lord Malmsey."

Looking startled, Corinna glanced to the melancholy man and back. "Holy Hannah, what put that thought into your head?"

Juliana had no answer for that—at least no answer that wouldn't reveal her friend's predicament.

"Something is going on." Corinna narrowed her eyes. "Something to do with Amanda."

Juliana sighed. She should have known Corinna would weasel the truth out of her one way or another. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course we can," Alexandra said, looking a little hurt. "Have we broken a confidence ever?"

Well, no, neither of them had. Not to Juliana's knowledge, anyway. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. "Amanda's father has betrothed her to Lord Malmsey."

"I knew it!" Corinna exclaimed at the same time Alexandra said, "That's dreadful."

"Quite. Amanda is understandably upset, but Lord Wolverston will hear nothing of it. He's told her that if she refuses to go through with the wedding, he'll disinherit her."

Corinna gasped. "Then no one else will ever offer for her."

Of the three of them, she always had been the most blunt.

"Precisely," Juliana said. "Which is why I'm engaged in helping Amanda entice a younger man, in the hopes that he'll offer for her before it's too late." While that wasn't the complete plan, it was close enough. She wasn't about to admit that they'd also have to persuade the man to publicly compromise her friend in order to force Lord Wolverston's hand. "But I cannot find love for Amanda at Lord Malmsey's expense. That would be terribly unfair."

"Juliana always wants to see everyone happy," Alexandra reminded their sister.

"In all his many years," Corinna pointed out, "Lord Malmsey has never proposed to anyone before Amanda. He's too shy to approach another woman."

"Then a shy spinster will be a perfect match." Juliana's gaze wandered the ballroom. Miss Hartshorn was too old; Lady Sarah Ballister was too young; Miss Ashton was entirely too outgoing. She scanned past her chaperone, then back. "Aunt Frances," she said, nodding to herself with more than a little satisfaction.

"Aunt Frances?" Corinna's brilliant blue eyes widened. "You're thinking to match Aunt Frances with Lord Malmsey?"

Alexandra frowned toward their aunt, no doubt considering her spectacles and unstylish gray hair. "I've never seen Aunt Frances show romantic interest in a man."

"That's only because no man has ever shown an interest in her," Juliana said. "And that will all change when she receives Lord Malmsey's love letter."

"What love letter?" Alexandra and Corinna asked in unison.

Juliana shook her head. "The one I'm going to write, of course."

Her sisters had no imagination.

She spotted one of their cousins, looking lost. "Rachael!" she called with a wave, starting toward her.

Corinna grabbed her arm. "Are you plotting something else now?"

"Of course not," Juliana said, although she hoped to get her brother to dance with her cousin.

Rachael and Griffin belonged together, but Rachael had seemed a bit down lately and hadn't attended many events, which had hampered Juliana's efforts to match them.

"I just want to invite Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth to my next sewing party," she explained with an innocent smile.

CHAPTER NINE

Wary of Juliana's grin, Griffin watched her heading his way with their cousin. "Oh, there you are," she said. "Rachael would love to dance with you."

Rachael's gorgeous sky blue eyes narrowed, making Griffin suspect she found Juliana's statement as preposterous as he did. An awkward moment passed while he shifted uncomfortably. But there was nothing for it—no way to duck out of this situation gracefully.

Sometime in the years he'd spent in the military, Juliana had completely mastered the art of meddling.

"I would be honored, Lady Rachael," he said at last, "if you would join me for the next dance."

"Splendid," Juliana said as the musicians struck up a waltz. "Please excuse me." She waved them toward the dance floor. "I must speak with Alexandra."

"She was just speaking with Alexandra,” Rachael informed him as they began waltzing. “Do you always allow your sisters to run roughshod over you?"

Griffin refused to take offense at her question. For one thing, she felt entirely too good in his arms—which was completely inappropriate—and for another, the remark was made with good humor. "Only Juliana," he told her lightly.

"Like hell," she said. Rachael could curse like a sailor, but he considered that part of her charm. "Alexandra and Corinna know how to play you just as well."

Since he couldn't really argue, he twirled her and changed the subject. "You've been hiding this season."

The good humor vanished, replaced by a melancholy air. Even the chestnut tendrils around her face seemed to droop. "I haven't felt much like mingling."

She didn't have to say why. Griffin knew—although his sisters didn't—that Rachael had been dealt a blow several months earlier when she'd learned the man she'd called "Papa" since birth hadn't actually been her father.

"It doesn't signify," he said quietly.

"It signifies to me. I feel like my life has been a lie."

"Has something changed at home? Is Noah treating you differently? Or Claire or Elizabeth?"

"No. Not at all. But I feel as though they should."

"You all shared a mother. They're still your brother and sisters."

She sighed, obviously shaken. "I know." Her eyes grew suspiciously moist, making him fear that her chin—her adorable, dented chin—might begin to wobble next.

And Griffin found himself wanting to help her.

The entire affair was none of his business. Between running a marquessate and marrying off his sisters, God knew he already had enough on his plate. But Rachael was young and beautiful. She should be enjoying herself, searching for a husband, falling in love. She was his cousin—in name, if not by blood—and he wanted to see her happy.

The haunted look in her cerulean eyes caused a tightness in his chest.

"Do you want me to help you find your father?" he asked.

"No," she said unequivocally. "He's dead."

He thought about pointing out that, whether her father was dead or not, learning his identity might afford her some peace. But the music ended, and she drew back and dipped into a curtsy.

"Thank you, Lord Cainewood," she said without meeting his eyes. And then she walked away.

Given their shared childhood, her curtsy had been way too formal. But Griffin decided it was for the best. He shouldn't have offered to help her anyway—he always found himself clenching his teeth when she was around. The last thing he needed was a woman like Rachael complicating his life.

As he made his way from the dance floor, the Duke of Castleton walked up. "When are you going to sell me Velocity?"

Grateful for the distraction, Griffin laughed. "Never. When are you going to give up asking?"

"Never." Although Castleton gave a determined nod, not a hair on his carefully coiffed blond head moved. "I heard he made a good showing at Ascot."

"A pity you missed the meet," Griffin said, remembering Juliana preferred fair men. "You've a fine stable, Castleton."

"It would be finer with Velocity."

"Velocity—as I've told you at least a dozen times—isn't for sale." Considering the subject closed, Griffin gestured across the room. "I say, would you care to meet my sister Juliana?"

Everyone who was anyone was at Lady Hammersmithe's ball. Including James's mother, Cornelia—the Dowager Countess of Stafford—and her older sisters, Aurelia and Bedelia.

In the refreshment room, James handed them all glasses of champagne. "How is your throat, Aunt Bedelia?"

"Better. But my chest has been paining me." She put a narrow hand to her flat bosom—Bedelia was as skinny as a rail. "Perhaps you should stop by Monday morning and have a listen to my heart with your new stethoscope."

Doing his best to appear concerned, James sipped champagne. "Perhaps I'll do that."

"Certainly you will," his mother said, but she softened that with a smile that reached her brown eyes.

Besides sharing James's eyes, she had the same dark hair, and he thought, not for the first time, that she was quite attractive for a woman of her years. Aurelia might be a mite plump, and Bedelia a bit too thin, but Cornelia was perfectly in between.

"Have you enjoyed the dancing this evening?" she asked him.

"Am I supposed to?" he responded dryly. "I thought marriage was the object, not enjoyment."

"Grandchildren are the object," Aurelia put in. "And grandnephews and grandnieces."

He'd thought as much. But he couldn't imagine marrying any of the women he'd danced with tonight, let alone siring offspring with any of them. Try as he might—and he was trying, for his mother's sake if not his own—he feared he couldn't imagine marrying again at all.

The problem was, he'd had love and marriage once. So now one without the other—marriage without the love—just seemed plain…impossible. But a loveless marriage was all he could ever have, because loving a woman besides Anne was unthinkable. Even considering it felt disrespectful, as though he would be desecrating Anne's memory.

Not that she'd have objected, mind you. Anne had been generous and giving. She wouldn't have wanted him to be unhappy or lonely all his life. If he'd asked her permission—which he hadn't, of course—she would certainly have said he could fall in love with someone else after she was gone.

But that wasn't going to happen. Whenever he'd danced with a lady tonight, Anne's serious, loyal face had seemed to shimmer before his eyes.

"I only want you to be happy," his mother said.

"I know." He knew, too, that she understood how he felt. Or at least she should. She'd also loved and lost a spouse. "Why aren't you dancing, Mother?"

"Me?"

Perhaps if he turned the tables, she might realize she was pushing too hard. That he wasn't yet ready. "Yes, you. "

Aurelia and Bedelia tittered. Maybe it was the champagne, but he thought not.

"What?" he said, turning to confront them. "Father has been gone longer than Anne. And your husbands have been gone even longer. All three of you should be dancing."

The sisters exchanged startled glances. "We're too old," Aurelia said for all of them.

"Nonsense." Aurelia and Bedelia were well into their sixties, but his mother was only fifty-six. He put down his champagne, then took their three glasses and set them down, too. "You're not going to find new husbands while standing around the refreshment table. Come along."

Grabbing his mother's hand, he drew her toward the ballroom, trusting her sisters to follow. After all, the three of them stuck together as tightly as a bandage to a wound.

His profession required prescribing medicine…perhaps it was time they got a taste of their own.

CHAPTER TEN

While Amanda was off dancing with her fourth or fifth potential suitor, and Juliana was inviting—well, perhaps begging—Rachael's two sisters to attend her little sewing party tomorrow, Griffin brought a strange man to meet her.

Not that he was actually strange, mind you. But he was definitely a stranger. Which Juliana found intriguing, because, honestly, she'd thought she'd already met every eligible man who'd bothered to come to town this season.

"My sister," Griffin said by way of introduction. "Lady Juliana."

The man was handsome, fair-haired, and not too tall. Juliana smiled and curtsied.

"Juliana, I'd be pleased for you to meet the Duke of Castleton."

A duke! Handsome, fair-haired, not too tall, and wealthy and well connected. Juliana's heart fluttered with excitement as the duke bowed over her hand. "Would you honor me with a dance, Lady Juliana?"

"It would be my pleasure," she said and let him lead her onto the floor.

The duke's dress and bearing were both impeccable, and he proved to be a fine dancer. "Where have you been all season?" she asked.

"Abroad, seeing to some of my interests now that the war with France has come to an end."

"Ah." Though he wasn't holding her very closely, she could smell his costly eau de cologne. "All your many interests keep you busy, then?"

"Not usually." He had calm, pale blue eyes. "It's been years since I've been overseas. I much prefer to stay here in town and fill my life with amusements."

No profession, nothing to keep him from spending lots of time with her. His blond hair was neatly groomed—unlike tousled Lord Stafford, he obviously had time to tend to it. He was sounding better and better. Perfect, as a matter of fact.

"I adore being amused," she told him and gave him the look.

Unfortunately, he didn't fall at her feet. In fact, he appeared rather discomfited. "It was cold on the Continent," he said, as though she hadn't just tried to attract him.

So he was proper and reserved. She supposed she could deal with that. "As cold as it's been here?"

"Not quite. And certainly not as rainy."

"It snowed this month. In June!"

"Amazing, isn't it?"

"Yes, amazing."

Not exactly scintillating conversation, but then, they didn't know each other yet. There would be plenty of time later to speak of deeper things, Juliana told herself.

When the dance ended, the duke quite properly delivered her back to her brother.

"Well?" Griffin asked after the man had bowed and walked away. "I suppose you want me to keep looking?"

"To the contrary," she said. "I expect it's likely no more introductions will be necessary. How old is the duke? Do you know?" He didn't look terribly ancient, but most of the dukes she knew were in their dotage.

"You're not dismissing him out of hand?" Griffin looked vastly surprised—and pleased, not to mention relieved. "I believe he's thirty-two."

While she'd prefer a man in his twenties—she was searching for love, not early widowhood—thirty-two wasn't so very old. "You didn't mention his given name."

"It's David. And his family name is Harcourt."

Harcourt—a nice, simple surname for her children. And his title, Castleton, sounded rather romantic, didn't it? And he was a duke.

The man seemed more ideal by the moment.

A deep voice interrupted her musings. "Good evening, Lady Juliana."

She glanced over to see Lord Stafford. "Good evening," she returned.

"Cainewood," he said, addressing Griffin, "you wouldn't happen to know any aging widowers, would you?"

"Looking for more patients, Stafford? Old ones, with many ailments?"

"No." He gestured toward three mature women standing in a tight cluster. "I'm looking for dance partners for my mother and her sisters, Lady Avonleigh and Lady Balmforth."

"Dance partners?" Juliana asked, her interest piqued. "Or possible suitors?"

"My sister fancies herself a matchmaker," Griffin explained.

"I do not," she retorted. "I simply try to help people. I endeavor to make people happy."

"A noble undertaking," Lord Stafford assured her. "However, I'm not looking for husbands for my mother and aunts. Dance partners will do."

Lord Malmsey came to mind, but although he was too old for Amanda, he was too young for Lord Stafford's mother. And besides, she'd already decided he belonged with Aunt Frances.

"May I borrow your quizzing glass?" she asked.

Instead of taking it off, Lord Stafford handed it to her with the long chain still around his neck. She leaned closer to raise it to her left eye. He smelled not of costly eau de cologne but of something closer to soap.

Very male soap.

A quick scan of the room through the quizzing glass revealed a few likely dance partners for his relations, and she wasted no time corralling them and introducing them to the three women. Not five minutes later, she stood hip to hip with Lord Stafford, the two of them watching his mother and aunts perform a quadrille.

Or at least they would have been hip to hip had he not been so overly tall.

"That," Lord Stafford said, looking a little stunned, "was impressive."

Juliana shrugged, much the same as he had when she'd remarked that he'd saved Lord Neville's life. "I'm good at what I do."

"You certainly are." The musicians finished the quadrille and struck up a lilting waltz. "May I have this dance?" he suddenly asked.

Although she would rather have danced again with the duke, it wouldn't be seemly to refuse. So she said, "It would be my pleasure."

When he took her hand, a peculiar flutter erupted in her middle. That had nothing to do with him, of course. It was just because everything was going so well. She'd found the duke, and Amanda had her pick of young suitors, and Lord Malmsey was going to fall head over heels for Aunt Frances. She might even be able to match Lord Stafford's mother and aunts with eligible widowers this season, no matter that he only wanted them to dance. All of her projects were beginning to work.

No, that flutter had nothing to do with Lord Stafford. She had no interest in him whatsoever. In fact, he might well be the ideal man for Amanda. He was a doctor, after all, and Amanda wasn't sickened by blood. She would make him a good wife. And Amanda was tall, so the two of them would look excellent together.

And perhaps she, Juliana, would be a duchess! She could already picture herself walking down the aisle with the duke.

She glanced up to find Lord Stafford staring at her again, like he had last week when they'd danced. And again she found that unnerving. He seemed a very intense sort of man.

She wracked her brain for something to say that would get him talking instead of staring. "I missed you at Almack's last Wednesday."

His chocolate eyes widened. "You missed me?"

She hadn't meant it like that. "You weren't there. Do you not like Almack's?"

James abhorred the very idea of the place—it was a veritable marriage mart, the men in attendance little more than targets for young girls and their scheming mamas—but he wouldn't say that to Juliana. "My mother obtained a voucher for me," he said instead, which was nothing less than the truth, "but there was trouble at the Institute that night, so I was unable to attend."

That was nothing less than the truth as well, although another truth was that he'd have found a different excuse to back out had that one not presented itself.

"How unfortunate," she said. "I hope the trouble wasn't too dreadful."

"A shortage of staff. I had to fill in myself, as well as interview new candidates."

"What sort of staff were you looking for? Did you find anyone?"

Given her inclination toward helping people, he wouldn't be surprised should she offer to find someone for him. "I needed a young woman to act as an assistant. To keep the physicians well supplied and make sure the patients are seen as quickly and efficiently as possible. And yes, I found someone. I wouldn't be here tonight if I hadn't."

Her blue-green eyes narrowed. "You would work on a Saturday evening?"

"Smallpox doesn't know the day of the week; we must immunize as many as possible. And working people cannot visit during normal working hours. When I'm in town, New Hope is open from ten o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night, every day except Sunday."

Most shops kept the same hours, so he wondered why she looked so disapproving. And he wished she didn't. Because, truthfully, the more he saw of her, the more he liked her. She was so full of good intentions and the liveliness that had been missing from his life.

He realized, quite suddenly, that Anne's face wasn't shimmering before his eyes. In fact, he hadn't thought about Anne at all while dancing with Juliana. Not for the barest moment. Although Juliana couldn't be more different from Anne—his wife had been a very serious young lady—he could almost imagine marrying her.

Almost. But not quite. Because he'd want to fall in love with her first, and that wasn't going to happen.

Even should he someday feel ready to fall in love—even should he someday manage to get over the notion that it would be too much of a betrayal—love would never happen with Juliana. She wasn't right for him, no matter how appealing he found her. Although she might be "good at what she did," what she did was entirely too frivolous for a man of his demeanor.

But she felt rather good in his arms. In the light from the chandeliers overhead, her hair gleamed, a intriguing mix of pale gold and light brown and every shade in between. And those blue-green-hazel eyes…he couldn't stop himself from gazing into them, trying to figure out what color they were.

When the dance came to an end, he wasn't sure whether he was sorry or relieved.

"I have someone I'd like you to meet," she said.

He didn't want to meet anyone. He wanted to go home to Stafford House. Without his mother. Maybe she'd sleep at her sisters' town house tonight, the three of them giggling like young girls discussing their latest conquests. A man could hope.

But no, she'd come home as always, probably vexed with him for making her dance with a man who wasn't her husband. That had been the whole idea, hadn't it? To make her realize grieving spouses didn't belong on the marriage mart?

"You don't mind, do you?" Juliana's enthusiastic voice snapped him back to attention. "Lady Amanda is really quite lovely."

Oh, yes, she wanted him to meet someone. Lady Amanda. Right. "I don't mind at all," he lied. "Where is this lovely lady?"

She shot him an unreadable glance before heading across the ballroom. "Follow me, Lord Stafford."

"James."

"Pardon?"

He watched her shapely, swaying bottom as he followed her. "My given name is James."

She slowed down until he caught up. "We scarcely know each other, Lord Stafford."

True. But he'd been thinking of her as Juliana practically since the moment they'd met. Not Lady Juliana, just Juliana.

Odd, that.

"We've danced together twice," he pointed out.

"That hardly makes us intimates."

Intimates. The word caused a vision to swim through his head. A very inappropriate vision, even though he'd already decided she was entirely too frivolous. "Just call me James," he snapped.

"Very well." She huffed out an impatient sigh and came to a stop before a clutch of men. "Come along," she said and pushed in.

A blond woman was in the center. A lovely blond woman. A lovely blond woman who caused no visions to swim through his head.

Juliana smiled. "Lord Stafford—James—this is Lady Amanda Wolverston. Amanda, Lord Stafford."

"Lady Amanda," he said with a proper bow. He wasn't tempted to call her just Amanda. Or even think of her as just Amanda. She was Lady Amanda through and through.

But Juliana was just Juliana.

This entire evening was proving most disconcerting.

"Lord Stafford," Lady Amanda returned formally. "I'm delighted to meet you."

She was lovely and delighted. Being a gentleman, he had to do the polite thing. "May I have the honor of the next dance?"

Lady Amanda smiled a lovely smile, though it looked a tad forced. "With pleasure, my lord," she said, sounding much less delighted than she claimed.

Juliana shot them both a grin.

At least someone was happy.

Lady Amanda was a fine dancer. But she didn't feel particularly good in James's arms. Although she wasn't nearly as animated as Juliana, she chatted amiably enough, and she was quite lovely, but when the dance ended he wasn't sorry; he was only relieved.

Another man claimed her immediately. James's mother sidled near, breathless. "What a lovely girl."

"Yes. Did you enjoy your dance?" he asked, expecting to hear she hadn't. Expecting to hear she wasn't ready to think of men other than her departed husband. Expecting to hear her apologize for encouraging him to court women when he clearly wasn't ready, either.

"They were delightful," she said instead.

"They?"

"The dances. All three of them. And all three men. Aurelia and Bedelia thought one dance quite enough, so I danced with their men, too." She took both his hands in hers. "Thank you, my dear. I'll admit I thought the very idea was daft, but it's high time I resumed a social life, and I appreciate your little push."

He groaned. Silently, of course.

"I'm going to spend the night with Aurelia and Bedelia," she added, looking happier than he'd seen her in ages. "Good evening, dear. I'll see you tomorrow."

He certainly wanted her to be happy, he thought as she walked off, and he'd been wishing for a night at home alone.

So why did her news make him grit his teeth?

"Well, Stafford, you've certainly danced with your share of the ladies."

He turned to see Cainewood. "I'm finished," he said, relieved to be out from under Cornelia's watchful eye. But he wasn't ready to go home yet—suddenly home alone sounded lonely. "Can I interest you in a game of chess?"

"Chess? Haven't touched a board since I left the army." Cainewood sipped some of the concoction in his half-empty glass. "Sure. For how much?"

"You want to wager?"

"Afraid you're going to lose?" Grinning, he sipped again. "Ten guineas."

"Deal." The stake was steep—certainly much more than they'd ever bet in their schooldays—but James grinned in return. "Follow me," he said, leading his friend toward the card room.

He wasn't going to lose. Cainewood was looking a bit foxed.

"I say, Cainewood. You're looking a little foxed."

Griffin looked up from the chessboard where he and Stafford were playing, to find Castleton standing over them. "I'm quite sober, I assure you," he told the duke, fascinated to hear a slur in his own voice. But just a bit of a slur, because he was just a bit foxed. Which was perfectly understandable, since he'd had much to celebrate this evening.

Juliana had finally—finally—found a man she wanted.

This man right here.

He took a sip of the Regent's Punch in his glass, an inspired mix of six different spirits. "What do you think of my sister, Castleton?"

The duke shrugged. "She's a little lively."

"Yes, isn't that nice? Nothing like a lively young lady." Griffin blinked his eyes. Castleton looked a bit blurred. And a bit stiff.

He wondered what his sister saw in the man.

Castleton was a keen judge of horseflesh—a fine recommendation, to Griffin's mind—but surely Juliana cared little about that. She sat a mount well and certainly enjoyed riding up and down Rotten Row in Hyde Park, the fashionable place to see and be seen, but she'd never been a particularly horsey sort of girl.

Griffin supposed, however, that a lady might think Castleton handsome in a pale, pasty sort of way. And, oh, yes, he was a duke. There was that.

Hell, did it matter why Juliana wanted him? The fact that she did was good enough.

"It's your turn," Stafford said.

"So it is." Griffin focused on the board—or at least he tried to focus. He was losing, but what the hell. Life was too good at the moment to worry overmuch about a chess game or a few guineas.

Pondering his strategy, he took another sip to celebrate. He'd never cared much for punch until tonight, but it was astonishingly good stuff.

He moved a rook and looked back up at Castleton. "I suppose you've come over to ask for permission to call on my sister?"

"Actually, I didn't. I was just sitting over there playing cards and noticed you looked foxed."

Castleton sounded a bit pompous and disapproving. The prig. Why again did Juliana like him? Oh, yes, he was a duke. And her reason didn't matter. Griffin wanted his sister to be happy—he wanted all of his sisters to be happy. If Juliana had her heart set on Castleton, he'd do whatever it would take to see her marry the prig.

"Did you know," he said, noticing that slur again in a detached, amused sort of way, "that Velocity is part of Juliana's dowry?"

The horse wasn't, of course. Until now.

"You don't say," Castleton mused, suddenly looking much more lively himself. "I hadn't heard that."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SHREWSBURY CAKES

Beat half a pound of Butter to a fine cream, and put in the same weight of Flour, one Egg, a measure of grated loaf Sugar, and small spoons of Nutmeg and Cinnamon. Mix them into a paste, roll them thin, and cut them with a small glass or little tins, prick them, lay them on sheets of tin, and bake them in a slow oven. Serve spread with raspberry Jam if you wish.

Should you wish to convince someone of something, these cakes will do the trick.
—Helena, Countess of Greystone, 1784

Despite having persuaded her cousins to attend her party, Juliana had no more ladies sewing than last week. Corinna, while present today in the drawing room, was "involved" with her latest painting and refused to pick up a needle. Aunt Frances was at Amanda's house, visiting with Lady Mabel. And Sunday was the one day of the week Emily's father made sure to spend time with her.

Luckily, Rachael's mother had been artistic and had taught her girls to sew. Since Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth were sewing much faster—not to mention better—than last week's crew, Juliana was able to avoid panicking. And since Aunt Frances and Emily were missing, she took advantage of their absence to explain Amanda's situation to her cousins.

After hearing of Amanda's woes, Rachael sighed. But then her smile made Juliana hopeful she was becoming a little cheerier. "Well, you certainly were last night's Incomparable, Lady Amanda." Her needle flew in and out of the miniature coat she was making. "Were you enthralled by any particular gentleman?"

"Lord Stafford," Juliana answered for Amanda. "He's absolutely perfect."

"I'm not certain." Seated on the drawing room sofa between Juliana and Alexandra, Amanda stitched as slowly and clumsily as ever. Juliana doubted she'd ever progress beyond blankets. Perhaps this blanket. "Lord Stafford is handsome," Amanda admitted.

"He's gorgeous," Corinna corrected from where she was painting by the picture window.

"Quite," Juliana agreed, reaching toward the platter of Shrewsbury cakes. She might not personally prefer James's dark looks, she thought as she spread raspberry jam on one of the sweets, but she couldn't argue with her sister's assessment.

"But I'm not struck by love," Amanda said, her stitches getting shakier.

Fearing her friend might stab herself and bleed, Juliana pulled the needle from her hand and put the cake into it instead. "It might take a while," she said gently.

"Not everyone marries for love," Claire pointed out, her unusual amethyst gaze fastened on her expert handiwork.

Elizabeth reached for a spool of white thread. "Your parents didn't marry for love, did they, Juliana?"

"No," Juliana said. "And that was a big mistake."

"Not this again." Corinna frowned at her painting. "Our family was perfectly happy."

"Not Mama. She loved Father desperately, and he never returned her feelings." As Juliana had grown older and more aware, she'd found her mother's unrequited love painful to watch. "Although he gave her children, he never found any other use for her. Never spent time with her, never truly made her part of his life."

She wouldn't let that happen to her. Until she found a man she loved—a man she knew loved her madly in return—she was determined to remain unwed.

"Mama's life wasn't that tragic," Corinna argued. "Amanda cannot afford to wait to fall deeply in love."

Claire nodded. "Her wedding is quickly approaching."

Perhaps they were right. Unfortunately, Amanda didn't have enough time to get to know Lord Stafford well. Juliana patted her friend's hand. "You might have to find someone you like a lot and marry him, then be struck by love later."

Amanda took a bite of cake and swallowed convulsively. "Grow into love, you mean?"

"Exactly." Juliana spread jam on another cake. "Lord Stafford isn't only handsome, he's also young and well-off."

"What are you looking for in a man?" Alexandra asked Amanda. "Besides appearance and status, that is. Looks fade, after all. Shared values and interests are much more important."

"Very true," Elizabeth said.

They all deferred to Alexandra as the expert among them on marriage.

Amanda seemed to consider that question for a minute. "I would like a man who is interested in Roman antiquities."

Juliana looked up from the cake, startled. "Since when are you intrigued by Roman antiquities?"

"Since my father found the ruins on our property."

"Three years?"

"More or less. It's a fascinating subject."

"Hmm," Juliana said.

While she suspected Amanda's interest had begun as a hopeless attempt to win her father's favor, she supposed it might have transformed into a sincere fascination. After all, the girl had to find something to amuse herself during all those months and years stuck in the countryside.

However, she sincerely doubted James shared an interest in Roman antiquities. When would he have time to pursue it? The man couldn't even find a few minutes to comb his hair.

"What else are you looking for in a husband?" she asked.

Amanda pondered the question a moment more. "I would like for him to play chess. If I'm to live away from Aunt Mabel, I'd like someone with whom to play chess."

Juliana doubted James had time for chess, either. Which was why she was surprised to hear Rachael say, "Lord Stafford definitely plays chess."

"However do you know that?" she asked.

Having finished sewing the coat, Rachael knotted the thread. "When Griffin came out of the card room last night, I overheard him saying he'd lost thirty guineas to Lord Stafford playing chess."

"Thirty guineas!" Although Juliana enjoyed a hand of cards now and then and certainly understood the appeal of a bet, she wasn't sure she approved of wagering significant sums. Surely that sort of money could be better spent elsewhere—donated to the Foundling Hospital, for instance. "I had no idea Griffin gambled such high stakes."

"I don't expect he usually does," Rachael said, looking amused. "He seemed a bit foxed, which isn't usual for him, either. In any case"—she smiled at Amanda—"Lord Stafford does enjoy chess."

Juliana jumped on that positive attribute. "See, there's more to him than appearance and status."

"He's also a physician," Claire reminded her.

"That, too. Which means he's intelligent and he cares for people."

"He limps," Amanda pointed out.

"Only slightly. And does it signify?"

"Indeed, it shouldn't." Corinna looked up from her easel. "He sounds like a paragon. Why don't you marry him, Juliana?"

"Don't be a goose. I have a duke courting me."

How quickly her dismal prospects had changed. Was it only yesterday she'd despaired of finding a husband? Not only had the duke danced with her twice at Lady Hammersmithe's ball—making brows rise and tongues wag—but toward the end of the evening he'd very kindly asked if he might pay her a call tomorrow afternoon.

She'd accepted, of course. She wasn't an idiot. There wasn't a man in London more perfect than the duke. Maybe she wasn't in love yet, but she was certain she would be soon.

"By the end of the season, I may be the Duchess of Castleton."

Amanda's mouth dropped open. "You'd marry the Duke of Castleton?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"No!" She looked horrified at the mere idea. "Everyone knows he's a by-blow."

Everyone but Juliana, evidently. During all those seasons she'd missed while in mourning, it seemed she'd also missed some fascinating gossip. "What do you mean?"

"It's an open secret," Rachael explained. "The previous duke was away for a year, looking after his interests on the Continent, when his wife conceived a child here in London. To this day, no one knows who sired the child. It really doesn't signify, though, since the last duke arrived home before the current duke was born and acknowledged him as his son."

"It signifies to me," Amanda disagreed. "Marriage to a known by-blow would taint my family."

"How?" Juliana asked. "He's a duke, for heaven's sake. His parentage hasn't affected his standing in society. He's accepted in the best circles."

"I'd never be certain of my children's true heritage. For all we know, the duke could have been fathered by a footman!"

"I cannot see why that makes a difference," Rachael said, "considering the last duke claimed him for a son."

"I'd never trust him to be true to me."

"Why would he be unfaithful?" Juliana wondered. "I imagine the last thing he'd want would be to subject his own children to the shame he's had to live with."

Amanda raised one of her newly plucked brows. "You know what they say: like father, like son."

"They also say the sins of the father shouldn't be visited on the child." Juliana felt sorry the man had been forced to grow up under this cloud. "The circumstances weren't any fault of his. He was a victim, not to blame. You're being entirely too judgmental."

But facts were facts, and the fact was that straitlaced Amanda would never consent to marry the duke. Of course, that didn't matter, since Juliana wanted him for herself. Amanda belonged with Lord Stafford.

Juliana handed her the second Shrewsbury cake, hoping it would help convince her that James was the right man for her. That was why she'd risen at dawn this morning to bake them, after all—they were supposed to help convince people. "Did you meet a man you liked better than Lord Stafford?"

"No," Amanda said. "But there are many more men to meet."

"Not this season. They seem to be staying home." Juliana smeared jam on a cake for herself. "I wonder if it's because of all the cold and wet."

"Now you're being a goose." Corinna swirled her brush in green paint. "I'm having a marvelous time this season—there are plenty of eligible men."

Of course she was having a marvelous time. It was her first season, and Griffin wasn't pressuring her to marry. Not yet, anyway. Juliana was supposed to wed first. "Don't tell me you've fallen in love."

"I'm not in any hurry." Corinna dabbed at her canvas, creating a grassy field out of nothing.

Juliana would never figure out how she did that. Feeling edgy, she rose and wandered closer to scrutinize the bucolic scene. A man and a woman walked hand in hand over rolling hills. Corinna never used to paint people—only landscapes and still lifes. But this past year she'd been adding people to her paintings more and more often.

And not just any people. Lovers. Maybe she was falling in love. "Are you sure?" Juliana asked.

"I don't have time to fall in love right now." Corinna added a dab of white to the green paint on her palette. "My art is more important. Next year, I plan to submit to the Royal Academy."

Juliana nearly choked on her cake. "No women have been elected to the Royal Academy for years."

"Forty-eight years, to be exact. Not since 1768." Corinna mixed the colors together, creating a lighter shade of green. "But I'm not expecting to be elected immediately. My first step is to submit several paintings for next year's Summer Exhibition, in the hopes that one will be selected."

It was a preposterous plan, but apparently the Shrewsbury cakes were somewhat effective, because Juliana was half convinced it might work. However, the cakes didn't seem to be affecting Amanda's view of James, and Juliana wasn't about to see her own project fail.

Although she knew she should resume sewing, she stepped to the window and gazed out at the unceasing rain. The trouble was, unless the Shrewsbury cakes worked magic, there was only so much she could do herself. James would have to do the rest.

Obviously his good looks weren't enough to do the trick. Maybe she should coach him in the ways of wooing. He was, after all, a man consumed by his avocation—with all the time he spent doctoring, perhaps he hadn't had the opportunity to acquire the sort of aristocratic polish necessary to win a lady like Amanda.

Of course, getting him to agree to such training could prove a delicate matter, since, in her experience, the male of the species was often reluctant to admit to any deficiency. But she would bring along some of the Shrewsbury cakes and hope they'd help convince him.

She turned from the window, returning to her chair and the third of thirty frocks. New Hope Institute was closed on Sundays, but she'd pay James a visit tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"What do you think of this dress, dear?" Sitting across from James at the breakfast table Monday morning, Cornelia held up her copy of La Belle Assemblée, open to one of the hand-colored fashion plates. "Shall I order something like it for the next ball?"

"It's lovely, Mother." Given that his mother hadn't shown any interest in clothes since his father died, James knew he should be pleased to see her enjoying life again. But instead he was rather annoyed that his plot to convince her to stop pressuring him had failed so miserably.

"I had a wonderful time dancing," she said for at least the dozenth time since the ball.

The only respite he'd received from her happiness was the few hours she'd spent overnight with her sisters. She'd enjoyed that, too, to hear her tell of it. Aurelia and Bedelia's peach-ridden town house was near Oxford Street with all its shops. A perfect distance from his own mansion in St. James's Place—close enough for an easy visit but far enough that he didn't see his aunts every time he stepped out the door.

He folded the Morning Chronicle and set it carefully by his plate. "I have an idea, Mother."

"Hmm?" She flipped a page of her magazine.

"Why don't you move back in with your sisters? You could help them redecorate and get rid of some of that peach. I'm sure you'd enjoy that more than living here with me."

Cornelia hadn't always lived with him. When he'd returned to England following his years in the army and at medical school in Edinburgh, he'd established his own household. After his father's death, when James inherited Stafford House and the country estate that went along with his title, his mother had moved in with her widowed sisters, wishing not to intrude on his life with his wife. But then Anne died two years ago, and Cornelia came running back home to "help" him.

And here she'd stayed. For too long. He loved her dearly, but a man was entitled to some privacy and autonomy. He'd truly appreciated her "help" while he'd needed it, but he'd long since recovered some semblance of a life, even if he didn't feel ready to fall in love and remarry.

"Don't be foolish, James. Should my sisters ever decide to redecorate, I can help them from here. Who would run this household if I abandoned you? Stafford House is one of the largest homes in London."

One thing he wasn't lacking was money. "I have a staff. And I can hire more people should I need to."

"That's not the same as having family oversee matters." She flipped another page, tilting her head to peruse the dress pictured. "I won't even think about moving out until you have a wife."

Yet another reason to marry. But he'd want to fall in love first, and that wasn't going to happen.

"Very well, then," he said. It was senseless to pursue this any longer. That would only cause hard feelings, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt his mother. "I must be off." He pushed back from the table and rose. "I wish you a pleasant day."

She looked up. "I trust you haven't forgotten that Bedelia is expecting you this morning?"

Damnation. He had. His mind had been on other things. Especially a hazel-eyed sprite he had no business thinking about.

Most annoying.

"I haven't time, I'm afraid." He shrugged into the tailcoat a footman held out. "Only one doctor volunteered today, so I must fill the other spot," he said, buttoning the coat. "I'm expected at the Institute by ten."

"The people can wait a little longer for their vaccinations. Bedelia has been suffering with chest pains."

"Bedelia is fine, Mother."

"I'm sure you're right." She paused for a sip of her tea. "But what if she isn't?"

"This doesn't look like a nice neighborhood," Aunt Frances said with a worried frown.

"It's perfectly safe, I assure you." Reaching over the basket of Shrewsbury cakes on her lap, Juliana pulled the carriage's curtains closed.

"Herman doesn't like the dark," Emily said, reopening them.

"Herman should have stayed home," Juliana told her. Aunt Frances was peering out the window again, looking even more nervous, so she dug into her reticule for something to distract her. "Here, Auntie. I forgot to give you this letter. It arrived in the morning mail."

Emily stroked Herman's olive green scales, for all the world like he was a real pet. "I never get letters."

"I never get letters, either." Eyes wide behind her spectacles, Aunt Frances broke the seal and held the paper up to the light. As she scanned the single page, she sucked in a breath. "Goodness gracious!"

Juliana stifled a smile. "What does it say, Auntie?"

Frances's cheeks were suddenly so rosy, she looked like she'd eaten an entire bowl of trifle. "It's a poem."

"A poem? Does it rhyme?"

Frances nodded violently.

"Who is it from?"

"I'm not at all certain. He didn't sign his name."

"How do you know it's a he, then?" Emily asked. "It might be from a girl."

The older woman raised a hand to pat her modestly covered bosom. "He signed it"—her voice dropped conspiratorially—"Your Secret Admirer."

"Oh, Aunt Frances! That's so romantic!" Juliana sneaked a glance out the window, wondering how much longer she could distract her. "Whoever he is, he must have been at Lady Hammersmithe's ball Saturday night and seen you in that beautiful brown dress."

Frances looked doubtful. "I've worn that dress dozens of times."

"Well, then, we must order you new ones, don't you think? Before next Saturday's ball."

Though she hadn't bought a new dress all season—or, for that matter, all decade—Frances nodded. "I suppose we must."

Juliana toyed with the handle of her basket, finding it harder and harder not to grin. To her vast relief, the carriage drew to a stop before a small, neat building with a sign that said NEW HOPE INSTITUTE.

The neighborhood hadn't improved, but her aunt no longer seemed to care. When a footman lowered the steps, Frances all but floated down to the street. Carrying the basket, Juliana climbed out after her, and Emily and Herman followed.

The door to the Institute opened, and a woman came out and down the steps, holding two children by the hand. The three of them were clothed rather poorly, but Aunt Frances didn't seem to notice. "What color dresses shall we order?" she asked Juliana.

"Pastels will look best with your golden-brown hair."

On the Institute's steps, Emily turned and frowned. "Her hair isn't brown."

Juliana smiled. "It will be after I summon Madame Bellefleur to dye it."

They all went inside. The reception area was noisy but looked very new and clean, especially compared to the people waiting there on the chairs. "A snake!" a boy exclaimed, and several children ran over to cluster around Emily and Herman.

A young woman with an air of authority walked out from behind a counter. She was dressed a little better than the patients, which wasn't saying much. "Twenty-three!" she called.

A mother stood up with a baby and followed her through a door into the back.

When the young woman returned to the counter and began adding some rather scary-looking supplies to the jumble already on the shelves, Juliana went over to her. She handed Juliana a worn square of paper with a big black 36 written on it. "You're number thirty-six," she said very slowly and clearly, as though Juliana couldn't read it for herself. "Please be seated. I'll call you when it's your turn."

Juliana put the paper in her basket. "I wish to have a word with Lord Stafford, if I may."

"Lord Stafford?" The woman blinked. "Oh, you mean Dr. Trevor. He isn't here, milady."

Drat! Juliana hadn't even considered the possibility. "Do you know when he's expected?"

"I'm sorry, milady, but I don't. Only one doctor volunteered for today, so he should be here to vaccinate the other half of the patients. But his note said only that he'd be delayed—"

Just then the door opened, and in walked James, his coat and cravat draped over one arm. Even though he was scandalously undressed, Juliana couldn't have been more delighted. "Lord Stafford!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad to see you!"

He looked shocked—and maybe pleased. "I'm glad to see you, too."

She hadn't meant it like that. "I thought you'd be here, but you weren't."

"I was examining my Aunt Bedelia. She's been suffering with imaginary chest pains."

"The poor, sweet lady." She paused, just realizing what he'd said. "Imaginary?"

"Aunt Bedelia is the healthiest woman I know. Except possibly Aunt Aurelia." Unfastening the top button of his shirt, he cleared his throat. "What can I do for you this fine afternoon?"

Frances suddenly turned to her. "I was wondering that myself. Why are we here, Juliana?"

The woman could be oblivious at times, but Juliana had found she could use that to her advantage. "Aunt Frances, have you met Lord Stafford?"

James offered Frances a bow. "Good afternoon, Lady Frances."

"Good afternoon, my lord." She looked at him sharply. "Did I see you at Lady Hammersmithe's ball?"

"I had the pleasure of attending, yes."

Frances's gaze grew more focused. At first Juliana assumed she was staring at the little V of exposed skin where James's shirt was unbuttoned, which Juliana found rather fascinating herself. Other than her brothers'—and they hardly counted—she'd never seen any part of a man's chest. Of course, her dress left much more of her own chest bare, but that was different. She had to force her eyes away from that intriguing bit of golden skin.

But then she realized Frances wasn't specifically looking at that little V, and, in fact, her blue eyes had turned speculative behind their lenses. Dear heavens, her aunt must be wondering if James was her secret admirer! How oblivious could the woman get? She'd have to write another love letter from Lord Malmsey and sign his name to it this time—before Aunt Frances set her hopes on someone much younger and better-looking.

A little gasp from James interrupted her thoughts. "Is that a snake in my reception room?"

Across the room, the children were still gathered around Herman, enthralled, while Emily, in her glory, proudly lectured them on his care and allowed them turns to touch.

Juliana smiled. "That's Viscount Neville's daughter, Miss Emily, and—"

"Get it out of here."

"No need to worry." The light in here was odd; James was looking rather pale. "It's perfectly harmless, Lord Stafford."

"James," he corrected distractedly. "And I want it out. It's frightening the children."

It was doing no such thing, but Juliana wasn't about to argue. She had much more important matters to discuss with him. "Aunt Frances, would you please take Emily and Herman outside?"

Frances was still gazing speculatively at James. "It's dreadfully cold out there," she said without taking her eyes off him.

"You can wait inside the carriage. I won't be long, I promise."

"The neighborhood—"

"The coachman and three footmen are there for your protection." Juliana took her aunt's arm and began easing her toward Emily. "You'll be safe. I'll be out in five minutes."

Her gaze no longer focused on James, Frances consulted the little watch pinned to her dress. "You'd better not take any more time. The Duke of Castleton is calling at half past two."

Following a short negotiation, Juliana finally shut the door behind Aunt Frances, Emily, Herman, and several children who refused to stay inside when there was a snake outside to admire. "Now, if I could have just a few moments of your time, Lord Stafford—"

"James," he interrupted.

"James." She looked around. "Is there someplace private we could speak?"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Wondering what Juliana wanted of him, James led her to an empty treatment room. He also wondered why the thought of Castleton calling on her was so annoying. It must be because Castleton was so very wrong for her. The duke was a prig; she was much too lively for such a stuffy fellow.

Not to mention the prig wanted her only because she came with a celebrated racehorse.

The treatment room held nothing but a chair and a table with the necessary implements, but Juliana glanced around as though she found it interesting. She was wearing a dress with a very tiny bodice.

Well, in truth it wasn't any tinier than the bodices other young ladies of her class wore—high-waisted dresses with low necklines were in fashion, after all—but James wasn't used to seeing women in fashionable dresses at the Institute. The women who came to the Institute generally wore very frumpy clothes. He wouldn't have noticed Juliana's tiny bodice at a ball, but here at the Institute it made him suddenly—uncomfortably—aware that he was alone in a room with an eligible young lady.

An eligible young lady he found entirely too attractive.

He left the door open.

"That child doesn't sound happy," she said, referring to the sobbing girl in the next room.

"Dr. Hanley will give her a sugar stick."

Sure enough, the sobbing stopped. Juliana smiled. "I love sweets." She handed him the small basket she was carrying. "I brought you these."

He lifted the number 36 on top and peered underneath. Appetizing scents of cinnamon and raspberry wafted out.

"They're Shrewsbury cakes," she said. "Chase ladies always bring sweets when we pay calls."

"People don't generally call at the Institute."

"It's not in a very nice neighborhood," she allowed. "Why is that?"

"Those who live in nice neighborhoods are vaccinated by their own doctors. The patients we serve cannot afford to take a hackney coach to Mayfair."

"Oh," she said, looking abashed. "That does make perfect sense."

He offered her an amiable smile. "Have you been vaccinated?"

She glanced warily toward the instruments. "Actually, I was variolated as a small child, before Dr. Jenner invented vaccination."

Variolation was an older procedure, a method of taking pus from the pocks of someone suffering from smallpox and inoculating healthy people with it. James was both surprised and impressed that she knew the difference. Perhaps she wasn't quite as frivolous as he'd thought. "Where did you learn about Edward Jenner?"

"I do read newspapers and magazines, and not just to see the latest fashions. It was quite brilliant of him to figure out that giving people cowpox could keep them from getting smallpox." She glanced toward the instruments again. "I don't need a vaccination, do I?"

"Not if you were variolated. Smallpox variolation grants lifelong immunity. You're lucky you lived through it, though." Variolation usually caused only a mild case of smallpox, but about two patients in a hundred developed a severe case and died. Because those odds were much better than when one caught smallpox naturally—which carried a thirty percent risk of death—many well-informed upper-class parents did have their children variolated throughout most of the eighteenth century. But vaccination with cowpox was much safer.

Juliana looked relieved. "Were you variolated as a child?"

"No, but I was vaccinated while in the army. My commanding officer didn't want his men dying of smallpox." He set the basket on the table. "Can you enlighten me as to the nature of this unexpected call?"

"Try a Shrewsbury cake." She waited while he chose one and took a bite. "I was wondering what you thought of Lady Amanda."

He hadn't thought of Lady Amanda even once since Saturday's ball. "She's lovely," he said tactfully.

Juliana beamed. "I'm so glad you think so."

She was much more interesting than Lady Amanda. "That was delicious," he said, polishing off her cake.

"Have another." She reached into the basket and put one into his hand. "Do you expect you might wish to marry Lady Amanda?"

He nearly choked but managed to cover it with a cough. "I've only danced with her once," he pointed out.

"Quite true," she admitted. "I expect you'll want to court her for a while before making such a decision."

He didn't want to court Lady Amanda at all. But it wouldn't be very seemly to say that out loud, so instead he said, "Yes, one doesn't come to such a decision lightly."

The yes was a mistake. Juliana's lips curved in a delighted smile. "I'm so happy to hear that. I've been wondering, though…since you spend so much time here at the Institute, have you much practice at wooing ladies?"

"Practice?" What man needed practice at such a thing?

"I just thought that since you've been too busy to court many women, it might help if I give you a few lessons."

Lessons? "What sort of lessons?"

"Have another Shrewsbury cake, will you?" She shoved the basket toward him. "The lessons wouldn't be very strenuous, I assure you. I'm thinking you could simply accompany me on a few occasions, such as to the theater. I could show you the proper seats to purchase and what sort of refreshments to fetch for Lady Amanda during the intermission. And if we went riding in Hyde Park, I could point out the popular places and you could practice being gallant."

James didn't know whether to be insulted or amused, but either way he was going to refuse her offer. Certainly he didn't need lessons in gallantry and wooing women.

He hadn't taken a third cake, so she selected one for him. "The lessons won't require too many outings," she added soothingly. "After all, if plans with you fill my calendar, I won't be available for the duke to pay court to me."

The cake halfway to his mouth, he froze. She thought she was offering him a favor, but actually, the opposite was true. If he played along, he'd be saving her from wasting her time with Castleton.

She and the duke were extremely ill-suited. Nothing between the two of them could possibly work out. So therefore, by agreeing to her "lessons," he'd be doing her a favor.

He did like helping people. It was very gallant.

"Fine," he said. "When shall our first outing be?"

She actually clapped her hands. "How about tomorrow? Are you needed here at the Institute?"

"I have two doctors scheduled from ten o'clock to four, and another two from four o'clock to ten. So I should be able to get away."

"Excellent. We can visit the shops and select a few gifts for Lady Amanda."

Shops? He hated visiting shops. "I thought we were going to the theater."

"I have plans for tomorrow evening, so our lesson will have to be earlier. Shall we say after luncheon, at one o'clock?" She smiled sympathetically. "Worry not, James. We'll be done in plenty of time for Parliament. Choosing a few appropriate gifts shouldn't take very long at all."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Before the duke left on Monday afternoon, he'd asked if he might pay Juliana another call on Tuesday. Two calls in two days! Since she already had plans with James at one o'clock, she'd suggested noon.

Which is how it happened that, on Tuesday, as the duke was leaving and James was arriving, they crossed paths.

"Castleton," James said with a curt nod.

"Stafford," the duke returned. And with a stiff little bow, he left.

As the butler closed the door behind him, Juliana turned to James. "Do you not like the duke?"

He shrugged. "I don't know him very well. But he seems a bit stuffy."

She was about to disagree when Aunt Frances came down the stairs, her footfalls so light she seemed almost to be skipping. A piece of paper fluttered in one of her hands. "Juliana! You'll never believe what arrived in the morning mail!"

"What is it, Auntie?"

"Another love letter from my secret admirer! Only"—as she reached the foyer, she paused for dramatic effect—"his name is no longer a secret."

"Who is he?" Juliana crossed her fingers behind her back. "Is he anyone I know?"

"Oh, yes," Frances said. "It's Lord—"

She cut off, finally noticing James.

Oblivious as always, Juliana thought.

Two rosy spots appearing on her cheeks, her aunt clutched the letter to her bosom. "Good afternoon, Lord Stafford."

"Good afternoon, Lady Frances."

"Who's your admirer, Auntie? Lord Stafford will keep your secret."

James nodded. "My lips are sealed."

Though Frances hesitated a moment more, it was obvious she was dying to tell. She leaned closer to Juliana. "It's Lord Malmsey," she whispered, her lips curving in a thrilled smile that made her look ten years younger.

"Aunt Frances, how wonderful!"

"Isn't it, though?" Clearly Frances didn't mind Lord Malmsey's age or appearance. In fact, judging by her expression, one would think she'd been pining after the man for years. "I'm so glad you made plans to visit the shops this afternoon. I must order a few new dresses, and at least one must be ready by Saturday. Lord Malmsey indicated in his letter that he will be attending Lady Partridge's ball."

James cleared his throat.

"Yes?" Juliana asked.

"I thought we were going to quickly choose a gift?"

"Several gifts," she corrected. "You'll want an assortment so that you can give one to Lady Amanda every few days over the next two weeks."

"Several?" He didn't look happy. "What happens after two weeks?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

He'd indicated he needed a while to court Amanda before proposing marriage, but a fortnight would have to do. With Amanda's wedding approaching, they simply hadn't any more time. Juliana had high hopes he'd win Amanda's affections by then, and vice versa, because the three of them needed time to plot Amanda's public compromise before she was married to Lord Malmsey.

James still didn't look happy, though, and Juliana liked the people around her to be happy. "You won't mind if Aunt Frances orders a few dresses, will you? It shouldn't take long, and she'll be coming along in any case, to chaperone." Regardless of the fact that this outing with James wasn't romantic in any sense, it wouldn't do for the two of them to gad about town together unescorted.

Before James formulated an answer, a knock came at the door. The butler opened it. On the other side stood a footman in Neville livery with young Emily. And Herman, of course.

The pink parasol Emily was twirling clashed horribly with the olive green reptile. "Is it time to leave, Lady Juliana?"

James took a step back. "Don't tell me she's coming, too."

"I'm giving her lessons as well," Juliana explained. "In being more ladylike. An outing like this can be very instructional."

In the gray light of the rainy day, he looked pale. "Surely she won't be bringing that snake."

Emily stopped twirling. "If Herman doesn't go, I don't go."

"That's fine by me," James said.

He seemed unhappy again. Concerned, Juliana laid a hand on his arm. "James, do you not like children?"

When he glanced down at her hand, she snatched it away, appalled at herself. Her hand was gloved, and his arm was sleeved, but it still wasn't proper to be touching him.

And the look on his face was worrisome. Although she and Amanda had never discussed children, she was sure Amanda wanted some. Every woman did.

"Of course I like children," he said. "I vaccinate children every day at the Institute."

"Of course," she echoed, relieved. She should have realized that. "Amanda is good with children," she told him, remembering how well Amanda had handled Emily that day she'd bled.

Motioning for him to follow, she stepped farther away from the little girl.

"I know you're worried that some patrons of the shops might be upset by Emily's snake," she said quietly. "But that's the whole idea, don't you see? She needs to learn that it's not ladylike to carry a snake, and the only way that will happen is by demonstration. Once she's convinced that Herman upsets people, she'll realize she should leave him at home."

"I see," he said tightly.

They headed outside to where James's carriage was waiting. It was splendid—all polished rosewood and rich green velvet—and the pair of matched bays drawing it looked to be prime horseflesh.

Juliana meant to sit beside Aunt Frances, but somehow she ended up beside James instead. Aunt Frances sat opposite James, with Emily catercorner from him. When he squished himself into the corner, as far away from Juliana as possible, she supposed that was to make sure he wouldn't touch her inadvertently.

But then he kept touching her anyway.

During the drive to Pall Mall, he touched her three times on the arm, in the bare area between where her short puffed sleeve ended and her short white glove began. The touches were all accidental and innocent, of course, but the little jolt she felt every time was…well, not bothersome exactly, but disquieting. Or exciting in an odd sort of way.

Of course, she wasn't used to being touched by men. All those deaths in the family had kept her and Corinna from socializing for so long, she was certain she was the oldest unkissed woman in all of England.

Well, except for Amanda. And maybe Aunt Frances.

In any case, she had to assume she'd feel this way if she were touched by any man. Most especially if she were touched by the duke. In fact, she was certain the duke's touches would be even more exciting, because, after all, he was the ideal man for her. But despite two social calls in two days, the duke hadn't touched her since they'd danced at the ball last Saturday night. And that had been over her clothes while they were both wearing gloves, which was quite different.

He hadn't touched her bare skin. He hadn't even kissed her gloved hand. He respected her too much to do any such thing.

He was as proper and reserved as Amanda, but he definitely wasn't stuffy.

Aunt Frances was so anxious to order her dresses, Juliana decided they should do that first. Mrs. Huntley sighed when she saw Emily and her snake again, but after all, Juliana and Amanda had ordered a lot of dresses, and no shopkeeper with half a brain would turn away that sort of business. So she pressed her thin lips together and pulled out her measuring tape.

"Sit over there, Emily," Juliana instructed, waving her toward where two chairs sat against a wall. "And James, you sit beside her. When you visit the shops with a lady, you must wait patiently until she's finished."

"I'll wait outside," he said.

"You shouldn't do that if you wish to please Lady Amanda. A man should appear interested in a lady's purchases."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, heading toward the door.

"It's raining out there," she reminded him.

"I won't melt."

True to his word, James didn't melt. It took so long to order Aunt Frances's dresses that it had stopped raining by the time the ladies joined him outside. And he certainly didn't look melted—in fact, he looked like he might be frozen solid.

Well, even if wasn't raining, it still was quite cold.

"Where to now?" he asked dourly.

"I believe you should send Lady Amanda some flowers." Juliana indicated a florist's shop across the street, and they all started toward it.

"What sort?" he asked, sounding resigned.

"Red roses," Emily suggested beside him. "My mother loved red roses."

"Red roses it is, then." He crossed to Juliana's other side and took her left arm. When she glanced up at him, startled, he said, "A gentleman should escort a lady across the street."

"Excellent," she said, pleased with his progress. "That's very gallant. But I don't think red roses would be appropriate. They symbolize love, and it's a little too soon for that. You wouldn't want to appear too forward. Pink or yellow would be perfect."

James's arm felt tense beneath hers, and she was aware of their contact all the way into the shop. She guessed Amanda would find that awareness very pleasurable, which would help James persuade her to marry him.

When they entered, a woman shrieked and ran past them out the door. Three other patrons left directly, muttering to one another.

The florist was a tall, thin man with a long, narrow nose and eyes that looked hard as he glared at Emily. "Take that snake outside, young lady."

Emily stroked Herman. "Snakes don't eat flowers, Mr. Flower-Man. Only frogs and mice."

Aunt Frances took Emily outside, and James ordered an arrangement of two dozen pink roses. Quickly.

Back outdoors, the people walking along Pall Mall were giving Emily and Herman a wide berth, and there was a lot of "Well!" and "I never!" to be heard.

"She should have left that snake at home," James said.

"She will next time, I'm sure." Juliana offered him her left arm again, thinking some more practice in escorting ladies might be appropriate.

"Where are we going now?" Emily asked beside him.

He crossed to Juliana's other side and took her right arm instead.

Juliana thought he seemed a little impatient. "Harding, Howell and Company," she decided. Down the street just a bit, Harding, Howell & Company was a big department store that took up all the floors of an old mansion that used to be called Schomberg House. Perhaps James would be happier if they could find the rest of Amanda's presents all in one place. "You don't enjoy shops very much, do you?" she asked as they began walking toward it.

"I'm a man," he said.

She'd noticed. She'd walked arm in arm with women before, but it had never felt like this. The tingly sensation rather stole one's breath. Amanda was going to love it.

Aunt Frances and Emily walked in front of them, the two of them getting more and more ahead. People were crossing the street to avoid them. "We should catch up to them," Juliana said.

James didn't change his pace. "I believe a gentleman should walk leisurely with a lady, to accommodate her shorter stride."

"That's considerate," she allowed. "You really are quite an apt pupil, James."

Amanda was going to fall in love with him for certain.

"I'm famished," Emily announced the moment they stepped through Harding, Howell & Company's grand mahogany double doors. "May we visit Mr. Cosway's Breakfast Room?"

"It's not breakfast time," James said, "and, in fact, it's past luncheon."

Juliana laughed. "Mr. Cosway's Breakfast Room serves refreshments all day long." Located on the floor above, the restaurant offered wines, teas, coffee, and sweetmeats. "Have you never been here before, James?"

"I'm a man," he said.

The department store was patronized mostly by women. Juliana hadn't ever noticed that before, but she did now. Especially because a good number of the women were emitting little squeals and hiding behind the delicate pieces of furniture that were for sale.

Emily started up the wide staircase with Herman and Aunt Frances. When Juliana went to follow them, James held her back. "She really should leave that snake at home," he said once Emily was far enough ahead of them to be out of earshot.

Juliana was getting a bit tired of hearing that. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

"I'm a man," he said, and she laughed.

He really was quite a man.

Upstairs, Mr. Cosway's Breakfast Room had a glorious view over St. James's Park to Westminster and the Surrey hills beyond. Aunt Frances and Emily were already seated across from each other at a table for four. Juliana slid into the chair beside Aunt Frances, but James just stood there, more frozen than the ice cream in the restaurant's glass display case.

And that's when Juliana realized he didn't want to sit beside Emily. Or walk beside Emily. Or have anything to do with Emily at all—at least not while she was holding a snake.

Though it wasn't very kind or ladylike, Juliana couldn't help herself. A little smile quirked on her lips. A tiny giggle escaped. And finally—inevitably—she burst out laughing.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"You-you-you're afraid of Emily's snake," Juliana chortled. "Don't tell me you're not."

James felt heat creep up his neck and into his face. He'd never seen a woman quite so consumed by hilarity. It was humiliating.

Every diner in Mr. Cosway's Breakfast Room was staring at them, and he wasn't sure whether that was because of Emily's snake or Juliana's laughter. Either way, it was humiliating, possibly the most humiliating moment of his life.

Juliana thought him laughable.

But he couldn't deny her accusation. "Deathly afraid," he confirmed with as much dignity as he could muster. "I was bitten by an adder at the age of seven."

"Oh, my," Juliana said. Her peals of laughter dwindled to giggles as she apparently tried to control herself. "That must have been dreadful."

"Very. It was quite painful, and my ankle swelled up horridly, and I was consumed by fever." He had also cast up his accounts several times, but he wouldn't say so in the presence of ladies. "I should never want to experience that again," he added, eyeing the damned snake with contempt.

"But Herman isn't an adder," Emily said, stroking the terrorizing creature with gentle fingers. "He's a harmless grass snake. He doesn't have any poison, and he doesn't bite."

James knew that. He was well aware that adders were the only venomous snakes in England, and Herman was quite obviously not an adder. Herman was longer and more slender than an adder and had different markings. James knew his fear was irrational.

But irrational as it was—and he was cognizant of the fact that, in the twenty-two years since he'd been bitten, his fear had expanded beyond all proportion to the incident—he couldn't bring himself to get close to Herman or any other snake.

Even now, though he was standing a good six feet away, the sight of Herman made his pulse feel thready and his guts clench. If he got any closer, he feared he might cast up his accounts right here in Harding, Howell & Company's froufrou little restaurant.

Juliana was no longer laughing. Instead, she was watching him very closely, so closely he was half convinced she could see right into him, see his churning stomach and his racing heart. See just how pathetic a man he was, a man too weak to conquer his fear of a simple grass snake.

Still watching him, she suddenly pushed back from the table. "I've just realized I'm not hungry."

"But I am," Emily said.

Juliana turned to her with a bright smile. "You can stay here with Aunt Frances while Lord Stafford and I find a few gifts for Lady Amanda."

Lady Frances began rising. "You and Lord Stafford cannot go off alone."

"Of course we can." Juliana eased her aunt back onto the chair. "We're in a public place, surrounded by dozens of people. We'll be back in a few minutes." And with that, before Lady Frances could voice another protest, Juliana placed her arm in James's and headed out of Mr. Cosway's Breakfast Room.

James wasn't certain, but he thought Juliana might have just saved him from complete humiliation. In any case, she'd definitely saved him from losing his luncheon. His stomach was feeling better already, and his pulse had gone back to normal.

"Thank you," he said as they headed down the staircase. "You must think me an utter coward."

"Don't be silly. We all have our fears."

He doubted that. "What's yours, then?"

"Blood," she said without hesitation. "I would make a terrible doctor. And unlike you, I don't have a legitimate reason for my fear. No traumatizing bloody events in my childhood."

She laughed, but this time it was at herself, not him. Which made all the difference.

Which made him like her even more.

"Lady Amanda isn't afraid of blood," she informed him. "I should think you'd be pleased to know that, since I expect it's an important attribute for a physician's wife."

"I don't think that really matters," he told her. An affinity for blood wasn't on his list of wifely requirements. Not that he was looking for a wife, anyway. He tightened his grip on Juliana's arm, smiling to himself when she leaned closer to him. Even though it was cold and rainy outside, she seemed to smell of sunshine and flowers.

"I think Lady Amanda would like a fan," she said, guiding him past the glazed mahogany partition that separated the fur and fan departments.

He didn't want to buy Lady Amanda a fan, but he didn't want to disappoint Juliana, either. And he especially didn't want her to give up on their "lessons," because then she'd have more time to spend with stuffy Castleton, who was entirely the wrong man for her. So he bought a fan.

"I think Lady Amanda would like gloves," she said next. And although he didn't want to buy gloves for Lady Amanda—although he didn't want to buy anything for Lady Amanda—he dutifully paid for the lacy pair she picked out.

She thought Lady Amanda would like perfume, so they stopped by the perfumery department. She thought Lady Amanda would like candy, so they visited the confectioners. In no time at all, he was burdened with bags and boxes.

He'd always hated shopping—and he knew very well he'd had a horrible attitude from the beginning—but all in all, Emily and her snake aside, this day wasn't turning out nearly as badly as he'd anticipated. He rather enjoyed being gallant and saving Juliana from stuffy Castleton.

Seeing that man at her house earlier had made him grit his teeth.

They were buying some fancy writing paper when Lady Frances and Emily sought them out. "Lady Juliana," Emily said, "you are taking forever."

Looking startled, Juliana turned from the stationery counter. And the next thing she did was immediately move to put herself between Emily and James. He could have kissed her for that.

Not that he'd actually kiss her, of course—that would be highly improper.

But he wanted to…and that was scary as hell.

More frightening than Emily's snake.

He wasn't ready for this. He didn't think he'd ever be ready. He might be getting used to the idea of remarrying someday, but only to make his mother happy. And because he needed an heir.

Not because he wanted to kiss someone. And certainly not because he'd fallen in love.

Juliana looked between him and Herman. "Goodness, Emily," she said, "you're right. We have taken forever. In fact, we've taken so long that Lord Stafford is going to be late for Parliament. We'll have to take a hackney coach home so he can go there straightaway."

James might have been a coward, but he wasn't a fool. He knew she'd said that to save him from riding with Herman in his carriage.

He could have kissed her for that, too.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ALMOND MACAROONS

Beat Whites of Eggs with salt until stiff, then add Almonds ground fine, Sugar and a bit of ground Rice. Put in little mounds and make flat on Paper, then add an Almond in each middle before baking in your oven.

When I wish to see my husband amorous, I feed him these macaroons. They've never failed me yet.
—Katherine, Countess of Greystone, 1763

Juliana placed little mounds of dough on a paper-lined baking tin, spacing them carefully while she hid a yawn. She'd been up since dawn. After spending the morning with Emily—who still refused to relinquish Herman—now she was making almond macaroons with Amanda.

According to Chase family legend, the macaroons were supposed to make men amorous. Juliana planned to give some to James and tell him to eat them tomorrow, hoping they would induce him to act warmly toward Amanda at Lady Partridge's ball later that evening. Since she wasn't certain whether the macaroons needed to be made by the woman seeking attention—her grandmother, who'd penned the recipe, hadn't been clear—she'd decided to ask for Amanda's help just in case.

"Put an almond in the center of each macaroon," she said through another yawn.

"That's the third time you've yawned," Amanda observed, plopping the nuts on top rather haphazardly. "Are you sleepy?"

Juliana's fourth yawn seemed to echo off the basement kitchen's walls. "This week has been exhausting."

She'd been very busy since Monday's visit to the Institute and Tuesday's jaunt to the shops. Not only had she hosted another sewing party and spent every free minute stitching, but the duke had called on her every single day and danced with her twice at Almack's on Wednesday evening. He said the nicest things to her. His attentiveness was encouraging, and she was certain it was only a matter of time before he asked for her hand. A perfect gentleman, he remained careful not to touch her, demonstrating the respect due a lady.

James, on the other hand, touched her so often she was beginning to think the incidents might not all be accidental.

On Wednesday afternoon, when she and James had taken advantage of a few glorious dry hours to go riding in Hyde Park, he'd found excuses to help her on and off her horse on six different occasions—to buy refreshments from a stand, to look at some flowers, to take a stroll by the Serpentine—and his hands had seemed to rest on her waist longer and longer each time.

James had missed attending Almack's again Wednesday night—apparently he'd had another problem at the Institute—but Thursday evening, when they'd attended the theater, he'd set his chair so close to hers in the box that his thigh was against her skirts during much of the performance. In the intermission, he'd brought her a syllabub and then claimed twice that she had white cream on her face and wiped it off with his thumb.

"Did I tell you I received another gift from Lord Stafford?" Amanda flattened a macaroon and stuck a piece of almond in it. "Three gifts in one week!"

"Use the whole almonds, Amanda. You want the macaroons to look pretty, don't you?" Juliana picked out the broken nut and replaced it with a perfect one, thinking Amanda was almost as hopeless at cooking as Corinna. It was a good thing that an earl's wife wouldn't be expected to set foot in the kitchen. "What did he send you this time?" she asked.

"The most elegant lace gloves. I'm not sure Aunt Mabel would approve of something so personal. Fortunately she was napping when the package arrived. I suggested maybe she should return to the countryside, since Lady Frances is doing such a fine job as chaperone."

Juliana supposed Aunt Frances was a fine chaperone, if one considered oblivious to be synonymous with fine. "I'm glad Lady Mabel doesn't mind Aunt Frances filling in for her." Not least because it would be impossible to carry out their plan with the dear lady watching over Amanda. "Still, I hope she isn't feeling poorly enough to leave London. I enjoyed her company at Wednesday's sewing party."

"She surely enjoyed attending, too. It was much less strenuous than going on outings. Why, she hardly even wheezed."

And she'd proved a much better seamstress than her niece, completing four blankets in two hours. Unfortunately, even with Lady Mabel's help, Juliana had so far collected only thirty-three of the two hundred forty items she needed. And she had just three weeks left—the same three weeks Amanda had to find a new fiancé before she was forced to marry Lord Malmsey. "You're planning to keep the gloves, then?"

"I wouldn't dream of returning them. The workmanship is utterly stunning. The pink roses were beautiful, too. And I adore the painted fan," Amanda added as she placed another almond off-center. "Lord Stafford has exquisite taste, don't you think? Especially for a man."

Juliana was glad she'd taken it upon herself to have each of James's gifts delivered rather than trusting him to remember. Tomorrow evening, she would make sure Amanda wore the gloves and carried the fan, which should please him. She could scarcely wait until the ball, when he'd dance again with Amanda and ask for permission to court her. She was certain Amanda would agree.

Everything was going perfectly.

Hearing the tall-case clock chime upstairs, she hurried to place the last almonds. She had only half an hour to ready herself before James arrived for today's excursion to the Egyptian Hall. "Thank you for your help," she told Amanda as she shoved the pans into the oven. "I'll have a footman deliver half the macaroons to your house as soon as they're finished."

Not usually one to show affection, Amanda wrapped Juliana in a loose, awkward embrace. "Thank you," she said. "I had no idea that macaroons make one's eyes sparkle, but I appreciate your telling me and letting me help bake them."

"You're very welcome," Juliana murmured, feeling a bit guilty about misleading her. But only a bit. Honestly, she'd had no choice. Amanda was entirely too proper and reserved to bake macaroons with the intention of making a man amorous.

After Amanda took her leave, Juliana went upstairs to change her dress and put on a little rouge and lip salve. She was on her way back down when she heard the knocker bang. As she arrived in the foyer, expecting to see James, Adamson opened the door to reveal a deliveryman holding an enormous arrangement of red roses.

"Holy Hannah!" Paintbrush in hand, Corinna came in from the drawing room. "There must be five dozen!"

Aunt Frances came in from the library. "Goodness gracious, I can smell them from here. And just look at that gorgeous silver vase!"

"Do you expect they're from the duke?" Corinna asked.

"They must be," Juliana breathed, setting the gloves she was carrying on the marble-topped hall table. Red roses. The duke must be even more enamored than she'd hoped.

The heady scent was almost overwhelming. After tipping the deliveryman, the butler put the arrangement on the table. She plucked the card from it with shaking hands.

"A small token in comparison to the great love I hold in my heart," she read aloud, her pulse pounding harder with each precious word. "And it's signed—"

Her mouth gaped open, mute.

"Who signed it?" Corinna demanded. "Are the flowers not from the duke?"

Juliana closed her mouth and held the card out to Aunt Frances. "They're from Lord Malmsey. They're for you."

Frances's hand flew up to cover her heart. She looked like she might swoon for a moment, but in the end she just said, "For me?" in a squeaky little voice.

"For you," Juliana repeated, thrilled at this evidence her project was working. And thrilled for Frances, too, of course. Seeing her aunt sway on her feet, she eased her onto the striped satin chair that sat by the table. "Are you all right, Auntie?"

Her hand still splayed on her bosom, Frances blew out a breath. "Heavens, child, I've never been better." Her eyes looked misty behind their lenses. "But I do feel just a bit faint."

A kitchen maid came up from the basement and handed Juliana a small basket covered with a lace doily. "Your macaroons, my lady. A dozen, as you requested."

"Thank you," Juliana said and set the basket beside the flowers.

"May I speak with you a moment?" Without waiting for her to answer, Corinna took her by the arm. "In the drawing room."

They left Frances gazing at her roses.

"Do you not think," Corinna said once they were behind closed doors, "that this is going a little too far?"

"What?" Juliana asked, feeling bewildered.

"Sending Aunt Frances flowers and claiming they're from Lord Malmsey. Really, Juliana, what do you think is going to happen tomorrow at the ball when she thanks him for them and he tells her he didn't send them to her?"

"He did send them to her," Juliana said.

"He didn't."

"Well, who did, then? Because I didn't. I had nothing to do with those flowers."

Corinna eyed her skeptically, rather as if she were a very bad painting. "He's engaged to marry Amanda. Why would he send flowers to Aunt Frances? What would make him think she'd be receptive to receiving them?"

"The love letters he received from her."

"What love letters?"

"The ones I sent," Juliana said, exasperated that she would have to explain such an obvious thing. "It wouldn't do to have Aunt Frances be the only one getting mail. A true love must be two-sided."

She'd never written so many sappy letters in her life. In a week of incessant activity, Aunt Frances's romance had proved to be her most exhausting project.

Besides writing all the letters, she'd had to take Frances shopping for shoes, bonnets, and accessories to match all of her new dresses; buy cosmetics and practice applying them; and hire a dancing master to teach Frances all the new steps. And Frances's hair—oh, her hair! Madame Bellefleur had had to visit not once, but twice—the first time to dye Frances's hair with henna and walnuts, and the second to trim it and tinker with various styles.

But it was all worth it. Aunt Frances was going to look beautiful tomorrow night. And Lord Malmsey was already in love with her.

He'd sent red roses.

"You sent fake letters to both of them?" Corinna pointed the paintbrush she was still holding at her. "What do you think will happen when they compare notes?"

"They won't," Juliana said confidently. "Neither of them will be willing to question their good fortune." The knocker sounded again. "Excuse me. That will be James."

She returned to the foyer, but it wasn't James at the door. It was another deliveryman with flowers. White roses, and there were only a dozen, but they were in a beautiful crystal vase.

"What does the card say?" Corinna asked behind her.

Not assuming anything this time, Juliana pulled it from the arrangement. "The Duke of Castleton," she read with some relief.

And happiness, of course.

"That's it? No message?"

"The flowers say it all, do they not?" She gestured grandly toward the arrangement, which, in truth, looked rather paltry next to the extravagant one Lord Malmsey had sent. But the duke wasn't an extravagant man. He was restrained and refined and everything that was good and proper. "I don't need a written message," she said. "I know perfectly well how he feels."

"How who feels?" James asked, walking in the still-open door.

"The Duke of Castleton," Corinna informed him. "He sent flowers to Juliana."

"Did he?" James scanned the foyer, blinking as his gaze landed on the hall table. "That's a lot of roses. Red roses."

His tone implied he found something objectionable about the roses, although Juliana wasn't sure whether it was the amount of them or their color. Or both. And why would he care, anyway?

Frances's hand was still over her heart. "They're mine," she said, sounding awed.

Corinna nodded. "The other arrangement is from the duke."

"White," James said with a raised brow. He turned to Juliana. "He must think you're very pure."

What on earth did he mean by that? She was pure. Not that that was entirely by choice. The only man she had an interest in respected her too much to touch her.

Which was more than she could say for James.

She swept the little basket off the table and thrust it at him. "Here," she said rather ungraciously. "I baked macaroons for you."

"Why?" he asked, looking nonplussed.

She hadn't anticipated that question. She didn't want him to think she'd made them as a gift, because he might take that the wrong way. But she couldn't very well tell him she hoped they'd make him amorous toward Amanda.

Or that they'd make his eyes sparkle.

"I thought you'd want to eat them tomorrow. They're reputed to give a man stamina."

That brow went up again. "Stamina of what sort?"

How many sorts were there? "Extra strength and endurance."

"I see." His lips quirked, as though he were trying not to laugh. "But pray tell, why should I need extra endurance tomorrow?"

"For the dancing," she said. "At the ball. You're not accustomed to hours on your feet."

"Ah," he said. Just ah. But something about the way he said it told her he was well aware she was making all of this up as she went along. "In all my years in medicine," he drawled, "I've never heard macaroons prescribed to improve stamina. I shall have to pass this wisdom along to my colleagues."

He wouldn't, of course; she was sure of it. He'd be laughed out of the Royal College of Physicians. "You do that," she said, snatching up her parasol and turning to Frances. "Are you ready to leave, Auntie?"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As James's carriage crawled toward the Egyptian Hall through the miserable London traffic, he smiled to himself. Juliana couldn't fool him. Although she claimed these outings were meant only to give him practice so he could court Lady Amanda, she enjoyed his company. She liked him, whether she was willing to say so out loud or not.

The proof? She'd baked him macaroons.

Feeling much more pleased about that than he probably should, he lifted the froufrou doily and pulled one out.

"No!" Juliana cried. "You're supposed to save them for tomorrow."

"There are plenty of them," he said, popping the little macaroon into his mouth. It was so light and toothsome it all but melted on his tongue. He'd never heard of a lady of the ton making sweets—or anything else that required entering a kitchen—but given Juliana's talents, he found her unusual hobby charming. "These are delicious," he told her and pulled out another.

"Please don't eat them," she pleaded, sounding concerned.

Quite concerned. Certainly much more concerned than the occasion warranted. They were just macaroons, after all. Since he hadn't believed for a moment that she really thought they lent a man stamina, why should it possibly matter whether he ate them today or tomorrow?

He reached for a third.

"I'd prefer you save them," she said firmly, taking the basket right out of his hands. She set it on the seat beside her, scooting closer to him in order to do so.

Not that he minded that. To the contrary. But as he finished the third macaroon, he glanced across to Lady Frances, thinking she might object to her charge sitting all but on his lap. Fortunately, Lady Frances seemed to be off in another world. Behind her spectacles, her blue gaze looked dazed.

Once again, although it was a rainy, gray day, Juliana smelled like sunshine. And flowers. So good and sweet it took everything he had not to sneak his arm around her shoulders and pull her even closer. Which he would never do. At least not with Juliana's chaperone watching, even if her eyes were unfocused.

Maybe Lady Frances would fall asleep. It seemed unlikely, but a man could hope.

For he did want to pull Juliana closer. Ever since that day in Harding, Howell & Company when he'd realized he wanted to kiss her, he'd thought of little else. Although the very idea had seemed appalling at first, it didn't any longer, because in the interim—during the hours he'd spent riding with her and accompanying her to the theater—he'd come to realize something else: He was no longer going on these outings to prevent her from wasting her time with Castleton.

Not that he wanted her to spend time with Castleton. Seeing the flowers the man had sent her had made him grit his teeth, because he knew for a fact that the prig was only courting her for a damned horse. He wished he'd told Juliana as much in the beginning, but news like that could deal a serious blow to a woman's self-regard, and he hadn't wanted to hurt her. He wanted even less to hurt her now. But the man wasn't only a prig—he was an ass.

Yet the fact remained that James was no longer going on these outings to save her from the ass—or at least not only to save her from the ass. He enjoyed being with her. She was bright and enthusiastic, and she cared about other people. She'd cared about him when he'd feared a stupid snake. And, all right, she was attractive. Very attractive. Excessively, utterly attractive. Any man with eyes in his head would be hard put to argue with that. Especially considering she always seemed to wear dresses with tiny bodices.

All of which added up to a simple truth: He desired Juliana Chase.

It had been a long time since James had felt desire. It made him feel more alive, like something in him that had lain dormant for two years was beginning to wake up. And the way he saw it, there was little he could do about it.

He didn't love Juliana—he didn't want to love her or anyone else. But love and desire were two very different and distinct emotions. And simply desiring another woman wasn't a betrayal of Anne. He was a man, after all, and everyone knew a man had little control over his desires. Surely he could kiss Juliana even though he wasn't in love.

Was all of that rationalization? Possibly, he acknowledged with a yawn. But he couldn't bring himself to care. Juliana had baked him macaroons, and that meant he was one step closer to kissing her.

Life wasn't too bad right at the moment.

She followed his yawn with one of her own and tried to cover it with a hand.

"I saw that," he said.

"I'm not bored, I promise."

"I didn't think so," he assured her. "It's a medical fact that yawns are contagious."

She smiled, making him smile, too. He appreciated a woman who appreciated his admittedly weak attempts at humor.

"Are you as short on sleep as I?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I am. I was up half the night finishing the speech I plan to deliver this evening in the House of Lords."

"A speech?" She looked impressed, which he found much more encouraging than he probably ought. "What does it concern?"

"A bill I've put forth to publicly fund smallpox vaccinations and make them compulsory for infants."

"Compulsory?" Her blue-green-hazel eyes widened. "That's a rather radical idea, don't you think?"

"Not at all. England is terribly behind the times. Vaccinations were made compulsory in Bavaria in 1807, Denmark in 1810, Norway in 1811, Bohemia and Russia in 1812, and now this year in Sweden." He hoped he had all those dates right; he'd had to memorize them for the speech. "If we're to wipe this scourge off the face of the earth, everyone must cooperate."

She seemed to mull that over for a minute. "This is very important to you, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's very important."

"Why is that?"

"Must there be a reason? Can't it just be for the good of humanity?"

"I think not," she said. "Not when you're so vehement about the subject."

He mentally added perceptive to the list of her qualities. "My brother died of smallpox."

"Oh," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"There was nothing I could do to help him. Nothing I could do but watch him die. It's a terrible, horrible disease. Have you ever seen someone suffering with it?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. At least not in the final stages."

"I hope you never will. The pain is excruciating, and the pocks—well, never mind." He wouldn't sicken her by describing the way they'd proliferated on Philip's body until he'd looked like little more than one huge, oozing pustule. "Suffice it to say that I'm hoping someday no one will ever suffer with it again. And I wish to do my part to make that happen."

Her gaze was full of admiration. "You're a good man, James."

Although the tone of her voice made his heart swell, he shrugged. "This is a unique circumstance. Vaccination has given us an opportunity we've never had before—a chance to destroy something that has afflicted mankind for centuries. We'd be fools not to take advantage of it."

"I hope you can convince Parliament, then," she said and reached to take his hand.

She'd actually reached to take his hand. She was holding it. He was afraid to react, for fear she might notice and snatch hers away. Keeping himself still, he shifted his gaze toward her chaperone, but Lady Frances was humming softly under her breath and gazing out the window.

He looked down at their joined hands. Juliana wasn't wearing gloves. Prior to flouncing out to the carriage, she'd grabbed her umbrella but left a pair of white gloves sitting on the marble-topped table. Lady Frances hadn't noticed in her current, bemused state, and James hadn't thought to remind Juliana to take them, either.

Or maybe he hadn't wanted to.

Her hand felt small in his, her palm smooth and warm. He couldn't remember ever being so aware of anyone touching him before. It was a wonder she didn't seem to be feeling it, too.

"I see now," she said. "Your brother's death is why you became a physician. I've been wondering what would compel an earl to take up doctoring," she added, squeezing his fingers with kindly understanding.

He tried not to squeeze back, lest she realize she was touching him. "That's sound reasoning, but not the way it happened. Philip was my older brother—he was supposed to be the earl. I became a physician before his death, not after, because, as a second son, I needed a profession. I was at his bedside as his physician when he died."

"You don't blame yourself for his death, do you?" Concerned sympathy flooded her eyes. "Just because you're a doctor—"

"Good God, no." Even in his darkest days, he hadn't tortured himself with that. "Variola major—the more severe form of smallpox—defies treatment. There is really little a physician can do but keep the patient as comfortable as possible and hope for the best."

"So doctors do nothing?"

"Oh, there are things physicians try, but they generally involve bleeding, emetics, and purgatives—treatments I fear weaken a patient rather than strengthening him." He'd done everything he'd thought could conceivably help his brother; he was totally at peace on that score. "I don't blame myself at all. But I would blame myself if I allowed more people to contract smallpox without trying to do anything to stop it."

"I understand." Her eyes looked blue now, a blue softened by compassion. "I'm truly sorry you lost your brother to such a devastating disease."

"You must have lost a brother, too," he realized suddenly. "Else Griffin wouldn't be the marquess. He wasn't meant to be, was he? After Oxford, he joined the military, same as I did."

"Our brother Charles died of consumption," she said. "A year after our mother succumbed to it first."

They called consumption a "gentle death," but James knew better. Its victims might fade away rather slowly and gracefully, but watching a loved one die was never easy. And Juliana had suffered through that twice.

"Consumption seems to descend upon certain families," he told her. "Probably because it's not easily transmitted like smallpox, but after weeks and months in the same home—"

"I thought it wasn't contagious." She looked shocked. "We all cared for my mother and brother with no concern of risking our own health. The doctors told us consumption is caused by the patient's own constitution and runs in families only because relations are so often alike."

"That may be the prevailing wisdom, but I don't believe it. And I'm not alone. More than two thousand years ago, Hippocrates himself warned doctors to be wary of contracting it from patients. And early in the last century, Benjamin Marten wrote a paper theorizing that consumption is caused by 'wonderfully minute living creatures' that can pass from one person to another, although rarely without extended periods of contact." His explanation didn't seem to be making her rest any easier, so he tried a different approach. "I don't expect you need to worry about catching it now if you haven't already. Nor should your sisters or Griffin. Whatever 'minute creatures' might have been in your home are long gone, I'm certain, and you needn't fret that you were all born with constitutions that will cause you to develop it, either."

"So Charles caught it from our mother, but none of the rest of us did." She drew and released a breath. "I've been wondering if we all might succumb eventually. Is it wicked of me to be relieved that we won't?"

"It's natural to be relieved," he said. "And I could be wrong. Most physicians wouldn't agree with me."

"I think you're right," she said. "I think you're a man who thinks for himself, who looks for his own answers instead of blindly accepting what others claim. We need your sort of men—and women. You're the people who discover things that make the world better for all of us."

If she was wicked to be relieved, he must be even more wicked to want to kiss her because she believed in him. He'd faced a lot of censure over the years from colleagues who scoffed at his refusal to bleed patients and his unorthodox insistence that cleanliness helped prevent infection. Not that he was the only physician to believe such things—it had been nearly sixty-five years since Sir John Pringle, a former Surgeon General of the Army, had coined the word antiseptic. But he certainly went against the norm.

"Thank you," he said, squeezing her hand.

A mistake. Looking startled, she pulled it away. "So." She cleared her throat. "Tomorrow evening at the ball…just how are you planning to ask Lady Amanda if you might court her?"

The quick change of subject made him feel as though his brain had just fallen off a cliff. How did women manage to do that? How had Juliana gone from holding his hand to assuming he was still planning to court Lady Amanda?

He wasn't. He'd decided he'd rather court Juliana—or rather, tempt her into letting him kiss her.

But he didn't quite know how to answer her question, because she hadn't asked him if he was planning to court Lady Amanda. She'd asked him how he was planning to ask for permission.

She must have taken his silence to mean he couldn't figure out how, because when he didn't immediately respond, she added, "Perhaps I can help you devise some particularly gallant method."

"Like what? Shall I ride into the ball on a charger, dressed in armor?"

"Really, now, James, be serious."

He was serious. He was serious about wanting to kiss Juliana. And touch her. And do all sorts of other things with her that would make Lady Frances faint dead away if she ever managed to come out of her fog enough to notice.

"James?" Juliana asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Another question he couldn't answer. He could hardly tell her the truth…that he was looking at her while imagining scenarios that would ruin her reputation beyond repair.

Lucky for him, the carriage rolled to a halt in front of the Egyptian Hall.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The exterior of the museum at Number Twenty-two Piccadilly bore a vague resemblance to an Egyptian temple. A very vague resemblance. In fact, it would look rather Palladian, Juliana thought, were it not for the ankhs along the cornice and the two full-length statues that flanked a window above the entrance.

"Are those sculptures supposed to be Egyptian?" Frances asked.

"An Egyptian god and goddess." James gestured toward the figures. "That's Isis on the left, and her brother and husband, Osiris, on the right."

Juliana wondered how he'd come to know such things. "They look like American Indians with headcloths," she said.

He laughed. "I suppose they do. Shall we have a look inside?"

He gave the doorman three shillings for their admission, took a guidebook and handed it to Juliana, and ushered her and Aunt Frances into the museum.

"So many people," Frances said, looking dazed as they jostled their way down a corridor.

"They've all come to see Napoleon's carriage," Juliana told her. "And Captain Cook's artifacts. And," she added, reading off the cover of the guidebook, "'the Collection of Fifteen Thousand Natural and Foreign Curiosities, Antiques, and Productions of the Fine Arts.'"

"I'm feeling faint," Frances said.

"You don't have to look at all of them, Auntie. Listen to this." Pausing in the first of the exhibition rooms, Juliana quoted from the introduction. "'The museum's owner, William Bullock, formed his collection during seventeen years of arduous research at a cost of thirty thousand pounds.'"

"Thirty thousand pounds," James said in wonder. "Just think how many vaccinations all that money could have provided."

Or how many foundlings it could have fed, Juliana thought. But there were other good uses for money. "Widening the horizons of the man in the street is also a worthy cause. Don't you agree, Aunt Frances?" She glanced around. "Aunt Frances?"

"There she is." James pointed toward an exhibit of stuffed African animals. "On that bench, by the rail."

Juliana wove through the crowd to sit beside her, beneath the raised trunk of a massive gray elephant. "Are you unwell, Auntie?"

"I'm fine, child. I thought I'd sit here a while and rest." Frances patted her chest with a happy sigh, and Juliana knew she was thinking about Lord Malmsey and his red roses. "You young people go ahead and start looking. I'll join you in a few minutes."

"We cannot just leave you here," Juliana said.

"Of course we can," James disagreed. "You wouldn't want to risk your aunt's health by taxing her, would you?"

"She doesn't look unhealthy to me. Her cheeks are rosier than I've ever seen them."

"Fever," James said succinctly.

Concerned, Juliana turned to feel her aunt's forehead. "She's not hot."

"Impending fever, then. She needs to rest as a preventative measure." When Juliana failed to rise, he reached for her hand and pulled her from the bench. "Will you argue with a physician?"

"Go on," Aunt Frances put in, waving her gloved hand in encouragement.

Juliana suddenly realized her own hand was bare, and James's felt very strong and warm.

"Come along." He tugged on her hand. "Your aunt will be fine. I believe Captain Cook's artifacts are in the next room."

She pulled her fingers free. Holding her hand in the carriage was one thing—and no doubt the result of those macaroons—but she shouldn't allow him to do so in public. "We haven't seen the things in this room yet."

"A bevy of stuffed animals," he said dismissively. Besides the African display in the center, the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with creatures in glass cases, stacked one on top of another. "What's so interesting about that?"

"There are hundreds of different species."

"You're too short to see most of them," he said. Then, apparently deciding the discussion was over, he draped an arm about her shoulders and began drawing her from the room.

Shocked, she darted a glance to her aunt, but Frances was staring into space, a vague smile curving her lips. Daydreaming, no doubt. She certainly wouldn't be smiling if she'd seen James's arm around her.

Unless, on second thought, seeing James's arm around her had made Frances begin fantasizing about Lord Malmsey holding her in the same fashion. Because Juliana had to admit that being tucked up against a man like this was a pleasurable sensation.

She wondered if Amanda would like it. Probably not, she decided. James was acting a bit more amorous than she'd had in mind. She'd had no idea the macaroons would prove to be so potent.

The next chamber's walls were covered with historical arms and armor. Still attached to her, James walked slowly, admiring the collection as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

"James," she said quietly.

"Hmm?"

"You have your arm about my shoulders."

"I know. I'm practicing for wooing Lady Amanda."

Oh, dear, just as she'd feared. She'd known she shouldn't have let him eat those macaroons. "I don't think Lady Amanda would want you to do this."

"Why not? It feels good, doesn't it?"

She couldn't argue with that, so she didn't.

"We fit perfectly," he added, studying a curved sword.

They did fit perfectly. She'd thought him too tall, but he was just the right height for her to fit perfectly under his arm. Not, of course, that that made it at all proper. And in any case, he wouldn't fit perfectly with Amanda, since Amanda was much taller.

"Um, James?"

"Hmm?"

"People are going to see us and assume you're courting me instead of Lady Amanda."

"We aren't acquainted with anyone here," he said easily, "so they're not going to assume anything." He looked up higher, to peruse a battered shield. "Fascinating, isn't it?"

Unsure whether he was referring to the armor or to the fact that no one would make assumptions, she tried to wriggle away without looking conspicuous. "I cannot really see it. I'm too short. Perhaps we should go see Napoleon's carriage instead."

"Use my quizzing glass," he offered, handing it to her with a smile.

She really had no choice but to take it. Like at the ball, he'd left the long chain around his neck, so she had to lean yet closer to raise the glass to her eye. Dear heavens, he smelled good. She couldn't seem to focus on the shield.

He moved behind her, which was a relief. But then his fingers brushed her neck, and a little shiver ran through her. She blinked through the lens at an ancient, pitted rifle. "What are you doing, James?"

"Just pinning up a strand of your hair that's fallen down."

Her hair was so straight it sometimes slid right out of its pins. But she'd never had a man fix it before. Studying the rusty edge of a cutlass, she wondered if she should stop him.

"I'd do the same thing for Lady Amanda," he said, apparently reading her mind. "It's very gallant, don't you think? I'm getting some excellent practice."

She switched to examine an old flintlock. "Are you finished yet?"

"Not quite."

That deep, chocolatey voice was making it difficult to pay attention, especially since it seemed to be coming from right behind her ear. "You're standing a bit close to me, James."

"You're holding my quizzing glass," he pointed out.

And whose idea had that been? "Do you expect Captain Cook used this pistol?"

"What pistol?" he asked, his hands leaving her hair to rest lightly on her shoulders.

She could feel his breath, warm on the back of her neck. "This pistol I'm looking at on the wall."

"That's part of Bullock's collection." His voice sounded even closer. "Captain Cook's artifacts are in a case to your right."

She turned her head to the right, and his lips met her nape.

Heavens, they felt hot and soft. She nearly groaned when the brief contact ended.

"You shouldn't do that," she whispered, scandalized—although, to be honest, she was mostly scandalized because it had felt so good. "I understand that you wish to practice, but you're taking things too far."

"What things?" James asked.

She dropped the quizzing glass and whirled to face him. "You kissed my neck."

"In public? I think not." His expression was one of studied innocence. "You have an active imagination, Juliana."

She'd been told that before, but she hadn't imagined this. "You'd better not do that to Lady Amanda," she warned. "She wouldn't like it."

"I wouldn't presume to kiss Lady Amanda. She's rather stuffy, isn't she? Rather like Castleton."

"The duke is not stuffy!"

He shrugged and motioned toward a glass case with a few people standing before it. "Did you want to see Captain Cook's artifacts?"

"Yes," she said and made her way over.

She'd wanted for months to see Captain Cook's artifacts, ever since the Morning Post had printed an article about their arrival at the Egyptian Hall. But they weren't nearly as interesting as she'd expected. As she stood before the glass case, her gaze wandering over yellowed shark's teeth and ugly specimens of cloth made from bark, she wondered how it would feel should the duke kiss her neck like James had.

Perhaps she ought to give the duke a few macaroons so she could find out.

"Do you expect those old bones are really from the grave of an ancient Hawaiian chief?" she asked.

"If Captain Cook said so, I'm sure they are."

She wondered if Amanda would find all of this more interesting. Probably, considering she was fascinated with crusty objects from ancient ruins. "Are there any Roman antiquities in this museum?"

"I haven't noticed any yet, but there might be." James slipped an arm around her waist. "Would you like to have a look around and see?"

"Not particularly." Remembering that he'd known the identities of the Egyptian statues outside, she asked, "Would you recognize Roman antiquities?"

"Most certainly," he said dryly. "My father and grandfather were both obsessed with the things."

"Really? Lady Amanda is, too." What an amazing coincidence. "Do you find Roman antiquities fascinating?"

"I wouldn't put it so strongly," he said, drawing her closer against his side. "Mildly interesting, perhaps."

Perfect. Amanda had said she wanted a man who was interested in Roman antiquities. Her friend was going to love coming here with him—as long as he didn't eat so many macaroons first. "Shall we go see Napoleon's carriage now?" she suggested, sidestepping away.

He sidestepped with her. "Absolutely, if that's what you wish."

As they headed to the next room, he kept his arm firmly around her. Endeavoring to ignore that, she opened the guidebook and read from it. "The Emperor's carriage was captured at Waterloo and later purchased from the Prince Regent for twenty-five hundred pounds," she reported. "And it's bulletproof."

"A wise precaution on Napoleon's part." He halted in the archway. "Good God, would you look at all those people?" The carriage was completely surrounded. "Perhaps it would be better to return another time."

She wouldn't be returning with him—his next visit here would be with Amanda. They would look at Roman antiquities.

"I want to see the carriage now," she said, picturing his arm around Amanda's waist instead of hers and wondering why that vision was so unsettling. Probably because Amanda wouldn't approve, she decided as she broke away from him and he followed her to the front of the crowd.

"Pardon me," he kept saying in a tone that sounded half exasperated, half apologetic. "Excuse me. Pardon." Short as she was, she was very good at burrowing her way through a pack of people, but apparently he wasn't.

Up close, the vehicle was beautiful, painted a rich dark blue and ornamented in gold. She looked up and back at James, who had come to a stop behind her. "Even the wheels are gold," she said.

James examined it over her head. "It's such a crush in here," he complained.

"The newspaper reported that ten thousand a day are visiting just to see this carriage."

"There seem to be twenty thousand today." He bumped into her from behind, then placed his hands on her waist to steady her. "My apologies," he murmured by her ear. "These people have no manners."

Although nobody seemed to be jostling, she let him keep his hands there, just in case. "There's a blanket inside, embroidered with the initials NB. Do you expect Napoleon actually slept in here?"

"He'd have been smart to, considering it's bulletproof." He wrapped his arms further around her, overlapping them under her breasts. "There's a desk inside, too."

It was built in below the front window, with many compartments for maps and telescopes. "Very clever," she murmured, leaning back into him so no one would nudge her. His body was warm. His scent swamped her again, making her curiously dizzy. She felt very cozy and safe.

"Do you think Lady Amanda would like this?" he whispered.

"The clever desk?"

"No, me. Holding her like this."

"Oh, yes," she breathed, followed by a horrified, "No!"

What had she been thinking? She could feel his quizzing glass against her spine, which she was certain Amanda would find quite uncomfortable. "Lady Amanda wouldn't like this at all," she said, twisting out of his embrace. "You're right. It's entirely too crowded here today." She pushed through the throng and began retracing their steps back to Frances. "I believe we should fetch my aunt and leave. You cannot be late to Parliament if you're giving a speech tonight."

Frances was still sitting where they'd left her, gazing happily into space.

"Come along, Auntie," Juliana said.

It took a few minutes for the coachman to bring James's carriage around—a few minutes during which she marveled that her macaroons had had such an astounding effect. No sooner had they climbed into the carriage than she burrowed into the basket to count how many macaroons were left.

"What are you doing?" James asked.

"I forgot to keep some for myself." She pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule. "I'm sure Aunt Frances will want some."

"I don't need any macaroons, child." Her aunt patted her newly golden-brown hair. "A lady should keep a trim figure."

Frances had never had a care for her figure before. "Corinna will want some, then," Juliana said, piling them onto her handkerchief. She couldn't leave all the macaroons for James. She needed some for the duke, and besides, the mere thought of James eating nine macaroons made her cringe. Nine! If three had made him so amorous, nine would likely bring on behavior Amanda might never forgive.

James took the basket and peeked inside. "One? You cannot leave me just one."

Maybe he was right. She did want him to act warmly toward Amanda tomorrow night—just not as warmly as in the museum. "Two, then." She put one back in the basket and folded the handkerchief around the remaining seven. "But don't eat them until right before the ball tomorrow," she instructed as she slipped the bundle into her reticule. "You're going to need extra stamina, so you mustn't forget."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"I cannot see," Frances complained. "I should never have let you talk me into taking off my spectacles."

"But you look beautiful, Auntie." Juliana patted her on the arm. "Just wait until Lord Malmsey gazes into your big blue eyes. You won't be sorry then." Having just arrived at Lady Partridge's ball, she looked around for the man in question, smiling when she spotted him across the room. "There he is."

"Where?" Frances glanced around wildly. "I cannot see him."

"Right there, Auntie. Leaning on the mantel." Since it was quite cold for June, Lady Partridge had ordered the fireplaces lit on both ends of her impressive ballroom. "Come along. I'll take you to him."

Frances drew a deep breath and smoothed her soft peach dress down her sides, eyeing her lower-than-usual décolletage—although it wasn't very low compared to what most of the ladies were wearing tonight. "Do I look all right?"

"You look perfect," Juliana assured her, taking her arm as they started across the room. It was true. Frances looked much younger in the fashionable dress with her hair dyed and styled, and Juliana's skillful hand with the cosmetics had completed her transformation. She seemed to be trembling, but there was nothing Juliana could do to help that.

Standing in the glow of the fire, Lord Malmsey also looked nervous. Well, he should be. Not only was he falling in love for the first time in his life, but he was doing so while betrothed to another lady—and while Juliana knew that would soon cease to be a problem, he didn't.

It was unfortunate a gentleman couldn't call off a wedding, because that would solve everything. He'd be free to marry Aunt Frances, and Amanda's father would have no grounds to disinherit her, leaving her free to find another suitor without so much pressure. But it just wasn't done. Although a lady could back out of an engagement—assuming she was willing to be labeled a jilt—a gentleman had no honorable way to withdraw an offer of marriage.

As Lord Malmsey noticed them approaching, a tentative smile spread on his face. While it didn't quite transform him—it didn't, after all, smooth his creased forehead or improve his unfortunate receding hairline—he did seem more attractive than Juliana remembered. Perhaps it was his stylish suit, which was obviously brand-new, or perhaps it was because what was left of his hair had been neatly trimmed. Or perhaps it was a glow that came from knowing someone of the opposite sex cared for him.

Love could change a person.

When they reached him, his anxious gaze met her aunt's. "Good evening, Lady Frances," he said shyly.

A youthful blush blossomed on Frances's cheeks, making her even more alluring. "Good evening, Lord Malmsey."

"Please," he said, gazing into her big blue eyes, "call me Theodore."

Juliana had never heard the man's given name—in fact, she felt somewhat surprised to hear he even had one. But Aunt Frances stopped shaking, and her lips curved in a timid smile. "Call me Frances, then, please."

Lord Malmsey held out his arm. "Would you honor me with a dance…Frances?"

"My goodness, I'd love nothing more," she gushed, which sounded nothing like the formal words of acceptance she'd practiced with Juliana. But it sounded better, more genuine, and made Lord Malmsey grin in response. Shooting Juliana a disbelieving—and myopic—glance, Frances took his arm and sailed off with him.

Juliana sighed as she watched them drift toward the dance floor. Love was so inspiring.

"Did the macaroons work? Are my eyes sparkling?"

She turned to find Amanda standing beside her, wearing the dress Juliana had chosen because its gray-blue hue intensified the color of her eyes. Alas, those eyes weren't noticeably sparkling, but Juliana wouldn't tell her so.

"You look lovely," she said instead. Amanda did look lovely, actually, whether her eyes sparkled or not. Juliana's hard work with her had definitely paid off. "Are you carrying your new fan?"

Amanda held it up. "And I'm wearing the gloves, like you told me to."

"Excellent. Have you seen James—I mean, Lord Stafford—yet?"

"No. I don't think he's arrived." Amanda's not-sparkling eyes looked apprehensive. "His gifts are wonderful, but what if I still don't like him particularly?"

"You will." How could anyone not like James? He was warm, intelligent, kind, and caring, and even though he didn't have time to go out much in society, Amanda shouldn't care a fig about that. It wasn't as though she was a social butterfly herself.

If anything, Juliana was more concerned about James liking Amanda, mostly because he seemed much more affectionate than Amanda. But soon he would discover they had interests in common—chess and antiquities—and hopefully the macaroons would work to make Amanda warmer than usual. Or at least more receptive to his warmth.

Amanda frowned toward the dance floor. "Is Lord Malmsey waltzing with your aunt?"

"Yes. Isn't it wonderful?"

"He's engaged to me," she said.

It was Juliana's turn to frown. "You're planning to break that engagement, aren't you? Under the circumstances, I should think you'd be happy to see him showing interest in another woman. It's not your goal to devastate him, is it? Besides, you've spent the last week dancing with other men."

In fact, two other men were approaching now. As Rachael had said, Amanda looked to be this season's Incomparable—at least until her novelty wore off.

"Smile, Amanda," Juliana instructed through a fixed smile of her own. "You're not engaged to Lord Stafford yet, so you might need one of these gentlemen."

Before she turned her new, practiced smile on the potential suitors, Amanda at least had the grace to look chagrined. Which was a good thing, because given her earlier attitude, Juliana had been tempted to call the whole plan off. Except then Lord Malmsey would have to marry Amanda, which would hardly be fair to either him or Aunt Frances.

Having multiple projects was proving to be complicated.

As Amanda went off to dance with the luckier of the two men, Juliana sensed a presence behind her and turned to see the Duke of Castleton. "Lady Juliana," he said, his tone cultured and reserved as always, "may I beg the honor of your company for a dance?"

"By all means, your grace." She loved calling him your grace and thinking that someday—maybe someday soon—other people would say that to her. She took the duke's arm and headed toward the dance floor. "A waltz," she said happily, shooting him a smile. "Now you'll have an excuse to touch me."

She'd uttered the words in a flirtatious manner, but although she was an accomplished flirt, the duke didn't seem to take her hint. "You're looking beautiful tonight, my dear," he said, and then he held her at a respectable distance throughout the entirety of the dance, and he didn't touch her anywhere that wasn't strictly necessary.

None of that meant he wasn't enamored. He'd sent her flowers, after all. And he'd called her my dear. But all the same, Juliana had enjoyed the affection she'd received from James, and she wished the duke would loosen up a bit and show a little physical affection, too. Even a smidgen would be encouraging.

Luckily, she'd transferred the handkerchief-wrapped macaroons into the pretty yellow reticule that matched her dress. As they came off the dance floor, she slid the beaded purse off her wrist and opened it.

"Thank you for the waltz, my dear," the duke said very formally.

"It was my pleasure." She pulled out the bundle and handed it to him. "I baked macaroons for you."

He looked startled. "In the kitchen?" he asked, as though there were somewhere else—someplace more acceptable—a proper lady of the ton might bake.

"Yes, in the kitchen. Chase ladies are known for making all sorts of sweets." Since he wasn't moving to do so, she unwrapped the macaroons for him. "Won't you try one?"

Looking discomfited, he selected an especially small one and surreptitiously slipped it into his mouth, then chewed and swallowed thoroughly before stating his opinion. "They're absolutely delicious," he said. "I can see why the Chase ladies are known for their sweets." He held forth the handkerchief with the rest of them.

She didn't take it. "I'm so glad they meet with your approval. I hope you'll enjoy all of them." Seven macaroons might seem a bit much, considering three had made James overly affectionate, but she suspected it could take at least that many to ease a manner as reserved as the duke's. "Thank you for the dance," she added, with a very proper curtsy. Then she took her leave, before he could try to hand them to her again.

Men didn't carry reticules—and the duke was entirely too fastidious to put a bundle of macaroons in his pocket.

He'd have no choice but to eat them.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The weather was always a popular topic of conversation, but it seemed even more so this unusually cold year. In fact, James reflected as he stood in a circle of men at Lady Partridge's ball, it seemed that lately people talked of little else.

"The sunspots are responsible for the cold," Lord Cravenhurst was saying. "Clearly there is something amiss with the universe."

Lord Davenport inclined his head sagely. "Nine groups of sunspots have been counted, plus several single ones scattered from the eastern to the western side of the sun. I fear they portend the end of the world. The sun is cooling off."

"I think not." James found himself half amused by these absurd theories, but his other half was rather disturbed to think the country was being run by the crackpots expounding them. "Sunspots are hardly new. Galileo noted them more than two hundred years ago. If you'll but examine the temperature records, you'll find Britain has seen both uncommonly cold and uncommonly warm summers since then, and such periods have nothing to do with sunspots."

Lord Hawkridge nodded. "Stafford is right."

James gave the man a subtle nod in return, glad to have another non-crackpot in the discussion. He knew Hawkridge from his Oxford days, although not terribly well—the man had been a much closer friend of Griffin's. A newcomer to Parliament and a fellow Whig, Hawkridge had impressed James so far on the floor. He seemed a true gentleman with a clear head and a keen sense of honor.

"I agree with Hawkridge and Stafford," Lord Haversham announced. "Sunspots aren't responsible for the cold. The moon is to blame."

"And how is that?" Hawkridge asked.

Apparently not scientifically minded, Haversham shrugged. "It's common knowledge that the cycles of the moon affect everything."

"Nonsense." Everyone turned to Lord Occlestone, a man who sadly—or fittingly, depending on one's estimation of the fellow—resembled nothing so much as a pink-faced porker. "It's not the moon or sunspots," he declared loudly, spewing sputum on everyone else in the process. "It's the fault of those upstart Americans."

James wiped his face. "How the devil can you blame this on the Americans?" Occlestone had been another classmate at Oxford—one James hadn't liked then and liked even less now. A staunch Tory and generally against any progress or reform, Occlestone was doing everything he could to block James's bill to make smallpox vaccinations government-funded and mandatory for infants.

"North America is suffering even colder weather than ours," Hawkridge pointed out. "Their newspapers have been predicting famine in the coming months due to crop failure."

"I've seen reports of famine in Switzerland as well," Davenport put in.

"Famine or not," Occlestone said, plainly disinterested in something so unlikely to affect him personally, "we can lay the blame at the feet of an American. Benjamin Franklin, to be precise."

"At the feet of Benjamin Franklin?" Incredulous, James blinked. "I expect Mr. Franklin's feet are decomposed by now. He's been dead more than twenty-five years."

The others laughed, but Occlestone's porcine eyes narrowed. "Dead or not, he invented the lightning rod, didn't he? I'll have you know that the interior of the earth is hot due to electrical fluids circulating about beneath the surface. That heat is usually discharged into the air around us, but because of Franklin's lightning rods—which are now being installed all over not only his country but ours as well—the earth's process of releasing heat into the atmosphere has been interrupted."

"That's not how I've heard it explained," Cravenhurst said. "Quite the opposite, in fact. Since lightning is heat, the lightning rods have taken the heat from the air. Hence we shall never again see summer."

Davenport rubbed his balding pate. "Either way, Franklin would be responsible. But I still blame the sunspots."

James decided that, Hawkridge excepted, they all had more hair than sense—even shiny-headed Davenport. Still, it wouldn't do to call them idiots to their faces.

"Like all of you," he said carefully, "I've given this much thought. And that, coupled with keen observation, has led me to dismiss these predictions of doom. There's been a haze overhead the last months. I believe that haze is temporarily blocking the sun."

Occlestone crossed his arms. "A haze?"

"Yes, a haze. Or a fog, if you will, or perhaps it's some sort of dust, since it appears to be dry. Unlike the way the sun easily dissipates a moist fog arising from the water, its warmth seems to have little effect on this haze. Therefore it logically follows that its rays aren't reaching the earth and warming it as usual."

"And to what do you attribute this haze?" Occlestone demanded.

"That I couldn't tell you. I'm a physician, not a meteorologist. But I see no reason to jump to the conclusion that the condition will continue indefinitely."

"Do you expect there's a haze above America as well? I think not." Occlestone's pinkish face was turning rather purple. "I was forced to listen to your damned two-hour speech in Parliament, Stafford, but I don't have to listen to you here." And with that, he walked off, muttering so loudly James suspected he was audible halfway across the ballroom.

"Good evening, Tristan," James heard a familiar feminine voice say behind him.

He turned to see Juliana, dressed in such a cheerful bright yellow she seemed to make up for all the missing sunshine. But he didn't like hearing her address Hawkridge by his given name, and he liked even less seeing her smile when the man walked closer, raised her hand, and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "You're looking lovely tonight, Juliana."

James didn't hear what they said next. He was too busy telling himself he had no business caring who courted Juliana, and she was entitled to have genuine suitors, and at least Hawkridge wasn't a prig and an ass. The next thing he knew, Hawkridge was gone—and Juliana was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

"Are you all right, James?"

He blinked. "Of course. Why shouldn't I be?"

"You just looked…odd."

He shrugged. "Hawkridge is a fine fellow, isn't he?"

"Yes. It's a shame he was shunned by society for so long. I'm very glad Alexandra managed to clear his name."

"Alexandra?"

"My older sister. His wife."

"Oh." Whatever scandal had afflicted Hawkridge, it must have happened while James was preoccupied by grief. Feeling an absurd rush of relief, it was all he could do to hold back a grin. Hawkridge wasn't Juliana's suitor—he was her brother-in-law. "I didn't realize he was married to your sister."

"I forgot you've met only Corinna. I shall have to introduce you to Alexandra." She caught sight of someone and frowned. "That man doesn't like you much, does he?"

Awestruck once again at her lightning-fast change of subject, James followed her gaze. "Occlestone?" He hadn't realized she'd overheard their conversation. "He doesn't like any of the bills I propose in Parliament. But I don't like him much, either, so we're even."

"Two hours," she said, looking impressed. "How was your speech received? Other than by Lord Occlestone, I mean."

He sighed. "I don't think the House of Lords is prepared to expend more money fighting smallpox. They awarded two grants to fund Edward Jenner's research—in 1802 and again in 1806—and they consider that enough. In addition, there are those who feel that making immunization obligatory would be a problem in itself. A matter of civil liberty. They believe imposing vaccinations isn't acceptable in a country with a tradition of freedom."

"They have a point," she said thoughtfully.

He nodded. "When it comes to weighing personal freedom against the greater good, I admit to some ambivalence." Very little in this world was black and white. "But I do wish there was more support for public funding of the effort to eradicate the disease."

"Has your bill come to a vote?"

"Not yet, but I fear I know the outcome already." His two-hour speech had been followed by four hours of debate—mostly not in his favor. "I shall try again next year. Perhaps for funding alone, given the resistance to making vaccination compulsory."

"You're a reasonable man, James."

He shrugged. "Merely pragmatic. No matter how strongly I feel about conquering smallpox, I'm coming to believe there's nothing I can say that will override others' desire to protect individual rights. And I'm not even sure their position isn't legitimate."

"But will money alone help? You're already paying for other people's vaccinations."

"Only here in London. My income, after all, though not insubstantial, is limited. But government funds would go toward more than doctors and supplies—they would also pay for education. If everyone learned the importance of immunization and therefore decided to have their children vaccinated, the end result would be the same as if it were required." Thinking this was quite a serious discussion for a young lady at a social event, he smiled and changed the subject. "Are you enjoying Lady Partridge's ball?"

"Of course. I didn't see you arrive."

"That's because you were dancing with Castleton." The ass had looked as stuffy as ever, even with Juliana in his arms, which had cheered James tremendously. "Can I convince you to dance with me instead?"

"You're here to dance with Lady Amanda," she reminded him. "Did you eat the macaroons before you came?"

"Absolutely. I assure you, I shall have enough stamina to dance with you both."

"Very well," she said with a laugh. "We can talk about your strategy as we dance."

James didn't want to talk about strategy. But he did want to get his hands on Juliana, with the intention of making more progress toward eventually kissing her, so he mumbled something that sounded like consent and drew her toward the dance floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"So," Juliana said to James as they waltzed, "have you decided how you're going to ask Lady Amanda's permission to court her?"

He pulled her closer. "I thought I'd start with 'May I have this dance?' and take it from there."

"That doesn't sound particularly gallant."

"I think it will work," he said dismissively. "After all, I bought her several gifts." He pulled her closer still, until their bodies were nearly touching, which had the odd effect of making her tingle. "Have I sent her all of the gifts yet, or just some?"

"Only the fan and the gloves so far," she said, feeling breathless as his hand smoothed slowly down her back. "And the flowers, of course. You'll send the rest next week."

"You'll see to that, I presume," he said dryly as he slid his hand back up. "Sending the gifts is a very gallant gesture, isn't it?"

"That's why I suggested them."

"Well, then," he said, skimming his fingers down again and making her pulse race a little faster, "shouldn't that be enough? They do say that actions speak louder than words."

His actions were speaking volumes. He shouldn't be rubbing her back in the middle of a crowded dance floor, but she expected the macaroons were to blame for such forward behavior—and she had to admit it felt very nice. If he did the same to Amanda, that, coupled with the gifts, could very well be enough to make her want to marry him.

As the waltz came to an end, she was pleased to notice her older sister conversing with Amanda. "There's Alexandra now," she said, maneuvering so that James would lead her off the dance floor in their direction. "Let me introduce you."

James told Alexandra he'd been delighted to learn Lord Hawkridge had wed—in fact, he seemed more happy about that than was warranted—and Alexandra was glad to meet the man who'd been discussed so avidly at Juliana's sewing parties, although she didn't say so, of course.

After the introductions were complete, it was a simple matter to suggest that James and Amanda dance. Unfortunately, the musicians struck up a country tune, not a waltz, but the two of them headed off, looking very good together. They were both tall, and James's dark handsomeness contrasted with Amanda's pale beauty. Anyone would agree they made a perfect couple.

Juliana turned and spotted James's mother gazing happily toward her son, clearly pleased to see him with the lovely Amanda. Lady Stafford looked different tonight—or younger, maybe—wearing a fashionable dress of deep rose with almond trim. Juliana recalled seeing something similar in the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée. Remembering that James wanted his mother to dance, she looked around for an eligible gentleman and found one nearby.

"Lord Cavanaugh," she said, smiling when he shifted to face her. A dapper widower in his mid-fifties with a patrician nose and silver hair, he was ideal for Lady Stafford. "Are you enjoying the evening?"

He grinned down at her, looking surprised to have a lady so much younger engage him in conversation. "Very much, Lady Juliana. And you?"

"Very much as well." She started edging toward James's mother. "Have you been dancing much tonight?"

"Not yet," he said, interpreting her question as an invitation, just as she'd intended. "But I'd be honored to—"

"Excellent," she said, walking him right up to Lady Stafford. "Good evening, Lady Stafford."

James's mother turned, the smile still on her face. "Good evening, Lady Juliana."

"Your dress is beautiful. Is it new?"

Her warm brown eyes, so like her son's, sparkled much more than Amanda's. She reached to touch Juliana's arm. "Why, thank you, and yes, it is."

"I believe you know Lord Cavanaugh?" Juliana smiled in the man's direction. "He would love to dance with you. I hope you enjoy yourselves," she added and sailed off.

Corinna stepped into her path. "Very smooth, Juliana."

Since she was so happy with the way everything was going, she ignored her sister's sarcastic tone. "Thank you."

"Has it ever occurred to you that some people might not appreciate your meddling?"

"I'm not meddling. I'm helping." She gestured toward the dance floor, where Lady Stafford was performing a quadrille with Lord Cavanaugh. "They're both smiling."

"They're being polite."

"They're happy. He's a wealthy widower; she's a lonely widow. Why shouldn't they be happy to dance together?"

"Maybe because you pushed them into it?"

"Some people need a little pushing." She eyed her sister, thinking she looked a bit lonely. "Shall I find a dance partner for you?"

"Holy Hannah," Corinna said and walked off.

Juliana looked back to the dance floor. No matter what her sister said, it was obvious Lord Cavanaugh and James's mother were thoroughly enjoying their dance. And Lord Malmsey and Aunt Frances were dancing again, their eyes locked on each other in a way that made Juliana sigh with envy. If only the duke would look at her like that. Well, maybe he would now, having eaten the macaroons.

She was looking around for him when Amanda walked up. "I talked to Lord Malmsey."

"About what?" Juliana gasped, picturing her giving him a piece of her mind about dancing with Frances.

But Amanda surprised her. "About our betrothal. You were right—I had no call to disapprove of him showing interest in another woman. I told him that I understand his change of heart, and feel the same, and I'm going to find a way out of the marriage that will leave him with his honor intact."

Juliana slumped in relief. "You've decided to marry Lord Stafford, then."

Amanda shook her head. "I'm still not struck by love."

Impossible. "Did Lord Stafford touch you?" Juliana asked.

"Touch me? He touched my hand, of course, during the dance when we progressed."

"But nothing else? Nothing more…amorous?"

"Amorous?" Amanda's eyes widened. "I should hope not! It's not as though we're engaged."

They'd never get engaged if she didn't let him touch her. "The plan was to find someone willing to compromise you," Juliana reminded her. "And some touching, after all, will be necessary in order to convince your father that you're compromised. Perhaps a little experimentation would be wise."

Amanda appeared to quail at the very idea. "It's too soon. I've yet to decide if Lord Stafford is the man I wish to have compromise me."

"Well, your wedding is only three weeks off. You'd best make your decision quickly, or it will be Lord Malmsey touching you instead of someone of your own choosing."

The poor girl's face went white, and Juliana's heart went out to her. How a woman as reserved as Amanda would get through her wedding night was something she didn't even want to contemplate.

"We'll find someone," she promised, reaching to pat Amanda's hand. "I'm just not sure it's realistic to expect to be struck by love in so little time."

Amanda bit her lip, looking more reserved than ever. "Perhaps you're right."

"If you'd allow Lord Stafford to touch you, that might help."

"He hasn't tried," Amanda said.

Surely the effect of the macaroons hadn't worn off that quickly. "Perhaps if you were a bit more receptive."

"I'll try." Amanda fiddled with her fan. "Do you enjoy it when the duke touches you?"

"Very much," Juliana assured her, wishing the duke had actually touched her so she wouldn't have to fib. "Listen. The musicians are starting a waltz. That's an excellent dance for touching."

She took Amanda's arm and marched her to where James was talking to his mother. "Lady Amanda would love to waltz," she said.

When he didn't move, Lady Stafford nudged him. "Go on, James. We can finish this discussion at home."

"Very well," he said stiffly, offering Amanda his arm. "Shall we dance again?"

As the young couple walked off, Lady Stafford gave a happy sigh and smiled at Juliana, looking as though she had something to say to her. Something nice. But just then, Lord Cavanaugh came up and smartly bowed before the older woman.

"Shall we dance again?" he asked.

Shooting Juliana an even wider smile over her shoulder, Lady Stafford went off with him.

Juliana looked around and spotted the Duke of Castleton walking out of the card room. Aiming her best, practiced smile at him, she went up and tapped him on the arm. "Shall we dance again?"

That line had worked well for everyone else, but the duke looked startled. Juliana supposed it wasn't proper for a lady to do the asking, but she was dying to see how well the macaroons had worked, so she started toward the dance floor, knowing he would follow.

And he did follow, of course. But when they started to waltz, his arms were rigid, and he held her just as far away as ever.

"Who is that dancing with Stafford?" he asked. "Do you know her?"

"That's Lady Amanda Wolverston, and I know her very well. We grew up together as neighbors."

"I've never noticed her before."

Well, of course he hadn't. No one had noticed Amanda before Juliana took her in hand. "What did you think of Lord Stafford's controversial speech?"

"To which speech do you refer?"

"Yesterday's. In Parliament. Concerning smallpox vaccinations."

"How would you come to know of that?" he asked, but apparently the question was rhetorical, because he didn't wait for an answer. "I was at my club all day and night," he told her. "Playing cards."

She wondered why she found that disturbing. After all, she wanted a man who had plenty of time for her, and clearly he put pleasure before more serious pursuits. "Did you win?"

"Does it matter? It was an amusing way to pass the hours." He smiled down on her indulgently. "I can afford to lose, I assure you. I have plenty of money to both gamble and buy flowers for a special lady."

She was glad he thought she was special, but if he had extra funds, perhaps they'd be better spent on something more meaningful. A worthy cause. The Foundling Hospital, perhaps, or smallpox vaccinations.

Once she knew him better, she'd make the suggestion. She wished he would loosen up so she could get to know him better. "Did you eat any more of my macaroons?" she asked, concluding he hadn't.

"All of them," he said, surprising her. "They tasted so wonderful, and I couldn't find anywhere to put them to save them for later."

That was as she'd expected. But why weren't they working? "I'm glad you enjoyed them."

"They were truly very good."

Apparently they weren't good enough. They didn't seem to make him amorous at all. She moved a little bit closer, but he stiffened his arms until they were once more at a proper distance.

Lord Cavanaugh, she noticed, wasn't dancing nearly so properly with Lady Stafford. The two of them looked rather cozy. And Aunt Frances and Lord Malmsey were so close they were all but tromping on each other's toes. Amanda, however, was dancing at a proper distance from James.

She should have left James more macaroons, considering two had worn off too quickly and even seven hadn't affected the duke. What would make a man so resistant? Since the duke was a by-blow, she imagined his father might have acted distant, knowing his son was actually sired by another. But a good mother should have made up for that.

"Was your mother very affectionate?" she asked.

"Affectionate?" He looked taken aback by the mere question. "I wouldn't know. I never knew either of my parents."

Oh, how tragic. "Why was that?"

"They died when I was six months old. Drowned in a storm while crossing the Channel."

"I'm so sorry." Juliana had lost her parents as a young adult—she could hardly imagine growing up without parents altogether. Even motherless Emily and Amanda had fathers in their lives. "Who raised you, then?"

His handsome mouth compressed into a thin line. "My uncle and aunt—my father's brother and his wife. Did you know I was born in your house? The first thing they did as my guardians was sell that house to your father and then buy my current, more splendid house in Grosvenor Square. I was well satisfied to turn them out of it when I gained my majority."

She was happy to hear he had a splendid house, but she wondered at the bitterness in his tone. "Were they not nice to you?"

"Nice?" He laughed, but it was a laugh devoid of humor. "If I hadn't been born half a year before my parents died, my uncle and aunt would have been the duke and duchess. They never forgave me for robbing them of that."

He didn't offer any details, but Juliana could imagine them for herself. His uncle and aunt had been cold, cruel, and resentful. He'd received no hugs growing up, no physical affection.

No wonder he wasn't affectionate himself. No one had ever shown him how. "I'm so sorry you had a sad childhood," she told him.

"You're so caring, my dear," he said, giving her a fond smile.

Now she understood. No one had cared for him throughout his childhood, which was why he had a hard time getting close to others now. Like all people, he'd learned by example, and he needed a new example to learn by.

Human touch could go a long way. Once he learned to be more affectionate, he would also be more charitable. The poor man needed someone in his life to gently guide him, to help his softer side come to the fore.

He needed her. With her in his life, demonstrating affection and giving to others—

The dance came to an end. Before she could finish formulating her plan, he bowed formally and thanked her.

No sooner had he walked away than Lady Stafford walked up. "I must thank you for introducing me to Lord Cavanaugh."

"I thought you already knew him."

"Reintroducing me, then." She smiled, her kindly eyes reminding Juliana of her own mother. "I'm giving a little dinner party tomorrow evening at Stafford House, and Lord Cavanaugh has agreed to attend. My son will be there, too. Might I have the pleasure of your company as well?"

"I'd be delighted to attend." She liked James's mother. Lady Stafford was very motherly, and Juliana missed her mother rather a lot. Plus the dinner would give her a chance to ask James how his courtship of Amanda was proceeding and remind him to invite her to visit the Egyptian Hall. Once Amanda discovered their shared interest in Roman antiquities, she was certain to fall in love.

"I'm also going to ask the young lady with whom my son has been dancing." Lady Stafford's gaze slid to Amanda and back. "Shall I invite the Duke of Castleton to round out our party?"

"That would be lovely," Juliana said.

That would be perfect, in fact. The duke never called on Sundays, so the dinner would give her a chance to begin helping him right away. She'd be able to direct the conversation to James's cause and perhaps persuade him to contribute.

She hoped the duke would come to like James, and vice versa. Perhaps, in the long run, she and the duke could become fast friends with James and Amanda and have more dinner parties after both couples were married. That would be an ideal situation, because she'd come to enjoy James's company in the time they'd spent together.

"Eight o'clock, then?" the older woman asked. "Lady Amanda lives on your street, doesn't she? On the west side of Berkeley Square? I'll have the Stafford carriage sent round for you both."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

APPLE AND ORANGE TART

Peel two Oranges and make into pieces, then peel some Apples into thin slices. Put in a bowle with a smidgen of Flour, a cup of Sugar, some Cinnamon and Ginger. Put into your paste with pieces of Butter all over. Cover with more paste and some Sugar and bake in your oven until browne.

Excellent to bring to a party with friends. As the apples and oranges in this tart go together, so do the people who eat it.
—Eleanor, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1735

"Isn't this a stunning carriage?" Juliana asked as she and Amanda neared Stafford House.

"Lord Stafford is an earl." Amanda absentmindedly ran a hand over the deep green velvet upholstery. "I'd expect him to have a nice carriage."

The well-sprung vehicle rocked, making Juliana tighten her grip on the tart she'd baked that afternoon. Was there nothing about the man that would impress her friend? "He likes chess," she reminded her, and then, even though she'd meant to let Amanda discover they had more in common at the Egyptian Hall, she added, "And you might want to ask him if he's interested in Roman antiq—"

She cut off mid-word as the carriage came to a stop and the door opened, revealing a footman dressed in crimson livery trimmed in gold. "Welcome to Stafford House," he said, offering a gloved hand to help them down.

"Gracious me," Amanda breathed, her eyes widening as she stepped out and stood before the mansion. "I've noticed this house from Green Park, but I had no idea it belonged to Lord Stafford." It was three stories tall, the facade clad in brilliant white Portland stone. "Would you look at those statues on top of that Roman Doric portico? Bacchus, Flora, and Ceres."

Juliana hadn't a clue who Bacchus, Flora, and Ceres were, but she smiled all the same. "Lord Stafford can name ancient gods and goddesses, just like you."

A butler ushered them inside an impressive entrance hall with curved walls, a pale marble floor, and an arched window looking out on a resplendent central courtyard garden.

"Gracious me," Amanda repeated, staring up at a strip of decorations that ran around the room below the carved oval ceiling. "That frieze looks like the one in the Temple of Jupiter." Slowly, reverently, she walked toward a large marble bust that sat on a pedestal before the window. "This is amazing." She reached a hand as though to touch it, then stopped herself. "It must be priceless."

"He doesn't look like a god," Juliana said.

"He isn't. That's Emperor Lucius Verus, the adopted brother of Marcus Aurelius who ruled with him."

Juliana examined the haughty, bearded fellow. "He's very handsome."

"He was said to be weak and indulgent. I understand that his death was rather a relief to the Empire."

"How do you know such things?" Juliana asked.

"From books, of course. My father's library has grown by leaps and bounds since he discovered the ruins on the property. Do you not read, too?"

"Most certainly." Newspapers, because she liked to keep up with what was going on in the world. Magazines by the dozen. Poetry and the latest novels discussed in polite company. And those discussed in whispers, such as the torrid Minerva Press romance currently hidden beneath her pillow. But Roman history and mythology?

She'd had no idea Amanda was so bookish.

After collecting their pelisses and umbrellas, the butler led them through a staircase hall. Or at least he tried to lead them through a staircase hall. Amanda stopped in her tracks, staring at a statue that was larger-than-life.

"It's a centaur," she said.

"Even I know that. My education isn't totally lacking." Juliana was rather fascinated by all the ridges on the creature's bare, toned chest. But Amanda had already moved on, kneeling down by a large fragment of carved stone that sat beneath an inlaid wooden side table.

"Part of a sarcophagus, I'd guess." She ran her fingers across the piece. "First century."

"How do you know?" Juliana wondered.

Amanda just shrugged as she rose, gesturing to two more carved stone pieces on either side of the table. "Funerary altars. Also first century. The flat surface was used for sacrificial ceremonies." She sighed expansively. "This house is just full of treasures."

The butler continued on, leading them down a corridor lined with gilt-framed paintings of Stafford ancestors, then turning into the most gorgeous room Juliana had ever seen. Between arched walls painted a soft pistachio green, gilded columns looked like golden palm trees, their fronds projecting high overhead. In the back of the room, a large alcove was crowned with a domed ceiling, divided into small gilt-edged squares alternately tinted green and pink.

Dressed in a burgundy gown with pink trim, Lady Stafford rose from where she faced Lord Cavanaugh across a chessboard and greeted them with a smile. "Good evening. I'm so pleased you could both come." She moved to take the dish Juliana was holding out. "What is this, my dear?"

"An apple and orange tart. The recipe was my great-grandmother's."

She lifted the lace doily that covered it. "Oh, my. It smells delicious."

"It's supposed to promote friendship," Amanda informed her, gazing down at the chess set.

"Lovely!" Lady Stafford set the tart on a marble side table. "We shall serve it after dinner."

"What a beautiful chess set," Juliana said, amused by Amanda's fascination. "Roman gladiators, aren't they? Do the pieces date back to that time?"

"No, they look much newer," Amanda said. "And besides, chess isn't that old. It wasn't invented until after the Empire fell."

"My father-in-law commissioned the set to be carved." Lady Stafford lifted a crystal decanter. "Would you care for some sherry?"

"A little, please." Juliana took the first glass she poured and perched herself on a pale green satin love seat with gilt palm tree legs that had obviously been designed to match the room. "Thank you so much for inviting us to your home."

"It's my son's home," Lady Stafford said, handing Amanda another glass.

That son walked into the room with the duke, the two of them deep in conversation. Juliana was thrilled to see the men were becoming friends already. She smoothed the skirts of her white dress, which she'd chosen hoping the duke would think it proper and ladylike.

Very pure, as James had said.

Sipping sherry, Amanda sat beside her. "He's so much taller," she whispered.

James was much taller than the duke. Which was why he and Amanda looked so good together.

"And darker," Amanda added.

Yes, James was dark. The duke looked pasty in comparison. Pasty and pale-haired. But only in comparison. And Juliana preferred pale hair.

"And much more handsome."

"It isn't polite to whisper," Juliana whispered back. She didn't want to think about James being much more handsome. And it wasn't true, anyway.

Was it?

"Good evening, ladies," James said, his voice low and chocolate-smooth as always. On hearing it, Juliana felt her knees weaken as always, too, even though she was sitting down.

"Good evening," the duke said in his perfectly normal voice. He smiled at Juliana. "It's lovely to see you again, my dear."

Well, why should a voice matter, anyway? The duke was a duke. And it was obvious he cared for her, even if he didn't touch her.

A footman appeared in the doorway and announced dinner. Lord Cavanaugh offered Lady Stafford his arm. "Shall we?"

The rest of them followed the older couple into a large formal dining room. The extra leaves had been removed from the mahogany table to make it an oval for six. While a footman drew back Juliana's chair, she took a moment to look around. The dining room featured Roman-looking marble columns, a beautiful Turkey carpet, and a carved marble fireplace. But the most impressive thing was the ceiling, a scalloped design with round inset panels representing classical scenes, all decorated in gold.

"This is exquisite," she said as she sank onto her forest green velvet seat.

"My late husband's pride and joy." Lady Stafford sat, too. "It was based on a ceiling in the Baths of Augustus in Rome."

Gazing up at it, Amanda sighed. "This is the most magnificent house I've ever seen. Everything in it is absolutely splendid." She turned to James beside her. "You have wonderful taste, Lord Stafford."

His mother laughed. "The taste was his grandfather's. The man hired the venerable Henry Holland as his designer. Were it up to my son, he'd probably sell the whole lot and use the money to vaccinate every last soul in England."

James frowned. "The sale of this house and its contents wouldn't begin to cover—"

"I was jesting," Lady Stafford broke in with the sort of fond smile a mother gives her exasperating-but-adored son. "I trust you not to sell off the family treasures."

Juliana saw an opportunity to segue into a matter she'd hoped to discuss. "If others would help with Lord Stafford's cause," she said as asparagus soup was served in porcelain bowls with gold Stafford crests on their crimson rims, "there would be no need to sell anything." Lifting her spoon, which was gold, too, she turned to the duke. "Eradicating smallpox is a worthy goal that all should contribute toward, don't you think?"

"All?" The duke raised his own gold spoon. "Worthy or not, I don't expect everyone can afford to donate."

"Certainly you can," she said sweetly.

She thought she heard choking sounds from James. Or maybe a muffled chortle.

Lord Cavanaugh took a sip of wine. "I'd be pleased to contribute."

"Thank you very much," James said with an expression of startled approval. "That would be greatly appreciated."

Lady Stafford looked quite delighted.

Amanda turned a smile on James. "I should like to contribute, too," she said prettily, "but alas, I shall need to ask my father for the funds."

Knowing Amanda's father, Juliana suspected he wouldn't donate a penny. And she was sure Amanda knew that, too. "Time is also valuable," she said. "You could volunteer your aid in lieu of money."

Amanda blinked and pressed a hand to her pale blue muslin bodice. "Are you suggesting I give smallpox vaccinations?"

"No, of course not. Doctors give the vaccinations. But I imagine there are other tasks you could do that would prove helpful."

"Certainly," James put in, setting down his spoon, which Juliana had decided was actually sterling plated in gold, because, really, solid gold spoons were a little much, even for people as rich as the Staffords. "There are always new supplies arriving that need to be unpacked and arranged on the shelves behind the counter, and schedules to be made out in a hand neater than mine, and treatment rooms to be cleaned, and—"

"You're looking for people to clean rooms?" Amanda interrupted. She pinned Juliana with a pointed gaze. "Are you going to volunteer, too, then?"

In truth, Juliana hadn't a clue why she'd suggested Amanda volunteer in the first place. She certainly didn't expect her to clean treatment rooms—she doubted the woman had cleaned anything in her life, with the possible exception of her own teeth. But something about Amanda's disingenuous offer of money had rubbed her the wrong way.

And now she'd backed herself into a corner. "I'd be happy to volunteer," Juliana found herself saying. She lifted her chin. She did like helping people, and while she was quite busy sewing baby clothes, she imagined she could spare a little time. "As I said, it's a worthy cause."

"Capital!" James exclaimed so enthusiastically she half expected him to break into applause. "How about Wednesday at one o'clock?"

"She can't," Amanda said. "She has a sewing party every Wednesday at one."

Drat. "I'll move this week's party to tomorrow."

"Sewing party?" Lady Stafford asked.

"Lady Juliana supports many worthy causes," Amanda said. "She's making baby clothes for the Foundling Hospital."

Juliana had a sudden thought. "It might be a good idea," she suggested to James, "for you to vaccinate the foundlings."

"I already do," he said, which made her admire him even more. "I visit there twice every year. "

Lady Stafford looked to Juliana. "Do you need more help sewing the baby clothes, dear? I'd be pleased to attend your party tomorrow."

"That would be wonderful," Juliana said.

And it was. But she spent the rest of dinner wondering how it happened that she'd ended up volunteering to help at the Institute when she'd suggested Amanda do so, and Lord Cavanaugh had ended up donating money when she'd asked that of the duke.

Maybe she was losing her touch.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

After dinner, when the ladies would usually have left the men alone with their port, Lady Stafford suggested they all adjourn to the Palm Room instead. While the men poured and Lady Stafford busied herself serving the apple and orange tart, Amanda drew Juliana into the alcove at the back of the room.

"Can you believe this house?" she whispered, her eyes sparkling at last. "Is it not the most amazing thing you've ever seen?"

Juliana's gaze wandered the gold palm fronds, the gold and crystal chandeliers, the gold-trimmed ceiling. "There's a lot of gold."

Smiling, Amanda nodded. "Even the silverware is gold."

"It's sterling plated in gold," Juliana informed her.

"Regardless. What's truly amazing is all the antiquities. They make the terracotta pots and glass flasks my father's uncovered look like so much rubbish." Her whisper dropped even lower. "I want to marry Lord Stafford."

The words Juliana had been waiting to hear. But her friend's sudden change of heart was…well, it was very sudden. "You cannot marry for antiquities," she whispered back, fearing Amanda was making this decision for all the wrong reasons. "I would hope you would like the man more than his possessions."

"Oh, I do. I've decided you're right. My wedding is drawing ever closer, and Lord Stafford and I suit well. We're compatible. He likes chess, and he's clearly interested in all things Roman. Maybe my father was right—maybe there are more important considerations than love. Besides, you said I will learn to love Lord Stafford, and I believe you."

Amanda sounded sincere, Juliana thought. Perhaps she should stop worrying about the reasons and just be relieved her friend was finally consenting to marry James. They did share common interests, and Amanda didn't sicken at the sight of blood. She'd make an excellent physician's wife. It was unfortunate they hadn't the luxury to get to know each other leisurely, but the two of them had been destined to fall in love from the first. She'd said so all along, hadn't she?

She was relieved, she decided.

In fact, she was thrilled. How could she not be thrilled? With the possible exception of civilizing young Emily, all of her projects were progressing perfectly.

Lord Malmsey and Lady Frances were getting along swimmingly. Indeed, at the ball last night, their aging eyes had been glittering with the discovery of new love. Now that Lord Malmsey would no longer need to wed Amanda, the charmingly shy couple would live happily ever after.

The duke didn't seem to mind the company of James and Amanda, which meant that after Juliana married him, she could remain friends with James. She and the duke would have to fall in love before marrying, of course, but maybe they were in love already. How was a woman with her lack of experience supposed to know? And in any case, love was bound to happen soon. The duke cared for her, and he needed her. On the surface, he was perfect—everything she'd been looking for in a man—but inside, he was hurt. With her help, he was going to learn to be affectionate and more charitable. She was going to be a duchess! Her grace, Juliana, the Duchess of Castleton. The name had such a lovely ring to it.

And on top of all of that good news, it looked as though she may have managed to match Lady Stafford with Lord Cavanaugh, even though she'd only intended for them to enjoy a dance.

Everything was going to work out exactly as it should.

Lady Stafford came into the alcove and handed Juliana and Amanda each a crested plate with a slice of the tart and a gold fork. "Your great-grandmother's tart is delicious," she gushed. "Thank you so much for making and bringing it."

"You're very welcome," Juliana said, following her back to the main part of the room. Plate in hand, the duke wandered into the alcove and began chatting with Amanda. As promised in the recipe, the tart was promoting new friendships already.

Lady Stafford seated herself on a chair covered in pale green satin with a palm tree design worked into the fabric. Lord Cavanaugh took the chair nearest hers. James was already sitting on the love seat, digging happily into a slice of tart. There were six more palm tree-decorated chairs and four matching stools, but Juliana sat on the love seat by James, even though she knew that place should be reserved for Amanda.

It would be for but a moment. She had something very important to discuss.

James didn't seem to find anything amiss with her sitting beside him. In fact, he shifted to face her, which put him rather too close. "This tart is excellent," he said. "Did you make it?"

"Of course," she said, trying to scoot a little to the side. Apparently the love seat was too small to share with a man of his size. "Your mother is getting along very well with Lord Cavanaugh, isn't she?"

"She seems to be, yes."

"They seem perfect for each other. His title even begins with C."

"C?"

"Like her sisters, don't you see? Aurelia is Lady Avonleigh, Bedelia is Lady Balmforth, and your mother would be—"

"Cornelia, Lady Cavanaugh. Yes, I see." Looking amused, he swallowed another bite. "But I should think there are more important things for a couple to share than matching names."

"Of course there are," she said, pleased to hear he agreed that couples should have things in common. "They should share interests—for example, chess and antiquities. And in your case especially, I should think you would want a wife who isn't sickened by the sight of blood."

"I'm not a surgeon," he pointed out, "and I don't believe in bleeding patients. Nor would I expect a wife to assist me with my practice. So there's virtually no chance she would have to deal with blood."

That was a bit of a relief, although there was no reason it should be. "James…"

"You mentioned chess," he said. "Would you care for a game?"

"Lady Amanda adores chess." She really had something she needed to discuss. "I prefer playing cards, especially casino."

"I enjoy whist," he said. "Perhaps someday you can teach me casino. When is our next outing?" He reached for his glass of port, rubbing up against her in the process.

Thinking he should be touching Amanda instead, she suppressed a pleasurable but rather disturbing shiver. She could smell his scent again. Very male soap, with a little starch, maybe, and something else she couldn't identify. She leaned closer, in order to keep their conversation private. "You don't need any more lessons."

"Oh." He took a sip and set down the glass, looking relieved. Or maybe disappointed.

No, relieved. There was no reason for him to be disappointed, after all.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Quite. I've been thinking…"

"Yes?" Grazing her again, he forked up another bite.

Juliana lowered her voice. "We need to plan a way for you to publicly compromise Lady Amanda."

The fork clattered back to the plate. "Compromise Lady Amanda? Whyever would I do that?"

"In order to get her father to agree to your marrying her."

"I would never do such an underhanded thing," he whispered fiercely. Juliana couldn't decide whether he looked more shocked or affronted. "And besides, why should her father not accept my suit, should I choose to marry her? I may be engaged in a profession, but I'm an earl as well. It's not as though I'm a pauper."

That much was clear—a pauper didn't set his table with gold spoons. But if James refused to even entertain the thought of compromising Amanda, what would he do if he found out she was already engaged? What would he do if he realized that in order to marry her, he'd have to trick Lord Wolverston into breaking a contract with another man?

He'd refuse to marry her, that was what. He was entirely too honorable to have anything to do with something as underhanded as what Juliana and Amanda had planned. But their plan wasn't underhanded—it was…what was that word James had used to describe his own willingness to bow to Parliament's opposition to making vaccinations compulsory?

Pragmatic, that was it. Her plan was pragmatic. And justified, under the circumstances.

Lord Wolverston wasn't honorable—he was treating his daughter abominably—which meant dishonorable means were entirely justifiable if necessary to stop him.

But she knew James wouldn't see it that way. He was too good a man. Too good for his own good.

As Amanda and the duke stepped into the room from the alcove, Juliana sighed and moved to a chair so Amanda could sit beside James. But Amanda didn't, choosing another chair to sit upon instead, because, after all, she was a reserved sort of woman, and James didn't leave very much room on the cozy love seat.

Heaven forbid Amanda should sit too close to a man—even a man she was planning to marry.

Juliana shrugged and took a bite of her tart, thinking that if James and Amanda weren't going to share the love seat, she should share it herself with the duke so she could start teaching him to be more affectionate. He'd chosen the chair beside her, unsurprisingly, but that wasn't close enough to show him how good being truly close could feel. Of course, before she could share the love seat with the duke, she'd have to get James to move off of it. But that shouldn't be any problem at all.

"Lord Stafford would like to pass some time playing chess," she told Amanda.

"Another time," James disagreed. "An evening is never long in good company."

"An ancient proverb," Amanda said with a small smile.

Whether it was a proverb or not, Juliana had failed to get James off the love seat. Oh, well, she thought with an internal sigh, she'd have to sit closer to the duke next time. And so she spent the evening being good company…all the while pondering what she could do to help a good man like James win the happiness he deserved.

And failing utterly to come up with anything.

"What a lovely girl," Cornelia said after closing the door behind their guests.

James turned to her wearily. Spending time with Juliana—without touching her as he itched to—seemed to wear him out. "Yes, Mother," he said. "Lady Amanda is quite lovely."

"Well, yes, she is, but I was speaking of Lady Juliana." She started up the wide, cantilevered stone staircase that led to the upper floors. "Lady Juliana is lovely inside, don't you think? Not that she isn't pretty, mind you—she's a darling little thing—but I think the way she tries so hard to help is lovely in itself. She really cares about people. She brought us all a sweet she made from her great-grandmother's recipe. She makes clothing for the Foundling Hospital. And she even volunteered to help at the New Hope Institute." Halfway up, she paused and turned to look back at him, her hand on the trompe l'oeil-painted metal balustrade. "A lady of the ton, helping at your Institute!"

James was quite aware that Juliana had mistakenly manipulated herself into that position, but he wouldn't say so to his mother. Because Cornelia was right. Juliana was lovely inside. She wasn't nearly as frivolous as he'd once thought.

"She's a treasure," his mother declared. "I think you should marry her instead of Lady Amanda."

"I never said I was marrying anyone!" James burst out, shocked for the second time in one night. Or maybe the third. In fact, when Juliana had shocked him the first time by suggesting he compromise Amanda in order to marry her, he'd shocked himself by almost saying, What if I want to marry you instead?

But he wasn't ready to marry anyone. He wasn't mentally prepared yet to marry without love. And he couldn't fall in love with anyone besides Anne—not even if she was a treasure.

"Good night, Mother," he said, suddenly even wearier than he'd been earlier. But he resumed his climb, taking the steps two at a time so he could escape before Cornelia said anything more. "Sleep well," he called on the landing. Then he made his way down the corridor, ducked into his study, closed the door behind him, and dropped to the long leather sofa that sat before his father's big oak desk.

And there, without undressing, he slept.

Not in the elegant brown-and-plum bedchamber his grandfather had hired the venerable Henry Holland to decorate.

Not in the brown-and-plum-curtained tester bed he'd been born in…the same bed he'd later shared with Anne.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"I cannot believe you didn't tell me you'd talked to Lord Stafford," Amanda said the next afternoon. "What did he say, then?"

The day had dawned bright and sunny for a change, and if it wasn't exactly warm, at least it wasn't freezing. Following Juliana's rescheduled sewing party—after which, despite everyone's help, Emily had calculated that Juliana still needed a hundred and seventy-eight items of baby clothes—she'd taken Amanda across the street into Berkeley Square, where they sat on a bench beneath a plane tree, eating ices from Gunter's Tea Shop.

Or at least Juliana was eating hers.

"Do you know," she said, "this is the first ice I've had all summer." She scooped up the last of the frosty treat and spooned it into her mouth, savoring the heavenly flavor. "Delicious. White currant is the best."

Amanda's strawberry ice sat in her dish untouched. "What did he say?" she repeated. "When does he think we should carry out our plan?"

Juliana sighed and licked her spoon. "He doesn't think we should carry out our plan at all. He called it underhanded."

"Underhanded?"

"Yes. He wants to ask for your hand outright. He says there's no reason your father shouldn't agree."

"He doesn't know my father, then," Amanda said dejectedly. She poked her spoon at her melty pink ice, staring at the statue of King George in the middle of the square. "What did he say when you told him Father is too stubborn to break the agreement with Lord Malmsey?"

"I didn't tell him that. James—I mean, Lord Stafford—would never pursue marriage if he knew you're already engaged. He's entirely too honorable."

"Like my father, putting his honor before my happiness."

"Lord Stafford isn't selfish, just principled. It's not the same."

"Maybe not." Amanda slowly stirred what was now strawberry soup. "Why didn't you tell me this last night? On the way home in Lord Stafford's carriage?"

"I don't know," Juliana admitted. She shifted her gaze from Amanda's disappointed face to the likeness of their monarch. His Majesty was mounted on a horse, wearing some sort of drapey garment she supposed was intended to be Greek or Roman but instead made the poor man look like he was bundled against the cold. "I guess I was trying to figure out how to fix this."

"And what did you come up with?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Amanda set the dish on the bench beside her. "You always have a plan."

"No, I don't." Juliana sighed. "I don't have a plan this time."

"Well, I do," Amanda declared.

Juliana couldn't have been more surprised if the statue of King George had suddenly come to life and galloped off. "You have a plan?"

"Yes. We shall trick Lord Stafford into compromising me."

"We shall do no such thing." Juliana wasn't sure which shocked her more: prissy Amanda suggesting such a plan or the thought of tricking a man who'd become her friend. "That would be reprehensible. Unethical. Completely disgraceful."

"Why? You said he wanted to marry me. If his supposed honor is standing in the way, we'd be doing him a favor, wouldn't we?"

"No," Juliana said, and then, "Well, maybe."

Amanda had a point. James did want to marry her. He'd said as much, hadn't he? He'd said Amanda was lovely—many times—and he'd said her father would accept his suit. He wouldn't have a suit if he wasn't wanting to marry her. Why else would he be courting her? He'd bought her gifts, and he'd asked her to dance. More than once. At every ball, as a matter of fact. And he'd invited Amanda to his home.

Well, technically his mother had done the inviting. But it was his home, and most certainly he'd approved. "Do you enjoy playing whist?" she suddenly asked.

"Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?"

Amanda liked whist, as did James. And chess. And she wasn't sickened by blood. No wonder James loved her and wished to marry her. And the only way to make his wish come true was to—

"I think we should do it this Saturday," Amanda said, interrupting Juliana's line of reasoning. "At the Billingsgate ball."

Apparently Amanda had destroyed Juliana's line of reasoning, not just interrupted it. Because suddenly she wasn't sure everything quite made sense. "I don't know," she said. "It just seems wrong somehow to plot behind Lord Stafford's back. It makes me feel guilty."

"Guilty? I think not." Juliana couldn't remember Amanda ever sounding so sure of herself. "I told you, we'll be doing him a favor."

There it was, that we again. That guilty-making we. "Maybe you should do this alone, Amanda."

"Why?" Amanda shifted to face her on the bench, her eyes not sparkling but pleading. "I cannot plan this alone. I need your help, Juliana—you're the bright one of us, after all."

Well, Amanda had that right. The girl might be bookish, but that wasn't the same as bright.

"You cannot really feel guilty," Amanda added.

"Maybe just a tad."

"Well, you shouldn't."

Maybe Amanda's arguments were valid. After all, James wanted to marry her. And Lord Malmsey certainly didn't. And Aunt Frances—dear, myopic Aunt Frances—would be devastated if Amanda married Lord Malmsey. The only person who would be happy if Amanda didn't trick James was her dratted, conniving father. Surely that would be the greater wrong.

That all sounded well justified, didn't it?

Juliana's sisters often said that justification was one of her many talents.

"Well?" Amanda asked.

"All right. We'll make a plan."

"Gracious me." Amanda lifted her dish and happily scooped up a spoonful of strawberry soup. "I thought you'd never agree."

Wondering if she should have agreed, Juliana began plotting.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ORANGE JUMBLES

Mixe a cup of Flower with Almonds ground fine and Sugar, then add two spoones of grated rinde of Oranges and Salt. Rub in some Butter and binde with beaten whites of two Egges. When smooth, make into pieces and roll each out in the shape of an S. Bake on a greased tin until browne and golden.

This receipt has been in our family for a very long time. They are a homely sort of biscuit, good for taking to ailing villagers or anyone you like to make comfortable.
—Lady Diana Caldwell, 1689

James handed the hopeful young woman a pencil and slid a piece of paper across the counter. "Write your name here, please, on line fourteen."

She squinted at the page.

"There," he elaborated, indicating the number 14.

She bit her lip and wrote an awkward X beside it.

The eleventh X on the page.

"Thank you," he said, suppressing a sigh, "but I don't believe you will find this position suitable."

Her shoulders slumped as she turned, and he wished he could help. The introduction of new machinery was causing massive unemployment all over England, but his concern about that problem didn't change the fact that he required an assistant who could read and write.

As she plodded out of the New Hope Institute, Juliana danced in, gave a jaunty wave toward the Chase carriage outside, and stuck her umbrella in the stand by the door.

It was Wednesday, and—James checked his pocket watch—precisely one o'clock. Having not seen Juliana since the dinner at Stafford House on Sunday, he'd been wondering if she would actually show up. As she walked toward him, her smile seemed to brighten the entire reception room, some feat considering his current mood.

Though it was raining outside—of course—she was wearing a thin, sunny yellow dress that did nothing to disguise her curves. Which meant it did nothing to help contain his ever-growing lust, either. The bodice was small, as usual, which made him envision her lovely breasts popping right out of it.

Bloody hell.

"Good afternoon," he said. "No Lady Frances?"

"Oh, she'd be bored, and she doesn't care for this neighborhood. Besides, this is hardly a situation that requires a chaperone." She seemed to be staring at the area below his throat. "The carriage will return for me at four o'clock. Why are you out here?" Raising her gaze to his face—with some effort, it appeared—she placed the basket she was carrying on the counter between them. "Shouldn't you be in one of the treatment rooms, giving vaccinations?"

"I'm interviewing for a new assistant." He gestured toward the HELP WANTED sign he'd once again placed in the window. "And playing the part of assistant myself until I find one."

"Did the last one you hired leave, then?"

"Yes. This morning." The pouring rain had kept a queue from forming all the way to Surrey today, but that also meant potential new employees were staying home. Juliana seemed to be waiting for an explanation, so he added, "She found herself with child unexpectedly."

"Unexpectedly? How can it be that a woman does what it takes to get a child without expecting to find herself with one?"

He knew quite a few ways, actually—he was a physician, after all—but he wouldn't explain them to an innocent young lady. Not even one unreserved enough to raise the question while wearing a dress with a tiny bodice and staring at the little bit of skin that was exposed where he'd left his top button undone.

"She has no husband," he said, unfastening a second button to see her reaction. "The father of her child cannot afford to support a wife."

"Oh." She looked a mite scandalized, but he wasn't sure whether to attribute that to his unbuttoning or to the news that his unwed assistant had got herself with child. "She must feel perfectly dreadful."

"Less dreadful, I expect, since I gave her fifty pounds and sent her off to get married."

Her entire face lit up. "Then she won't have to give her child to the Foundling Hospital. That was wonderful, James."

He hadn't been feeling very wonderful until now, but the admiration in her voice made him want to kiss her. Hell, the mere sight of her made him want to kiss her. The tiny bodice didn't help, and neither did her obvious interest in his bare skin. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing they were someplace besides the Institute.

Although it was probably best that they weren't.

"I brought you orange jumbles," she said, lifting the cloth that covered the basket to reveal biscuits that smelled almost as good as she did. "They're supposed to be good for the ailing." She glanced around the crowded reception area. "Though I suppose these people aren't ailing, really, are they?"

"My goal is to keep them from ailing."

"Yes, of course. Well, the jumbles are supposed to help keep one comfortable as well. Try one."

As he took one of the sweets—wondering if it was so apparent that he was uncomfortable—a woman and her newly vaccinated son walked out, the youngster sucking a sugar stick.

"Excuse me," James said and stepped from behind the counter. "Number forty-three!"

Another woman and her two children rose and followed him into the back. Taking the biscuit with him, he showed them to a treatment room. The orange jumble was crisp and tasted sweet and citrusy, but it wasn't comforting.

When he returned, Juliana was behind the counter, handing a number to a dripping family of four. "You're number fifty-seven," she said loudly and clearly. "Please be seated. Lord Stafford will call you when it's your turn."

James watched the family try and fail to find seats, then turned to Juliana. "I prefer to be called Dr. Trevor while I'm here. 'Lord Stafford' intimidates the patients."

"I'll try to remember that. There's a young woman waiting for an interview—I told her to sit until you were ready. Which of the treatment rooms shall I clean?"

"Pardon?"

"I came to clean treatment rooms, remember?" She pulled off her gloves. "I wore my oldest dress."

He eyed her oldest dress. It had a tiny bodice and looked no more shabby than the one she'd worn to his house for dinner, which meant, of course, that it didn't look shabby at all.

"What makes you think I would expect a lady to clean anything?" he asked. "The Stafford House maids take turns coming here to clean. Three times a week."

Her pretty brow creased. "Why did you tell Lady Amanda she could clean, then?"

He shrugged, remembering Lady Amanda's attitude at dinner. Very ladylike and rather snobbish. "I just wanted to see her reaction."

"Oh." Juliana looked thoughtful, or apprehensive—he wasn't sure which. "And what did you think of how she reacted?"

"Very much like a lady," he said, leaving out the word snobbish.

Now she looked relieved. "Amanda is very much a lovely lady," she said. "What shall you have me do if not clean treatment rooms?"

"You seem to make an excellent assistant. Why don't you keep doing that?"

She did prove to be an excellent assistant, which allowed him to vaccinate patients between interviewing candidates. Two hours later, the number of people in the reception room had dwindled to something approaching normal. The orange jumbles were all gone, and they'd indeed seemed to comfort some of the patients. People waiting to be infected tended to be somewhat nervous.

He'd talked to three more women who wanted the job, but they'd all been underqualified.

"The tasks aren't very difficult," Juliana said during a rare lull. Her gaze flicked toward his open collar and back up. "Why is it that you find it so hard to hire someone acceptable?"

"My assistant must be able to read and write."

"Many women can read and write—"

"But many of those don't need employment. Educated women are likely to have fathers or husbands to support them."

"Oh. I hadn't thought of that." She handed him the box of sugar sticks he'd asked her to fetch. "I shall screen the applicants for you and let you know if I find someone acceptable. That way you can keep administering vaccinations."

He wished he could find someone as efficient as Juliana. An hour later, she announced she'd found the perfect replacement, a young woman that Miss Smith, his last morning assistant, had apparently sent and recommended. All the supplies in the treatment rooms were restocked, the storage shelves were organized, Juliana had rewritten his scribbled July schedule in a neat, legible hand, and—in part thanks to the rain—only five patients were waiting for vaccinations.

Even better, it was now four o'clock, which meant his second-shift assistant had arrived, as well as two fresh physicians. He was free, and it was Wednesday, so Parliament wasn't in session. Juliana's carriage was due to return any moment, but she had no chaperone, for once. She was still glancing where his shirt was unbuttoned whenever she thought he wasn't looking.

Maybe he could get her alone someplace where he could kiss her, he thought as he followed her toward the door. Maybe he could talk her into going somewhere besides home.

She pulled on her gloves. "Will I see you at Almack's tonight?"

Somewhere besides Almack's.

The door opened, admitting two new patients, a footman in Chase livery, and a messenger boy. "Lord Stafford?" the messenger boy inquired.

"Yes." James took the note, broke the seal, and scanned the single page. "Damn."

"Is it something dreadful?" Juliana asked, splaying a gloved hand over her breasts in their tiny yellow bodice.

Which only made him notice them more. Hell. Was she trying to kill him?

"No. Aunt Bedelia fears some ailment and wishes to see me."

"I hope she'll turn out to be well."

"She will, I assure you. But I'm afraid I won't make it to Almack's tonight."

"It's only four o'clock. How long can it take to examine her?"

"Very long," he fibbed. "I fear Aunt Aurelia will wish to be examined, too."

"How very unfortunate." She sighed so prettily that her breasts rose and fell beneath their little yellow bodice. Apparently she was trying to kill him. She pulled her umbrella out of the stand. "Shall I see you at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday, then?"

There was no way his mother would accept an excuse for not attending the Billingsgate ball. His aunts would be there, after all, so he could hardly claim they'd summoned him to deal with imaginary aches and pains. "I'll be there," he promised.

It wasn't Almack's. And Juliana would be there, too. In another tiny bodice.

Too bad he wouldn't be able to unbutton his shirt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Billingsgate ball was in full swing, and music floated through the open door of Lord Billingsgate's library. "This will be perfect," Juliana said, glancing around. "It's close to the ballroom, so as soon as there's a commotion, plenty of people will come running to witness your disgrace."

In a hopeless attempt to cover her bare shoulders, Amanda tugged on the little puffed sleeves of the pale green dress Juliana had suggested she wear. "Shall I have to kiss Lord Stafford for long?"

"I shouldn't think so. As soon as he starts kissing you, I shall fetch Lady Billingsgate to assure your ruin."

"What if he doesn't wish to kiss me?"

"Of course he wishes to kiss you! He's courting you, isn't he? Men are always looking to kiss ladies."

Except for the duke.

Juliana was beginning to wonder if she'd ever be kissed. The duke had been too busy to pay her any calls this week—doing what, she couldn't imagine—so she had yet to find an opportunity to start showing him how to be more affectionate. She knew he liked her more than ever, though, because he'd sent roses twice. That made three times he'd sent her roses! They were all white roses of course, since he was proper and reserved. But he'd included notes these last two times—proper notes, very kind and complimentary—so she had high hopes he was falling in love with her. After all, even Aunt Frances had received roses only once.

She turned her thoughts back to Amanda. "Remove your gloves so Lord Stafford can feel the warmth of your skin," she advised. "Drape yourself elegantly on the sofa. Before you lie down, douse two of the lamps. Low lighting is more romantic."

"Douse the lamps," Amanda repeated as though trying to memorize Juliana's instructions. "And take off my gloves." She tugged up the edge of her low bodice.

"And stop playing with your dress." Juliana headed back to the ball, Amanda following at her heels. "It makes you look nervous."

"I am nervous." Entering the ballroom, Amanda paused. "Lord Stafford still isn't here. What if he doesn't come?"

"It's not even ten o'clock yet," Juliana said soothingly, scanning the glittering crush. James's mother wasn't here yet, either. Lord Cavanaugh was pacing like a caged animal waiting for food, looking as anxious to see Lady Stafford as Amanda was to see the lady's son. For different reasons, of course. "Stop worrying. Lord Stafford assured me he was attending."

"Then why isn't he here?" Amanda asked for the tenth time.

Or maybe the twentieth. Honestly, Juliana could hardly wait until midnight when James would compromise her friend, because even though tricking him still didn't sit quite right with her, it would be such a relief to have this whole business over and done with.

"Here comes the duke," Amanda said.

Juliana turned and smiled. She'd worn her most seductive dress, a pale rose confection with a neckline so wide it left her shoulders bare and enticing.

But he didn't look enticed.

He did return her smile, though. "Good evening, my dear." His gaze shifted to her friend. "Good evening, Lady Amanda," he added formally.

"Good evening, your grace," Amanda replied, sounding every bit as formal.

And that was when Juliana had a sudden bright idea.

She would encourage the duke to dance with Amanda. Seeing how tiresome it was to dance with someone so reserved might help him loosen up a bit. And in the meantime, while he was dancing with Amanda in a tiresome manner, she would dance with other men in her usual vivacious way.

After all, she had no shortage of dance invitations. Perhaps a few less than normal, since she'd been dancing so often with the duke lately, but that hadn't stopped men from asking when the duke wasn't nearby to intimidate them. Dancing with other men would not only make the duke notice how much more pleasant it was to dance with a modicum of enthusiasm; it would also make him jealous and possessive. Possessive men tended to touch the ladies they were possessive of, didn't they?

"Lady Amanda would love to dance," she told him with a sweet smile. "Why don't you ask her for the next waltz?"

She didn't know who looked more startled, the duke or Amanda. But as the musicians struck up the waltz, he bowed to Amanda very properly—no surprise there—and escorted her to the dance floor.

Juliana turned, expecting to be inundated with invitations as soon as the other men noticed the duke wasn't nearby and, indeed, was dancing with another woman.

Unfortunately, Corinna noticed first. "Is your duke courting Amanda now?"

"Of course he isn't. Amanda would never consent to marry him—he's a by-blow, remember? But I thought it would be a good idea for them to get to know each other better, so I suggested they dance."

"If you wish to marry the man, you shouldn't shove him at other women. What if he kisses her? He might decide he wants her, and Amanda could change her mind—"

"He's not going to kiss her," Juliana interrupted.

Corinna measured her a moment. "How can you be so sure?"

"He isn't interested in her. He doesn't call her my dear. And the man is more reserved than Amanda. He hasn't even kissed me."

"Then how on earth do you know you love him?" Corinna asked, and while Juliana was wondering yet again how an inexperienced woman was supposed to know when she was in love, her sister added, "How do you know you want to marry him?"

"What do you mean, how do I know?" He was kind. He sent her flowers. He enjoyed amusements, fine horses, balls, and entertainments. He had wealth to support himself in style. He was classically handsome, as only an aristocratic Englishman could be. And he was a duke. "Who—besides Amanda—wouldn't want to marry him?"

"You really must kiss a man before you marry him. Believe me, it makes all the difference. Since kissing several men myself, I've discovered—"

"What?" Corinna was a year younger than Juliana, not to mention more interested in paint than men. How was it that she'd been kissed, when Juliana had barely even been touched? "You've kissed men?"

"Yes." Corinna blinked. "Have you not?"

"No!"

"Well, what have you been doing all season, then? Alexandra kissed Tristan before marrying him," Corinna reminded her. "And Rachael has kissed several men, too. Gentlemen don't all kiss the same," she informed her with the surety of an experienced woman. "How is a lady to know she's found her prince if she hasn't kissed a few frogs first?"

It wasn't that Juliana hadn't been trying. But at least it was with a man who'd been courting her for longer than a dance. "Really, Corinna." Corinna always had been a bit of a rebel, but this was quite beyond the pale. "I'd be willing to wager Aunt Frances—your chaperone, in case you forgot?—wouldn't approve of you kissing men you've barely met."

"I don't let them kiss me when I've barely met them." Corinna's chin went into the air. "I make them wait at least a week."

"A week!" Juliana had known the duke much longer than a week.

"At least," Corinna repeated. "And as for Aunt Frances, she's known Lord Malmsey quite a bit longer than a week. Let's ask her if she's kissed him." She signaled to their aunt as she was coming off the dance floor.

Frances didn't notice. On Juliana's recommendation, she still wasn't wearing her spectacles. Which was a good thing, because Juliana figured such a question might make the poor spinster faint. "You cannot ask Aunt Frances that!"

"Why not?" Corinna said, marching toward her.

Juliana followed helplessly.

"Aunt Frances!" Corinna called.

"Yes?" Frances turned and squinted. "Oh, there you are, girls. Are you having a wonderful time?"

Corinna ignored her question, which was probably rhetorical anyway. "Aunt Frances, have you kissed Lord Malmsey?"

Two bright spots appeared on Frances's cheeks. "Well…"

"Have you?" Corinna demanded.

Frances squared her shoulders and lowered her voice. "I'm not a green girl, you know. It's no great sin. A woman should kiss a man before she decides to marry him."

Dear heavens, Frances had kissed Lord Malmsey. And she wanted to marry him. Juliana didn't know whether she was happy her project was so successful or shocked to hear that her spinster aunt had been kissed.

On second thought, she was neither happy nor shocked. She was depressed. Corinna and Frances had both kissed men. That meant she was the only grown female in all of England who remained unkissed.

Well, there was Amanda. But come midnight, when James compromised her, even straitlaced Amanda would be kissed. Which meant Juliana would stand alone as the last woman in England to feel a man's lips caress her own.

It was depressing beyond description.

"Aunt Frances!" Alexandra joined their circle with Tristan. "I've never seen you look so happy."

"I'm overjoyed, child." Frances kissed her on the cheek. "You look happy, too."

"I am, Auntie." Alexandra smiled up at Tristan. Love blazed in their eyes. "We are."

Splendid. Everyone was happy. Except Juliana.

James joined their circle next, squeezing in beside her. "Good evening, everyone."

While it was a relief that he'd finally arrived, Juliana was even more relieved to see he didn't look insanely happy. It was odd, because she usually wanted to see everybody happy. But honestly, right now the sight of one more blatantly happy person would likely make her gag.

"Are your aunts doing well?" she asked.

"They're fine. Not that they're convinced of that—they both believe they're at death's door, more's the pity." He gestured toward the edge of the dance floor, where the two older ladies were talking to his mother. "I had to examine them this afternoon before they'd agree to dress for the ball."

"They're keeping you from getting your important work done, aren't they?"

"Somewhat. But they're family." He shrugged philosophically. "What can I do?"

"There has to be something." Wishing she could figure out what, she watched Lord Cavanaugh claim Lady Stafford for a dance. "Maybe they need suitors, like your mother. She's happy."

"I'm happy," Frances said with a nod of approval. "A suitor will do that for a lady."

"But I'm happy," Corinna pointed out, "and I don't have a suitor."

No, but she'd been kissed. Juliana glared at her.

Corinna glared back, then smiled sweetly. "Alexandra's happy, too."

"That's because she's with child," James said.

A little hush fell over their circle. Juliana swung to her older sister. "Is that true?"

"It is," Tristan confirmed. Beaming, he slid an arm around his wife's waist. "We're both thrilled."

Corinna and Frances shrieked, engulfing the couple in a group hug.

Juliana took a step back. Corinna had been kissed, and Alexandra and Tristan were going to have a baby. She was happy for them. And for herself, for the whole family. She was pleased. Joyous. Jubilant. And something else. Something that made her fists clench at her sides.

"You're jealous," James said.

"I am not." Dismayed, she turned to him. "I'm happy for my sister. And for me. I'll have a niece or nephew to play with. How on earth did you know she's in the family way?"

James shrugged. "I'm a physician." She didn't look very happy. "Your turn will come," he said in his best soothing doctor tone.

"Who said I wanted a turn?"

She protested too much. Of course she wanted a turn. All women wanted babies. She was jealous.

But the worst of it was, he was jealous, too.

The jealousy was a knot in his gut. It was unexpected, and sudden, but mostly it was ridiculous.

Ladies were supposed to pine for babies—men weren't. He certainly didn't want Lady Hawkridge's child, and he really couldn't say how he'd known she was breeding. It was the look of her, he supposed. And the look of her husband, the male pride evident in Hawkridge's gaze upon his wife. James had gazed at his own wife like that before he'd lost her and their child.

And then, when he'd lost them, it had all been mixed up together, his grief for Anne and for their baby. He hadn't been able to separate one from the other. They were both lost forever. He'd never have another love, which meant he'd never have another child. He hadn't thought he wanted another child.

But now he did.

The knot twisted tighter. Bloody hell.

"Excuse me," he said. "I think I need a drink."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"You're foxed," Juliana told James later as they danced.

"Maybe." He slipped his thumb beneath the edge of her glove and teased the sensitive skin on the underside of her wrist. "Or maybe not."

"You are." She laughed, suppressing an entirely too delicious shiver. "You've had three cups of punch tonight already."

"Four," he corrected. "Small cups. In two hours, which, I might point out, could hardly be considered severe overindulging. And how would you come to know how much I'm drinking? Are you watching me, Juliana?"

"Of course not," she said quickly, avoiding his eyes. Her gaze fell on his cravat, and she found herself picturing the golden skin she'd seen beneath.

"Hmm," he said, a pleased rumble of a hmm that seemed to vibrate right through her. She looked up again to find him gazing at her in that way that made her fear he could read her mind. The pad of his thumb kept caressing her wrist.

By all indications, liquor made him even more amorous than macaroons. Which was uncomfortable in a sense, but also a good thing, because it meant Amanda would find it easier to seduce him and get herself compromised.

And poor, demure Amanda needed all the help she could get.

On the other side of the dance floor, Amanda was paired again with the duke, the both of them rigid as ever. In the two hours since Juliana suggested they dance together, she herself had danced with twelve other men. Vivaciously and enthusiastically. But the duke hadn't seemed to take note of any of those dozen dances.

It hadn't helped that he'd spent at least half of those two hours in the card room.

Between Juliana's dozen dances, the duke had emerged and danced with her twice, but despite all her efforts to draw him out, he still hadn't touched her, let alone kissed her. She tried to picture his skin in the open V of a shirt, but she imagined it would look rather pasty instead of golden. And he probably never loosened his collar, anyway. He probably went to bed fully dressed, with his shirt fastened up to his chin, a cravat knotted in layers to cover it, and a waistcoat and tailcoat besides. Both buttoned.

It was heartbreaking, really. He truly needed her in his life. She resolved to remain patient, to keep working toward his happiness, no matter how long the process took. After all, it had taken an entire childhood of cold treatment to turn him into the man he was today. She shouldn't be surprised if it took more than a few weeks of warmth to counteract that.

Thankfully, the rest of her projects were going well tonight. Aunt Frances and Lord Malmsey had kissed. Lord Cavanaugh had danced three times with Lady Stafford, and they'd probably kissed as well. And Amanda and James would be kissing soon.

Every woman in London would be kissed tonight except for Juliana.

Unless…

Maneuvering the last few steps of the dance to end up by Amanda and the duke, she curtsied to James and then turned to them.  "Shall we exchange partners?"

The duke looked so startled at her forwardness, she nearly lost her nerve.  But she'd never been one to just stand by and let things happen—or in this case, not happen—so when the musicians resumed playing and the duke took her gloved hands, she steeled herself, smiled at him, and began surreptitiously inching him toward a potted palm.

At least she tried to be surreptitious.  Unfortunately, the tune wasn't a waltz but a minuet—which meant the dancers moved back and forth rather than progressing in a particular direction.

"I'm supposed to lead, my dear," the duke gently chided.  "Why are you taking larger steps toward the right than the left?"

She mentally shrugged, deciding not to play coy.  The duke never seemed to take a hint, so she'd best come out and say it.  "I'm hoping to get you alone behind that potted palm."

"Pardon?"

"I'm hoping for a kiss."

He blinked.  "Before marriage?"

Now she mentally rolled her eyes.  "Yes, before marriage."  And though she'd never expected to quote Aunt Frances regarding intimate matters, she found herself adding, "It's no great sin, you know."

"Perhaps not, my dear, but it also wouldn't be proper."

Her heart sank.  "Don't you want to kiss me?" she asked.  "You're courting me.  You've sent me flowers three times.  I thought you were falling in love with me."

She shocked even herself with that admission, but when he said, "Oh, but I am," her heart soared.  The depression she'd felt earlier dissipated like a moist fog in the sun's rays.  The duke was falling in love with her!  It was only a matter of time until she knew for sure she was in love with him, too, and then everything would be wonderful—even if she did have to wait until her wedding night to experience a kiss.

As the dance ended, the clock struck midnight.  Finally.  After thanking the duke rather profusely, she hurried to meet Amanda.

"It's midnight."

"I know." Amanda looked paler than normal. Paler than the duke. Paler than Juliana felt.

Juliana didn't know how a person could feel pale, but suddenly, despite her recent elation, she did. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"I cannot marry Lord Malmsey."

Of course she couldn't. That would be horrible for everyone involved. Especially dear Aunt Frances.

"You're going to have to kiss Lord Stafford," Juliana warned. The thought made her stomach turn. But only because she was about to be the only unkissed woman in London. "And you're going to have to make sure he undresses you, at least a little. A mere kiss won't be enough to guarantee a compromise."

"I know." Amanda looked quite determined. "I can do it."

"All right, then. I'll bring Lord Stafford to the library. Remember to take off your gloves. And make your voice a little breathy."

Amanda resolutely squared her shoulders as she walked off. Here she was, about to get herself engaged to a young, virile earl, and honestly, she looked about as excited as a woman going to her own funeral.

Clearly she wasn't ready for this.

If there weren't so many other people involved, Juliana would be tempted to postpone their plans. But postponement would put the compromise at risk of not happening altogether, and it wouldn't be fair to deprive James, Lord Malmsey, and Aunt Frances of their happiness just to save Amanda from a little discomfort.

Besides, Amanda would feel much better soon. There'd be a huge scandal following her compromise, of course—enough to make her father come running to London. But that was the whole idea. And once her father arrived and set everything to rights, Amanda would be happy. Happily married to James. She'd feel all tingly when he touched her and kissed her, and—

Juliana was growing all tingly just thinking about it.

She found James standing with some other men, sipping another drink while Lord Occlestone grumbled about unnecessary "reforms" that had recently been introduced in Parliament. She'd been planning to feign a troubled expression, but under the circumstances, she didn't need to. She tapped James on the shoulder.

He turned and looked down at her. "Juliana."

She pulled him away from the group. "What an unpleasant man. His face suits his personality. His nose is square, rather like a pig's."

"I've often thought that myself," James said, a tipsy smile curving his lips.

Excellent. She wanted him tipsy and amorous. "Lady Amanda is feeling ill."

"I was just dancing with her. She looked fine."

"Well, she's feeling ill now. She went to the library to lie down. Will you come and have a look at her?"

"Of course," he said, suddenly looking sober and concerned. So sober and concerned that Juliana felt a pang of…

Guilt? She could think of nothing else the sensation could be. But it was a ridiculous pang of guilt, because this was the right thing for everyone involved.

She led him to the library, where Amanda was draped elegantly on the sofa, emitting little moans. She'd followed Juliana's instructions exactly. Her gloves were on the desk, and the room was romantically lit, not too dark and not too light.

James set his drink and his own gloves beside Amanda's, then knelt by the sofa. "Lady Amanda, where does it hurt?"

"It's my heart," Amanda said breathily, laying a graceful bare hand on the expanse of bosom exposed in her low neckline. She was a surprisingly good actress. James didn't stand a chance. Any man would fall for that sensuous voice.

Except James didn't. "You're a mite young for heart trouble," he told her.

"But it aches," she insisted, implying it ached for him. "Won't you listen to it at least?"

"If you wish." He rose to his feet.

"You cannot listen from there." Amanda patted her bosom and arched herself toward him. Dear heavens, she was practically falling off the sofa. "You need to press your ear to my heart."

"No, I don't." Seemingly oblivious to her wanton display, he walked over to the writing desk. "I can hear it better through a tube."

"Are you sure?" Amanda asked.

"I'm positive." He opened a couple of drawers, then found a piece of paper and rolled it up. "This won't work as well as my new stethoscope, but it should be better than listening without it."

Crossing back to Amanda, he placed one end of the paper tube on her chest and lowered his ear to the other. Except for Amanda's breathy sighs, the room was silent for a moment.

"A little fast," he reported at last. No surprise, since she was likely scared out of her wits. "But strong and steady."

Apparently at a loss, Amanda looked toward Juliana.

"Maybe Lady Amanda has a rash," she said. "James, I think you should loosen her clothes and have a look."

He eyed Amanda's bare arms and low décolletage in an altogether clinical manner. "I see no evidence of a rash." He smiled at his patient, but it was a kind smile, not seductive in the least. "This ball is quite a crush. If you've no symptoms to report other than a vague ache in your chest, perhaps sitting quietly for a few minutes might help."

Juliana didn't know what to think. Amanda was doing everything right, yet James appeared unmoved. Which, oddly enough, seemed to relieve Juliana's guilt, but that was as ridiculous as feeling the guilt in the first place.

And it didn't explain why.

Then she suddenly realized why. "Please stay with her while she sits quietly, James. I'm going to fetch Lady Billingsgate."

She didn't, of course—there was no point in fetching Lady Billingsgate until James and Amanda got into a compromising position. Which clearly wasn't going to happen with her in the room. What a fool she'd been for not realizing James wouldn't seduce her friend with another woman watching.

She went out quietly, leaving the door slightly cracked so she could listen.

"I'm sure you'll feel better in no time," she heard James say.

"I'd feel better if you'd sit beside me."

"I cannot imagine how that could help," James said. But apparently he did sit down, because the next thing he said was, "There. Do you feel better?"

"No, not yet," Amanda said and paused. And then she added, "Why don't you kiss me to make me feel better?"

A shocked silence followed. Juliana was shocked, too. She hadn't thought Amanda had it in her to be so forward. But then the silence continued, and Juliana realized it wasn't a shocked silence. It was the silence that resulted when two people were kissing instead of talking.

Amanda's forwardness had worked.

Well, of course it had worked. James was a man, and what man alone in a room with a woman he loved would resist an invitation to kiss her? This behavior was exactly what Juliana had counted on when she'd plotted to trick him into compromising Amanda.

But now that her plot had worked, the pang returned again. The ridiculous pang of guilt at the thought of tricking a man she'd come to think of as a friend.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," James finally said.

Juliana couldn't figure out what he meant by that, exactly, but the pang subsided. She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. He hadn't kissed Amanda. Not yet, anyway. She sagged against the door in relief.

Or rather, she thumped against the door in relief. And then it opened, and she all but fell into the library.

James caught her by her shoulders and grinned. "I thought you were Lady Billingsgate."

Of course he had. She'd said she was going to fetch Lady Billingsgate, after all. A mistake, she now realized, because of course James wouldn't kiss Amanda while expecting Lady Billingsgate to show up at any moment.

That was what he'd meant when he'd said it wouldn't be a good idea.

But his hands felt warm on her bare shoulders, and she couldn't be sorry she'd made the mistake. She didn't want to trick James. She hadn't wanted to from the first. She was furious with herself for allowing Amanda to talk her into it.

"I'll fetch Lady Billingsgate," he said, "while you sit with Lady Amanda." And then he left, taking his warm hands with him.

Juliana made her way to the sofa and collapsed beside her friend.

Poor Amanda was shaking. "I did it," she said. "I forced myself to do it. And it didn't work!"

"I'm glad it didn't work. It was unethical to begin with. We mustn't try it again." It had made her feel too guilty. In fact, she still felt guilty. She wondered if she'd ever be able to look at James again without feeling a pang of guilt.

"But why didn't it work? I did everything you said, but he wouldn't kiss me."

That was because Juliana had led him to think Lady Billingsgate was about to walk in, but she wouldn't admit that to Amanda. Besides, Amanda was equally at fault. If she had given James any indication that she wanted him—him, not his antiquities—he'd have reached for her the moment he entered the darkened library. "Maybe he wouldn't kiss you because you haven't allowed him to kiss you before."

"He never tried before," Amanda said. "He isn't a very warm person."

Juliana felt an urge to laugh, though she wasn't quite sure whether it was from the obvious absurdity of Amanda's statement or simply from hearing Amanda, of all people, claim someone else wasn't warm.

James was the warmest man she knew. She didn't believe for a moment that he'd never tried to kiss Amanda. Amanda was plainly too reserved to respond. "You need to act more warmly toward him. You have to make him believe you want him."

"I do want him. I cannot marry Lord Malmsey! And our wedding is only two weeks away! I must tell Lord Stafford about my engagement."

"You cannot. He's too honorable to cooperate with any plan to force your father's hand."

"Then how on earth am I to get him to compromise me in time?"

"You need to let him kiss you, and I don't mean as part of a plot. A few kisses will lead to more, and eventually you'll be discovered. Society is a nosy lot, in case you haven't noticed."

"That sounds like a plot," Amanda pointed out.

"It isn't." All right, maybe it was. But it wasn't the same sort of plot as the one they'd tried tonight. Corinna had said that a kiss made all the difference. Once James kissed Amanda, she'd fall in love with him, and they'd both want more kisses, and the rest would happen naturally.

Surely there was no reason to feel guilty about that.

"Lady Amanda!" Lady Billingsgate exclaimed, rushing in. "Are you unwell? Before Lord Stafford left, he told me you'd taken ill."

So James had left. Juliana wouldn't have to look at him again and feel a pang of guilt. But as Amanda explained to Lady Billingsgate that she was quite recovered, thank you, Juliana wondered why knowing she didn't have to face him failed to bring her a measure of relief.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

RICHMOND MAIDS OF HONOUR

Mix Curd with Butter and add 4 yolks of Eggs beaten with a glass of Brandy, half a cup of Sugar, fine white Breadcrumbs with some ground Almonds and a little Nutmeg. To this put the juice of one Lemon and the grated yellow of 2. Press puff paste into your tins and fill and bake.

These small, rich cheesecakes are from a recipe said to have been in the family since Queen Elizabeth's (my namesake's) time. They will melt anyone. Excellent for begging forgiveness.
—Elizabeth, Countess of Greystone, 1728

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, which should have made Juliana feel cheerful, but instead she still felt guilty. It being Sunday, she attended St. George's Hanover Square Church, where the sermon was all about truth, which made her feel even more guilty. So guilty that afterward she baked some Richmond Maids of Honour and asked Griffin to take her to Stafford House.

"Why?" he asked.

A perfectly reasonable question, but one she didn't want to answer. She was entirely too ashamed of her actions to admit them to her brother.

"I just want to ask Lord Stafford if he'd like me to volunteer next week at the Institute," she said. That wasn't quite a lie, since she'd been wondering when he might need her again. "I forgot to ask him last night." With all that had gone on at the ball, she really had forgotten.

"You could send him a note," Griffin suggested.

"Just take me, will you?"

"Very well." Griffin shook his head in that mystified, brotherly way of his. "I cannot imagine why a note won't do, but I'll take you."

"Thank you," she said.

When he was sitting across from her in the carriage, he stretched out his legs and steepled his fingers. "How is your romance with Castleton proceeding?"

She fiddled with the platter on her lap. "He says he's falling in love with me, but he hasn't kissed me yet."

"He's a gentleman," Griffin said, looking not at all unpleased with that news. "He shouldn't kiss you before you're wed. Or engaged at the very least."

Trust a brother to think that. She considered telling him Corinna believed a woman should kiss some frogs so she'll know when she's met her prince, but thought better of it. For one thing, getting Corinna in trouble served no point, and for another, she was beginning to believe her sister was right. If James and Amanda had already kissed, perhaps the plot would have proved successful.

Not that she wished it had, mind you. She felt guilty enough as it was.

"The duke believes a couple should wait to kiss, too," she said instead. "You must be the only two such men in all of London."

"I'm certain he'll ask for your hand soon." Griffin leaned closer and patted her knee. "I'll have a talk with him. In my stables."

"Pardon?" What did his stables have to do with anything?

"Never mind. We've arrived." The carriage pulled to a stop in St. James's Place, and Griffin began to climb out after her.

"Wait here," she said.

"Why?"

"Just wait, will you? I cannot stay long—I have ladies coming to sew at two o'clock." All of her projects were beginning to make her feel a bit frazzled. "It won't take me but a minute to ask one simple question."

"Very well," he said, again shaking his head in that mystified, brotherly way of his. He plopped back onto the seat.

She banged the knocker, and the door was opened by the same crimson-liveried footman who had welcomed her last week. Through the window in the back of the entrance hall, Lady Stafford waved from the courtyard garden. She hurried inside. "How are you, my dear? I didn't expect to see you until your sewing party this afternoon. What do you have there?"

Juliana handed her the platter. "Some Richmond Maids of Honour for Lord Stafford. And for you, too, of course."

"They smell divine."

"I've come to ask Lord Stafford a quick question. Is he at home?"

"He's upstairs in his study, spending this beautiful day going over the Institute's books." Shaking her head in a fond, motherly way, she started toward the staircase. "Follow me, if you will."

It was quite the most elegant staircase Juliana had ever seen. The metal balustrade was painted to look like festooned drapery. Above her head, a segmented barrel ceiling gave the impression of a classical temple interior with garlands swagged between Roman pilasters.

She assumed Lady Stafford was leading her toward the study, but instead she walked her through an impressive library and into a room so splendid it stole Juliana's breath. If she had been a fortune-hunting sort of woman, the very sight of it would have made her want to marry James. It put the gorgeous Palm Room below it to shame.

She'd never seen so much gilt in her life. It dazzled the eye. Fancy gilt columns supported a gilt ceiling. Between all the gleaming gilt, the walls were covered with painted scenes.

"We call this the Painted Room," Lady Stafford said. "Marriage is the theme."

Juliana nearly swooned over the frieze painted on the chimneypiece.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Lady Stafford set the platter of cheesecakes on a gilt-legged marble-topped table. "It's a copy of the celebrated Aldobrandini Wedding, a Roman fresco excavated in the early seventeenth century and exhibited in the Vatican."

"It's exquisite," Juliana breathed. The theme of marriage continued all around the room, with some of the scenes executed directly onto the plaster and others painted on gilt-framed canvas panels. Above a pier glass, a circular panel displayed a painting of another Roman wedding. Other panels depicted music, drinking, and dancing. There were paintings of Cupid and Venus. Nymphs danced on the ceiling, lovers courted on the walls, and a frieze of rose wreaths and garlands of flowers went all around the cornice.

The whole mood was festive and carefree.

"Isn't marriage wonderful?" Lady Stafford said. "Please have a seat. I'll send in my son."

Juliana perched herself on one of four green silk sofas with gilt arms carved to look like winged lions. She folded her hands in her lap. She crossed her feet and uncrossed them. She rose and peeked at her sweets.

The winged lion sofas had six matching chairs, and she was heading for one of them when James walked in.

"Here," she said, grabbing the platter. "I brought these cheesecakes for you."

He took them, looking as mystified as Griffin. But not at all brotherly. Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that not only was he without a coat or cravat and his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck again, but he'd rolled up his cuffs, too. A good six inches of his forearms were bare—muscled forearms, lightly sprinkled with dark hair.

"What are you doing here, Juliana?"

She jerked her gaze up to his face. There was no sense putting it off. "I came to apologize. Won't you have one of the cheesecakes? The recipe is said to have been in my family since Queen Elizabeth's time."

He set down the platter. "Apologize for what?"

He wasn't going to eat any Richmond Maids of Honour. She would have to hope he'd forgive her without their magic. "For plotting with Lady Amanda to trick you into compromising her," she confessed in a rush. "In the library last night. I was hoping you would kiss her, and then I'd bring Lady Billingsgate to witness Lady Amanda's disgrace, so her father would be forced to assent to your marriage." She drew a shaky breath. "Can you forgive me?"

"That's terrible." She'd known he would disapprove, but she hadn't expected he'd look quite so dour. His fists were clenched. "Whyever would you do that? I told you, I can see no reason Lord Wolverston would reject my suit should I decide to ask for his daughter's hand."

"She doesn't believe he'd agree. He isn't a very nice man."

"Surely he isn't stupid." He unclenched his fists, but only to cross his half-bare arms. "I'm excellent husband material."

He had a high opinion of himself, but it wasn't unjustified. There was no doubt he'd make an excellent husband for Amanda. "I'm sorry I went behind your back, but why are you so upset? However terrible the means, the outcome would have been to your benefit. You'd have found yourself married to the woman you love. Unless…"

An awful thought suddenly occurred to her.

She'd assumed that since he was still courting Amanda, he'd fallen in love with her. But what if he hadn't? What if her scheming had resulted in James being forced to marry a woman he didn't love?

"Do you not love Lady Amanda yet?" She held her breath, waiting for the answer.

"No," he said, looking quite sure. Not to mention horrified.

It was the wrong answer, so why did she feel relieved? "Maybe you're in love with her, but you don't know it," she suggested. "Maybe you don't know what love feels like." It was a reasonable question, certainly. She'd asked it of herself several times over the last few weeks.

But now he looked annoyed. "I know what love feels like, Juliana."

That surprising news made her a little uneasy. "You've been in love before?"

"Yes. With my wife."

She couldn't have been more shocked if he'd punched her in the stomach. In fact, it felt like he had punched her in the stomach. "You have a wife?"

"I had a wife," he corrected. "Her name was Anne. She died in childbirth, along with our baby. Two years ago."

"Dear heavens. I didn't know." The sharp pain in Juliana's middle shifted to an ache in her chest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

She watched him walk to a chair and lower himself to it wearily. He no longer looked angry or annoyed; he just looked sad. "I forgive you," he said dully. "What you did was still terrible, but I know your heart was in the right place."

"Thank you," she said softly.

"As long as you promise not to try it ever again."

"I won't. I promise. And a Chase promise is never broken. That's been our family motto for centuries." She sat in the chair beside him, grasping the two lion heads at the ends of its arms as though they could lend her their strength. She was glad to have his forgiveness, but his pain ripped her up inside. He'd loved a wife, and she'd carried their baby, and they'd both died. "I'm so sorry you lost your family."

"You've lost family, too," he said.

"But not a child. It must be hardest to lose a child."

He nodded. "We're supposed to die before our children."

"A child is part of you, part of your future."

"It's only recently I've realized that," he said with a sigh. "Only recently I've realized I want to have another."

Of course he wanted another baby. She wanted a baby, too. And so, she was sure, did Amanda. But he needed more time to fall in love with her.

Juliana knew grief, knew how much it hurt, knew it took a long while to resume living life fully. He'd lost a wife. It would take him time to recover, to allow himself to love another.

She hadn't realized.

He needed more time. He'd said many wonderful things about Amanda, and he was still courting her, after all, so eventually he'd fall in love with her. But he needed more time.

A pity he had only two weeks.

Thirteen days, actually. Twelve days if he didn't see Amanda again until tomorrow. She couldn't let him wait any longer than that.

"You know," she said carefully, "you'll have to remarry to have a child."

"Not technically," he said with a hint of his normal good humor.

"James…"

"Yes, I shall have to remarry to have a child. My dear mother, bless her heart, reminds me of that fact on a daily basis." He paused and looked away, his voice going lower, quieter.  "Even though I'll never fall in love again, someday I'll have to remarry."

How could he say such a thing?  "You cannot marry without falling in love."

"People do it all the time," he said, looking back to her.  "There are many reasons people marry.  Wealth, ambition, position, security, duty, honor.  And to have a child.  While I'd never marry an enemy, I can certainly marry a friend.  One can kiss a woman and make a child without falling in love."

Though his words made her blush, she persisted.  "How can you possibly know you'll never fall in love again?"

"I just do," he said flatly.  "Falling in love would mean betraying Anne, and that isn't going to happen."

Wealth, ambition, position, security, duty, honor…to have a child.  Those were sad reasons to wed, Juliana thought—and old reasons as well.  Her parents had married for such reasons.  Today, in these modern times, young people preferred romantic love matches.

Except…maybe Amanda.

Lord Stafford and I suit well, she remembered Amanda saying.  We're compatible.  Maybe my father was right—maybe there are more important considerations than love.  I cannot marry Lord Malmsey!

At the time, she'd worried that Amanda had decided to marry James for all the wrong reasons.  But maybe the two were even better matched than she'd thought.  Marriage would give them both what they wanted. Children for James, and a young, compatible man for Amanda.

"Juliana?" James said.  "What are you thinking?"

Still sad for him, she forced a smile. "I'm thinking that the two of us went out often during your lessons, but since then you've had no outings with Lady Amanda."

"You want me to take Lady Amanda riding in Hyde Park?  Or to the Egyptian Hall?"

"Not exactly."  If he hoped to become friends with Amanda—if he hoped to kiss and eventually marry her—he needed to take her someplace much more romantic.  "I was thinking Vauxhall Gardens would be perfect."

She'd never been to Vauxhall Gardens, but judging from what she'd heard, it seemed there was nowhere more suitable for lovers, most especially at night. The gardens were described as a paradise of lush paths with many private corners, their twelve acres lit by romantic lanterns—save for a few of the walkways that were deliberately left dark.

"Vauxhall Gardens?" James repeated skeptically. From what he'd heard, the gardens served mainly as a spot for illicit trysts. "I've never been to Vauxhall Gardens."

"Haven't you?" Juliana said. "It's a lovely place."

A lovely place to steal a lady's virtue, or at the very least a few kisses. Which James had no intention of doing with Lady Amanda.

On the other hand, it could be a lovely place to visit with Juliana.

Convincing her of that, however, might be a trick to rival hers.

In truth, James had felt rather dazed upon learning that, in her determination to match him with Amanda, Juliana had been willing to resort to trickery. Dazed and a little bit panicked. Although he realized meddling was in her blood—one didn't have to know Juliana more than a few minutes to conclude that—he'd thought he'd been making progress toward kissing her.

Had his efforts to tempt her accomplished nothing? Obviously, touching Juliana and unbuttoning his shirt were not enough. He'd have to employ stronger tactics if he wanted to kiss her and make sure she didn't ruin her life by marrying stuffy Castleton.

"I wouldn't know where to take Lady Amanda in Vauxhall Gardens," he told her, rolling his sleeves up a little more. "Perhaps you should come with me instead the first time, to show me the good places."

"I don't think—" Juliana's gaze was fastened on his arms. It wandered up to his open shirt. "The gardens are closed on Sundays. Shall we make it tomorrow night?"

"Parliament will be in session—"

"If you want a child, James," she said, finally looking him in the face, "you need to put courting ladies before the House of Lords."

Perhaps he should. Since he wasn't making any progress with his bill, perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea to make progress with Juliana his priority. For a day, at least. Or a night.

"Very well," he said.

"Good." She glanced at his arms again, which he found somewhat encouraging. "I must get home before the guests arrive for my sewing party."

He nodded and started from the room. "I'll come by for you at seven o'clock Monday."

"I'll see that Aunt Frances is ready," she said as they walked through the library.

Tempting Juliana was difficult even without an audience. The last thing he wanted was her chaperone hovering nearby. "Do you suppose Lord Malmsey would like to accompany your aunt?"

"I'm sure he would." She went lightly down the stairs, her renewed good cheer lifting James's heart. She was such a delight. A treasure. "That's a wonderful idea," she said.

Yes, it was. Lord Malmsey seemed quite enamored with Lady Frances, which meant he'd have an eye to getting her alone, which in turn would leave James alone with Juliana. The plan was sounding better and better.

"Until tomorrow, then," he said. His butler opened the front door, revealing Griffin outside pacing around the Cainewood carriage.

"Until tomorrow," Juliana echoed, starting toward her brother. "Wait," she said, turning back. "I forgot to ask if you'd like me to volunteer this week at the Institute."

She would come again without her aunt, James thought. If he failed to kiss her at Vauxhall, maybe he could get her alone in one of the treatment rooms. "Absolutely," he told her with a smile. "How about Friday?"

"Friday will be fine." Returning his smile, she headed toward the carriage.

The butler shut the door behind her, but not before James heard Griffin's impatient huff. "Why in blazes did it take you so long to ask the man one simple question?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Dark was falling.

Juliana had arrived at Vauxhall Gardens with James, Aunt Frances, and Lord Malmsey at about eight o'clock Monday night, while the sun was still gracing the summer sky. It was a fine July evening, perhaps a bit chillier than usual, but without the slightest hint of rain. The pleasure gardens had proved as lovely as she'd hoped, spacious and laid out in delightful walks, bordered with high hedges and towering trees, and paved with gravel that crunched beneath their shoes.

For the first half hour they'd strolled, finding something charming around every corner. Pavilions, grottoes, temples and cascades, porticos, colonnades and rotundas. Here was a striking pillar, there a wonderful statue, in the distance a series of large, picturesque murals. Throngs of visitors promenaded, showing off their finest clothing, their rowdy laughter and whispered endearments filling the night air.

Now, with the sun sinking low, they were seated at a table for four by the building that housed the orchestra, a structure that struck Juliana as Moorish or perhaps Gothic—she couldn't decide which, but regardless, it was magnificent. Its second story was open in the front so the musicians were visible inside.

While they listened to a pleasing variety of popular songs intermixed with serious compositions, they enjoyed a light supper of cold meats and bread and cheese accompanied by French claret. Aunt Frances was astounded at the exorbitant cost of the diminutive portions.

"My word," she said disapprovingly, "this Vauxhall ham is sliced so thin one could read a newspaper through it!"

Lord Malmsey laughed and motioned to a serving girl to order more. "Would you like some cheesecake, too, my dear?"

"It cannot be as good as Juliana's," James said, shooting her a warm smile.

So he'd eaten her Richmond Maids of Honour and enjoyed them. Feeling inordinately pleased about that, Juliana smiled back.

As the musicians played the last notes of a piece composed by Handel, a piercing whistle split the night. "What's that?" she asked.

Lord Malmsey cocked his balding head. "Have you never been here before, Lady Juliana?"

She was about to tell him she hadn't, but then she remembered James didn't know that. "Not at night," she said instead.

But a part of her wondered why she'd accepted James's invitation to show him around, knowing he should be escorting Amanda tonight. The two of them needed to spend more time together if he was to decide to marry her before her planned wedding in twelve days' time.

"Just watch, then," Lord Malmsey said.

And she stopped musing, sucking in a breath as a thousand oil lamps came to life, lit by myriad servants touching matches to their wicks in the same instant. The effect was nothing short of sensational, bathing the gardens in a warm light that must have been visible for miles around.

"Enchanting!" Aunt Frances exclaimed.

Lord Malmsey cocked his head again. "Have you never been here at night, either?"

"I've never been here at all," Frances said.

Shy, retiring Aunt Frances had missed out on a lot, Juliana thought as they finished their supper, but that was about to change. She'd never been happier to see one of her projects prove a success.

"Shall we walk again?" Lord Malmsey asked, rising from the table. "The gardens feel like a different place among the lanterns."

"A lovely idea." Frances rose, too, and pulled on her gloves.

Juliana reached for her own but found her lap empty. "Where are my gloves?" She was sure she'd placed them there when she took them off for supper—it was a lifelong habit, after all. She checked the ground on either side of her chair. "I cannot find them."

"How odd." Shifting his gaze to Lord Malmsey, James waved a hand toward the beckoning paths. "You two go on ahead. I'll help Lady Juliana find her gloves, and then we'll catch up to you."

As Frances and Lord Malmsey walked off, Juliana leaned to peek below the table. "I cannot imagine where they might have gone." She rose and looked under her chair. "They seem to have disappeared."

"Perhaps they're in my pocket," James said. "Right beside mine."

She looked up at him, startled. "How would they get there?"

He shrugged one shoulder, a corner of his mouth turning up in a half smile. "How indeed?"

She laughed. "Give them to me."

"I think not. I think you'll need to get them for yourself."

She eyed his striped silk waistcoat, his dark tailcoat, his crisp white trousers. She didn't know which of his pockets he'd hidden her gloves in, but she wasn't about to slip her hands into his clothing to find out. She laughed again. "James…"

He took her bare hand in his. "Your aunt and Lord Malmsey will get too far ahead if we don't go after them. Come along."

The paths seemed gayer now that it was dark, the company enlivened with mirth and good humor. Music drifted from the orchestra through the trees. Seemingly suspended everywhere, the lamps looked like little illuminated balls glowing every color of the rainbow. Some were arranged in lines or arches, others grouped to represent the starry heavens.

Juliana thought Vauxhall Gardens was the most wonderful place she'd ever been. Her heart felt light, and her hand felt warm in James's. She knew she shouldn't allow him to hold it, but just then she didn't care about proprieties. Ahead of them on the path, Aunt Frances leaned close to Lord Malmsey, oblivious to her charge.

When they caught up to the older couple, who had stopped by a tinkling fountain, Juliana pulled her hand free.

"Look!" Frances pointed overhead. "It's Madame Saqui!"

Wearing an outlandish dress decorated with tinsel, spangles, and plumes, the celebrated tightrope walker seemed to be dancing on air as she ascended a rope attached to a sixty-foot mast. Despite her glittery attire, her appearance was rather masculine. Juliana could see up her dress, and her legs were muscled like a circus strongman's. But her balance was impeccable, her steps graceful and seemingly timed to the orchestra's lilting music.

"It looks like a ballet, doesn't it?" Juliana said.

"A ballet for two," James replied as the dancer's husband mounted a second rope beside hers. "I've heard they earn a hundred guineas per week."

She slanted him a teasing smile. "A sum you'd like to see spent on smallpox vaccinations, no doubt."

He laughed. "Entertaining enchanting ladies is also a worthy cause."

A curious quiver rippled through her at the thought he might find her enchanting, although she knew quite well he was speaking of the company in general. They watched for a few minutes in breathless silence as the couple dipped and swayed, seemingly unworried they might plunge to their deaths. At the top, Madame Saqui performed an agile turn and saluted her husband as she passed him on her way down. When she reached the bottom, she sank into a theatrical curtsy and swept up a little girl, settling her small slippered feet on the tightrope.

"She cannot be more than four years old!" Juliana gasped at the sight of the young miss climbing the rope toward the stars. She covered her face with her hands. "I cannot watch."

"She's their daughter." James slipped an arm around her waist. "Performance is in her blood," he said, drawing her against himself.

She dropped her hands, glancing to see if her aunt had noticed James's bold move.

Her chaperone was no longer beside her.

"Aunt Frances?" She looked around. "Where is Aunt Frances?"

"She went off with Lord Malmsey," James said, the suggestive tone of his voice making her picture her aunt in a very compromising position. "Shall we resume our walk?"

As he drew her down a darkened lane, still holding her close, she was struck again, as she had been at the Egyptian Hall, by how well they fit together. He smelled of starch and soap, clean and fresh and masculine. He matched his longer gait to her shorter one, and it seemed the night was warmer, the gardens more lush and fragrant. Tall trees towered on both sides, their silhouettes dark against the lantern-hazed sky.

"When will you bring Lady Amanda here?" she asked.

"Hmm," he said noncommittally, turning into a tiny secluded pocket garden.

It had a stone bench and a single lantern, so it wasn't quite dark. But it was dim, with high hedges all around. She heard a couple walk by, gravel crunching beneath their feet. No one peeked in through the narrow opening.

James released her and walked over to the bench, she assumed to sit down. But he didn't. Instead, he slid off his tailcoat and draped it over the seat. "Do you think this would be a good spot to bring Lady Amanda?" he asked.

"Maybe." Amanda would surely grow closer to him in this private, hidden location. And he would grow closer to her. They'd become friends, and then they'd marry and have a child. "I mean, yes," she decided. "This would be an excellent place to bring Lady Amanda."

"I thought so." His long fingers worked at the knot in his cravat, the sight of which seemed to make butterflies flutter in her stomach. "What do you expect I should do with Lady Amanda when we're here?"

He should kiss her, of course, but Juliana wasn't about to say that out loud. She didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything. She just watched him pull the cravat from around his neck, slowly and steadily, until it came off entirely and dangled from his fingers.

"Well?" His intense dark gaze was fastened on her in that way that made her wonder if he could read her mind. "Have you no suggestions?" He released the cravat, and it fluttered to the bench, a tumbled pile of white froth. "Do you think perhaps I should kiss her?"

He had read her mind.

She swallowed hard. "Maybe."

"I thought so." He eased open the top button of his shirt. And the second button. "I think we should practice," he said conversationally.

Her gaze was glued to the little V of golden skin where his shirt was unbuttoned. "Practice?"

"Yes, practice." He raised a wrist and unbuttoned a cuff. "You and me. Before I try it with Lady Amanda."

"You want to kiss me?" He couldn't. He shouldn't.

"Just for practice. Come here, Juliana."

His deep, chocolatey voice made another shiver ripple through her. The butterflies fluttered faster. He wanted to kiss her. Just for practice, but still…

James wanted to kiss her.

She wasn't supposed to kiss James—she was supposed to kiss the duke. But the duke had made it clear he wouldn't kiss her until they were married. He was so very, very proper. And Aunt Frances thought a kiss no great sin, and Corinna had told her she should kiss a few frogs so she'd know when she'd met her prince.

Not that James was a frog. He was…well, she didn't know what he was, precisely. A friend, she supposed. A friend who was rolling up his cuffs, exposing his muscled forearms to the innocent eyes of the last unkissed woman in all of England.

And unbuttoning the buttons that ran down the front of his waistcoat.

Dear heavens, if she didn't kiss him soon, he'd end up naked in the middle of Vauxhall Gardens.

"Very well," he said softly as the waistcoat fell open. "If you're not going to come to me, I will have to come to you."

And he did. He walked right up to her. She backed up, and he followed. She moved until her back was against a tall, fragrant hedge, and he followed until he was all but against her. Until there was a hairsbreadth between them, until his scent of starch and soap overwhelmed her, until her body tingled and the butterflies threatened to break free.

He was so close she could see golden flecks in his brown eyes. So close she could feel his breath upon her face. So close she found herself straining to get still closer.

"May I kiss you?" he asked, settling his hands on her shoulders.

She couldn't say yes and she couldn't say no. But she tilted her chin up, wondering, waiting, her heart pounding and her eyes drifting shut.

It was an invitation, albeit a silent one.

An invitation he accepted.

His hands drew her closer, then slipped down around her and pulled her closer still. His lips grazed hers, just a hint of a caress that left her desperate for more.

"May I?" he asked again in a husky whisper.

"Oh, yes," she whispered back, the words seemingly torn from her throat.

And his mouth settled warm upon hers.

It was a divine sensation, more lovely than she'd ever imagined. She swayed against him, feeling his hard body through her thin dress and his muslin shirt. She slid her hands beneath his loosened waistcoat and all the way around to his back, his muscles rippling under her fingers.

He slanted his head, changing the angle of the kiss. She felt as though she were melting, as though she couldn't tell where her lips ended and his started, as though she'd become a part of him.

And then he pulled back. Her heart still pounding, she opened her eyes and sighed. She wanted his mouth on hers again. It was a beautiful mouth, a sculpted mouth, the lower lip fuller than the top one. Above it, his eyes looked as dazed as she felt, warm pools of chocolate with golden flecks.

James was the handsomest man she'd ever seen.

She'd known he was handsome, of course. She'd told Amanda as much, many times. But his handsomeness had been just a fact like so many others. James was handsome. Corinna was a good painter. Griffin had been in the cavalry. All facts.

But now…

She looked at James. Really looked at him, seemingly for the first time. And what she saw made her want him to kiss her all over again.

She rose to her toes, and he met her halfway, crushing his mouth to hers. Not warm and caressing this time, but hot and demanding instead. His lips coaxed hers to part, and his tongue slipped inside, and it was shocking and exciting. Soft, slippery, sweet, tasting of the claret they'd sipped with supper. She was floating, whirling, she'd have spun right off her feet if he hadn't been holding her so tightly. One hand pressed the small of her back while the other drifted up to cradle her head, adjusting the angle so their lips meshed even more closely.

"Juliana!" It was Aunt Frances, her voice distant but recognizable. "Juliana, where are you?"

"Bloody hell," James grated out, breaking the kiss.

"Dear heavens!" Juliana stared at him a moment while her head cleared. He was standing there with half of his clothing unbuttoned. Aunt Frances was about to find them, and he was just standing there, unbuttoned.

"Dress yourself!" she hissed.

His fingers moved to the buttons of his waistcoat and began fastening them leisurely.

"Juliana!" her aunt called again.

She ran to the pocket garden's entrance and looked out onto the path. Frances was nowhere to be seen, thank heavens.

She turned back. "Hurry," she told James. "It's only a matter of time until she finds us."

Unrolling one of his sleeves, he shrugged and sauntered back to the bench, where his cravat lay atop his tailcoat in a jumbled pile. "Do I kiss better than Castleton?"

"I haven't kissed Castleton. He's too—"

"Stuffy?" he provided, looking all too pleased at that news.

"He's not stuffy! He's just—"

"A prig."

"He's not a prig! He's proper and reserved, which is more than I can say for you."

He grinned. "That's more than I can say for you as well. Which is a recommendation, to my mind—"

"Juliana!" Lord Malmsey's voice joined her aunt's this time. "Juliana!"

She peeked outside again. Still clear. Her heart pounding, now from panic instead of passion, she stalked over to James. He was buttoning his shirt so slowly it made her grit her teeth. "Hurry, will you?" She swept up his cravat, intending to throw it at him, but an enormous boom sounded overhead and she shrieked in alarm.

"Easy." The cravat drifted to the grass while James moved to wrap her in his arms. "It's just fireworks." Another boom exploded in the sky, accompanied by flashes of red and blue and white. "Your aunt will stop and watch," he said soothingly.

Knowing he was right, she pulled away and sat on the bench to watch the fireworks. But she wasn't soothed, and she didn't feel at ease. Not even after he'd retrieved the cravat and awkwardly knotted it and donned his tailcoat and buttoned it up. Her heart was still pounding, and her stomach felt queer.

Great, fiery streaks of light burst in the heavens, and all around she heard "ooh!" and "ahh!" from all the people in Vauxhall Gardens, but all she could think was thank heavens she hadn't been caught kissing James while half of his clothing was unbuttoned.

They'd have had to marry. And she couldn't marry James. She just couldn't.

I can certainly marry a friend, she remembered him saying. One can kiss a woman and make a child without falling in love.

The duke was falling in love with her, and James wouldn't. He'd said he'd never fall in love again. He'd only kissed her because they were friends and he wanted a child. And if he didn't marry Amanda, Amanda would have to marry Lord Malmsey—and Aunt Frances would be devastated.

She should never have let James kiss her.

CHAPTER THIRTY

James had finally kissed Juliana, and it had been better than he'd ever imagined—and God knew he'd imagined it plenty.

Countless times, he'd imagined the feel of her in his arms. Day after day, he'd imagined the taste of her on his lips. Night after night, he'd imagined the heat that would flash between them.

And it had all been better. Amazingly, exceedingly better. So much better, in fact, that it had left him rather witless.

He vaguely wondered what had driven him to unbutton so many buttons. And why he hadn't felt compelled to button them back up particularly quickly. And, most confounding of all, why he hadn't been nearly as relieved as Juliana when, after the fireworks, they'd met the older couple at the front gate of Vauxhall Gardens and her aunt didn't seem to be suspicious.

Now they were in his carriage on their way back to Berkeley Square. Seated across from him and Juliana, Lady Frances giggled like an infatuated adolescent. "Goodness gracious," she said, "when we couldn't find you, I half expected I'd be forced to tell my nephew he would have to demand the two of you marry."

Given that Lady Frances's cheeks were much more flushed than Juliana's, James found that statement somewhat amusing.

But then Juliana smoothed her yellow dress. "We were only watching the fireworks, Auntie. Besides, you know I'm going to marry the Duke of Castleton."

And James found that statement supremely annoying.

And that's when everything began to slowly come clear in his mind.

It was a realization the likes of which he'd never experienced.

He'd unbuttoned so many buttons to tempt her, of course. And he hadn't felt compelled to button them back up particularly quickly because he hadn't been worried that the two of them might be caught and forced to marry.

No, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't that he hadn't been worried they might be caught and forced to marry…it was more like he'd been hoping they would be caught and forced to marry.

Because he wanted to marry her. But he hadn't been able to admit that, not even to himself, because it would be a betrayal of Anne.

Except…it wasn't.

He'd fallen in love with Juliana, and it wasn't a betrayal at all.

He felt like he should be appalled. Or guilty. Or disbelieving.

But he wasn't any of those things. He was in love. And he couldn't disbelieve it any more than he could disbelieve he had two hands and two feet.

He'd been telling himself all along this would never happen, but maybe some part of him had realized he could, indeed, fall in love again someday. Maybe he'd been in denial.

Maybe.

It was a possibility.

He was willing to admit to that.

But if he had thought such a thing—if he'd considered that someday he could fall in love with another woman without desecrating his first wife's memory—he'd thought it could happen only after Anne somehow granted him permission.

Exactly how he could receive permission from a dead woman wasn't something he'd really considered. Maybe he could have gone to her grave and talked to her—he'd read such scenarios in books. Or maybe she could have come to him in a dream—he'd read that in books, too. Or maybe she could have sent him a sign; maybe he could have just seen something—something seemingly insignificant—and somehow known what it meant.

But none of that had happened. Because he didn't need Anne's permission. Because his love for Juliana had nothing to do with Anne.

Nothing.

Loving Juliana didn't diminish the love he'd had for Anne. It didn't mean he wouldn't always cherish the memories of their time together. He didn't love Juliana more than he'd loved Anne or less than he'd loved Anne.

He loved her differently.

She was a different woman, and he loved her for different reasons. Which made sense, because he was different now, too. This new love wasn't better or worse, or deeper or shallower. It was just different.

And it was exactly what he needed right now. What he needed to make him feel whole again, to make his life complete.

Unfortunately, Juliana seemed bent on marrying stuffy Castleton, that ass who wanted her only because she came with a horse.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of her brother's town house.

"Thank you," Lord Malmsey said as he stepped out.

"It was a lovely evening," Lady Frances said and stepped out, too.

Juliana didn't say anything as she stepped out to follow them. But before the footman could close the carriage door, she turned back to face James. "When are you going to take Lady Amanda to Vauxhall Gardens?"

He didn't want to take Lady Amanda to Vauxhall Gardens. He didn't want to take her anywhere. He'd never wanted to take her anywhere.

But he especially didn't want to take her to Vauxhall Gardens, the place where he'd discovered he was in love with Juliana.

"Never," he said. "I didn't enjoy Vauxhall Gardens much."

"Didn't you?" She narrowed her eyes as though she didn't believe him. Which was hardly surprising, since in truth he'd enjoyed himself immensely. "Well," she said, "then where shall you take her?"

He wanted to say nowhere, but he couldn't. Because then he'd have no excuse to see Juliana. She was bent on marrying the stuffy duke, which meant she wouldn't accept an invitation to accompany him anywhere unless it was for the sake of Lady Amanda.

That wasn't such a terrible thing, he consoled himself. He and Juliana were becoming fast friends, and that was good enough for now. If he continued the pretense that he was interested in Lady Amanda, he could keep touching Juliana, and kissing her, and tempting her. Juliana wouldn't try to trick him again—she'd promised not to, and he trusted her. He could afford to remain patient. Friendship in marriage was important, and there was plenty of time to make Juliana fall in love with him.

He was just getting used to the fact that he wanted to marry her. There was no reason to rush right into it.

"I'll take Lady Amanda wherever you'd like," he said. "Except Vauxhall Gardens. As long as you come along, too."

"I cannot come along!"

"You can if you're with Castleton." It galled him to say that, but he saw no other choice. No other way to keep touching and kissing and tempting Juliana.

Well, there was Friday, when he hoped to corner her in a treatment room. But that was four days away. Entirely too long to wait.

"If we go somewhere I've never been," he told her, "I'll need you there to provide guidance."

She mulled that over for a moment, and then she said, "Very well," just as he'd expected. He'd known he could appeal to her meddling nature. She'd probably never in her life come to believe he was capable of fending for himself, but he could live with that.

In fact, he looked forward to living with that. He rather liked having her look after him. It was a never-ending source of amusement, one of her many quirks he loved best.

"I think we should go see the new Battle of Waterloo panorama in Leicester Square tomorrow," she said. "I've heard it's very romantic."

Having witnessed war himself, James didn't think it was very romantic, and he had never heard the term romantic attached to the Leicester Square Panorama building, either. But he had heard it was rather dark, and he supposed darkness could lead to romance, and while he was well aware that Juliana expected him to find romance with Lady Amanda while she found romance with that ass Castleton, he knew that wouldn't happen, so her false expectations didn't dampen his spirits in the slightest.

"I believe it closes at four," he said, "so I shall return to fetch you and Lady Amanda at one o'clock."

"And Aunt Frances," she reminded him.

"And Lady Frances." Even that didn't dim his cheer. "Invite Lord Malmsey, too, will you?" he said, reaching into his pocket. "Here are your gloves, s—"

He cut off, turning the last sound into a very long s, as though there were more than two gloves.

He'd almost called her sweetheart.

He'd best be more careful; he wanted to tempt Juliana, not scare her away.

"Thank you," she said, taking them and going into the house.

James was in an excellent mood as his carriage continued on to Stafford House. Once there, he remained in an excellent mood as he searched the morning room and the music room and the Palm Room for his mother. He took the stairs two at a time, still in an excellent mood when he finally found her in her sitting room, reading a Minerva Press novel.

He'd never seen his mother read a Minerva Press novel. They were torrid romances, and he didn't quite know how he felt about her reading such a thing, but that didn't affect his excellent mood.

"Yes, James?" she said, shutting it quickly and setting it upside down on the table beside her. "How was your evening?"

"It was rather pleasant," he said, perhaps the greatest understatement of his life. "I want to renovate my bedroom."

"You cannot change that room. It was designed by Henry Holland!"

"I don't care who designed it. Brown and plum are too somber."

Cornelia loved redecorating, but James's father had never let her touch Stafford House, so she'd had to content herself with overhauling their manor house in the countryside. James had known she wouldn't argue long. Clearly excited, she rose, belted her dressing gown more tightly, and walked over to sit at her feminine writing desk.

"What colors would you like, then?" she asked, dipping her quill in the inkwell.

"Red," he decided.

"Your favorite color. Yes, I should have guessed." She scribbled. "Any other requests?"

"And yellow. Red and yellow." He'd noticed Juliana often wore yellow, but he wouldn't explain that to his mother. The last thing he needed was her figuring out he'd finally decided to remarry.

"We'll do stripes," she said, still scribbling. "Wide red and yellow stripes on the walls above the wainscoting."

"I want the wainscoting gone. It's dark wood, and I don't want anything dark in the room."

She frowned, then brightened. "We'll paint the wainscoting white, then. Bright white enamel. And use narrower stripes on the upholstery. But solid red bedclothing, I think. Perhaps with yellow pillows."

"Fine." Henry Holland's design had used floral fabrics, so stripes sounded perfect. As different as could be. "And get rid of that monstrous old-fashioned bed, will you?"

"It's been in the family since the sixteenth century."

"It looks it."

"Nine Stafford earls were born in that bed—"

"I want something modern. Without a canopy or stifling curtains."

She looked up. And then she gazed at him for a very long moment, while he wondered if she'd make the connection, if she'd realize that the bed, the curtains—all of it—held too many memories.

"Very well," she finally said. "If you insist, we'll move it to a guest room."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

"It's the rheumatism, I fear," Lady Avonleigh said the next afternoon.

"It's dreadful," Lady Balmforth added. "The two of us ache every morning."

When James had fetched Juliana and the others for their outing, he'd explained that he needed to stop by his aunts' house on their way to Leicester Square. Seated in his aunts' drawing room on a peach sofa, Juliana watched him walk them toward a large picture window.

"I'm afraid some morning stiffness is to be expected at your age," he said sympathetically. He lifted Lady Balmforth's narrow hand and examined it in the window's light.

"Don't you need to use your quizzing glass?" she asked.

"Not for this. I see no evidence of swelling, and your joints don't look reddened or feel overly warm. If the achiness wears off before noon, that's a good sign." He flexed her elbow. "Does this hurt?"

"He's patient," Amanda said quietly, sitting beside Juliana.

"Yes, he is," she whispered back, lifting an embroidery hoop one of James's aunts had left on the table. It wasn't a simple sampler but an amazingly detailed scene—a cottage in the woods with animals among the trees. Oddly enough, though, it seemed to smell faintly of camphor. "Isn't this exquisite?"

"I wish he'd be a little more impatient. We're going to be late."

"There's no need to worry." She sniffed the embroidery hoop before she set it back down. Definitely camphor. "The rotunda doesn't close until four."

"But the duke will be waiting."

"Not for so very long." Juliana raised a half-finished crewelwork seat cover and ran her fingers over the pattern, a veritable field of flowers. "Lord Stafford's aunts are very talented."

"Lord Stafford is on his knees," Amanda said. "That cannot be good for his injury."

James was crouched on the floor, obligingly examining Lady Avonleigh's plump ankles. Juliana didn't think about his injury much—it didn't seem to stop him from doing anything, so she couldn't see where it mattered. But apparently it mattered to Amanda.

"There's nothing Lord Stafford won't do for someone he cares for," Juliana told her, returning the crewelwork to the table. "You're lucky to have someone so wonderful courting you." Honestly, it was a bit annoying that Amanda didn't seem to realize how truly lucky she was. "It's nice of you to be concerned for him, though. Just remember to let him kiss you."

"What if he doesn't try?"

"He'll try. Parts of the rotunda are rumored to be very dark." James would take advantage of the darkness—Juliana knew this from experience.

"What if I don't like his kisses?"

Poor Amanda seemed even more afraid of kissing than before. The failed trick must have traumatized her. "You'll love his kisses," she assured her. Another thing she knew from experience. In fact, just thinking about that particular experience made her stomach feel all queer again.

Why was that?

Her puzzlement must have shown on her face, because the next thing she knew, James was standing over her, looking concerned. "Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all," she assured him—and herself. "Are you finished?"

"I've prescribed hot, damp towels for my aunts' aches. I'm certain they shall be fine."

She rose and walked over to where his aunts sat while their maids obligingly applied the towels. "I hope you'll both be feeling better soon."

"Oh, we shall," Lady Balmforth said as her maid wrapped one of her wrists. "Our James always knows what to do. I'm sure we'll feel better by the time Cornelia comes to fetch us in an hour. We're going to Gillow's to look at some new furniture for her house."

"Your needlework is lovely. I'm having a little sewing party tomorrow afternoon, to make some baby clothes for the Foundling Hospital. Would either of you be interested in joining me?"

"Cornelia told us about your sewing parties," Lady Avonleigh exclaimed, appearing better already. The odd camphor smell was hers—along with a rather strong scent of gardenias. "They sound delightful, my dear. I should love to attend."

Lady Balmforth clasped her hands together so enthusiastically she lost a towel in the process. "I should love to attend, too."

"Thank you so much. Shall I send my brother's carriage at one o'clock?"

"Oh, no," Lady Avonleigh said. "We have our own carriage, and John Coachman has much too much time on his hands."

"He naps," Lady Balmforth added. "Even more often than we do."

Juliana noticed James and Amanda both inching toward the door. "Excellent," she said before going after them. "I live at forty-four Berkeley Square, and I very much look forward to seeing you."

"That was rather presumptuous," Amanda said as they walked out to James's carriage where Frances and Lord Malmsey were waiting.

"I disagree," James said. "I think it was kind. My aunts were thrilled to be invited."

Juliana smiled. "They're very sweet."

"And very healthy," he said dryly. "Such a pity they don't know it."

"They just need something else to occupy their minds. That's why I invited them to my party—well, besides the fact that I do need their help. And I'm thinking I should introduce them to a few more charming gentlemen."

"I don't believe either of them is interested in gentlemen, charming or not."

"Have they never been wed?"

"Oh, yes. Aunt Bedelia was married four times."

"Four!" Amanda exclaimed.

"A baron, two viscounts, and an earl. They all died," he added as a footman opened the carriage door. "That sweet old lady must be toxic."

Juliana began to laugh, but ended up gasping instead. Inside James's opulent carriage, her aunt was kissing Lord Malmsey.

"Gracious me!" Amanda cried, clearly scandalized. Not because she cared that Lord Malmsey was courting Frances, Juliana thought. After all, Amanda wanted to marry James; she'd given Lord Malmsey permission to court other women; she'd told him she was going to find a way out of their marriage. Amanda would have been scandalized to see any two people kissing. She was scared to death of kisses.

The older couple jerked apart. A flush rushed up Frances's neck and spread to her cheeks. Not a delicate flush, either—it was more like a bright red flood.

But she kept her composure. "Are your aunts feeling better?" she asked James, folding her hands in her lap.

"Remarkably." He handed Amanda in first, then Juliana before himself. She left space for him in the middle, but it seemed there wasn't enough, because he ended up squished against her. "To the Leicester Square Panorama," he instructed and settled back.

They all rode in silence for a few awkward moments. James felt very warm against Juliana. Her stomach was feeling even more queer. "Lord Stafford was telling us his aunt Bedelia has been married four times," she told Frances.

"Oh, my," Frances said.

After a few more awkward moments, Juliana looked up to James. "Were there no children?"

"None that lived. And Aunt Aurelia's life has been even more tragic."

"How many husbands did she have?" Amanda asked in a tone that Juliana found rather disapproving.

James didn't seem to notice, however. "Only one, the Earl of Avonleigh. But their children failed to bring her happiness. Her eldest daughter eloped with a cousin, prompting her husband to disown the girl. Aurelia never heard from her again and learned she'd died a number of years later. Her middle child, a son, drank too much and accidentally drowned. And her youngest, another daughter, ended her own life soon after marrying. She jumped off the London Bridge, taking her unborn child with her."

"Oh, my," Frances said again.

"Aunt Aurelia's husband died soon thereafter. A 'visitation from God' was the coroner's official verdict, but I expect his spirit was broken."

"I don't doubt that," Lord Malmsey said.

Juliana nodded. "It's a wonder your aunt survived."

"She's a strong lady. They both are. It's a shame they have no children or grandchildren to dote upon."

"They have you," she pointed out.

"I know, and I adore them. I admire their pluck." The carriage came to a halt. "I just wish they had someone else to pluck at once in a while."

The door opened to Leicester Square and a huge round building. Over a rather nondescript entrance, a fancy marquee said PANORAMA. Before it stood the duke.

Juliana was relieved to see he didn't look perturbed. On the other hand, he didn't look happy, either. He looked the way he usually did: reserved and rather bland. His pale blue eyes calm, his expression pleasant.

Everyone clambered out of the carriage. "Good afternoon, my dear," the duke said to her. "I was very pleased to receive your invitation."

After everyone else exchanged greetings, the men bought tickets at the box office and they all proceeded inside. A long, narrow, dimly lit corridor stretched ahead, and it got even darker when the door shut behind them.

Amanda shrieked.

"There now," a voice said, soothing her. "Take my arm."

It was the duke, not James.

James took Juliana's arm instead. Even in the dark she knew it was James, because he smelled like soap and starch instead of eau de cologne. And because her stomach felt even queerer.

"You should be escorting Lady Amanda," she whispered as they all groped their way down the hall, laughing and feeling their way along the walls.

"She'll be fine," he said.

Of course Amanda would be fine. The duke was very kind to soothe her. It was somewhat of a shock going from the busy, open square to the dim, closed-in corridor, but it wasn't really scary. In fact, it was sort of fun. However, James could hardly kiss Amanda while she was with the duke, and that wasn't a good thing.

By the time they reached the end of the corridor, Juliana's eyes had adjusted to the low light and she could see somewhat. A tall staircase spiraled up. And up. And up. The light in the stairwell grew a little brighter as they went.

"My knees hurt," Amanda complained halfway up. "Can we please stop and rest?"

"Of course we can," the duke said.

Propelled by James, Juliana passed them and kept going.

Behind her, Frances giggled. "I cannot remember the last time I turned in so many circles!"

Indeed, Juliana felt like a blindfolded child being spun around as part of a game. It was a bit disorienting. She held tighter to James, noticing he seemed to be limping a little more than usual. Maybe Amanda had been right when she said he shouldn't have been kneeling.

Suddenly the staircase ended, and they emerged to find themselves transported to another time and place. Like magic, they'd gone from Leicester Square to Belgium in a matter of minutes.

Feeling like she was still spinning, Juliana wormed her way through the crowd and gripped the platform's rail. All around her, above and below, a battlefield stretched miles into the distance.

"Amazing," James breathed behind her.

It was overwhelming. She knew the panorama was only a giant painting, but everything in the rotunda was designed to trick the eyes. Indirect illumination, provided by narrow skylights beneath the edge of the domed ceiling, made it look like outdoors at dusk. Far below, a three-dimensional terrain stretched from under the platform up to the walls, filled with lifelike vegetation, objects, and figures that blended into the picture, making everything seem real.

And all around, the Battle of Waterloo raged.

Chaos reigned. Cavalrymen charged on horses with bayoneted infantry at their backs. Officers gave orders, soldiers aided the fallen, smoke rose from cannons in a stand of trees. The ground was low in places, muddy in others, fenced and open, brown and green, flat and rough and everything in between. Fields that should have been smooth were littered with the killed and wounded, the contents of their knapsacks strewn all over. As far as the eye could see, men scrambled and fought, their guns and swords flashing in the glistening haze made by spent artillery.

When Juliana finally felt steady enough to release the rail, she edged sideways around the platform, working her way through the other milling spectators. It seemed they were all standing in a pavilion on the top of a small hill in the center of the battle. The soldiers looked wet, dirty, and blue with cold. She could have sworn she saw a mounted officer raise a hat to signal an attack. A shiver ran down her spine.

"I feel seasick," Frances said from somewhere close on the platform.

"Hold on to me," Lord Malmsey said. "You have delicate nerves, my love."

His love? Blinking in the twilight, Juliana tore her gaze from the panorama and turned toward the voices.

But the couple was no longer nearby.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

"Where's my aunt?" Juliana cried. "And Lord Malmsey?"

James curved an arm around her, pulling her close. "We'll find them later," he said, his low voice seeming to vibrate right through her.

Though she knew she shouldn't, she leaned into him. "Where are the duke and Lady Amanda?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes!" Amanda was supposed to be here with James in the dark. Kissing him. No matter that the thought of his kisses made Juliana's stomach feel queer.

She swayed.

"Are you feeling seasick, too?" he asked.

"No." It was just the sound of his deep chocolate voice making her dizzy. And the thought of kissing him. She couldn't kiss him. Not again. If she was going to kiss anyone, it should be the duke.

But the duke didn't want to kiss her until they were married, and in any case, he was with Amanda. In fact, Amanda had probably latched on to him knowing he wouldn't kiss her.

If a woman feared being kissed, the duke was a much safer bet than James.

"Do you see them?" she asked James, trying to peer around him.

He drew her toward the staircase. "Maybe they've gone downstairs. I think we should go and see."

They walked all the way down, around and around, but the others were nowhere to be found. At the bottom, they retraced their steps down the corridor, laughingly feeling their way along the walls again. James, Juliana noticed even in the darkness, was definitely limping more than usual. Reaching the end, they opened the door and looked out into Leicester Square.

She blinked in the bright sunshine. There was no sign of her aunt or Amanda or the other men. "They must still be upstairs," she said.

"They must." A family was approaching the door, so James drew her back inside to let them pass.

The children giggled when the door closed behind them and the corridor plunged into darkness. "Don't run!" the parents cautioned as their offspring made their way toward the staircase.

The youngsters giggled again and again, bumping each other and the walls. Still, when James took Juliana's hand and began to follow them, she could hear his uneven gait.

"Your leg is hurting you, isn't it?"

She felt rather than saw him shrug. "It was a tall staircase. I'm fine."

The vast number of steps hadn't occurred to her when she'd suggested today's outing. Unlike Amanda, she never really thought about James's limp at all. He never mentioned it, and it was usually so slight. "Does it hurt very often?"

"Only when it's cold and rainy."

"Dear heavens." She gripped his arm with her other hand, effectively dragging him to a stop. "It must hurt all the time this year."

His laughter echoed down the corridor. "It's not that painful. The limb is stiffer than I'd like, but the sensation is just a dull ache. Nothing to merit your concern. In a strange sort of way I actually embrace the discomfort—it reminds me how fortunate I am to still have it."

"When did it happen? And how?"

"Peninsular War," James explained. "Took a ball right below the knee." The giggles grew fainter as, at the other end of the corridor, the family started up the staircase. "The army surgeons wanted to amputate, but one managed to save it instead."

"I'm glad," Juliana murmured, thinking he was stoic and brave.

Amanda should be so grateful to have him.

"I was lucky." The footsteps faded away, and James continued walking down the corridor. "And extremely grateful for the man's skill. Since I could no longer march with the army, I needed another profession, and—"

"That's why you became a doctor," she interrupted softly.

"Have you still been puzzling over that?" he wondered with a low laugh as they neared the steps. "Yes, this time you're more or less correct. Eventually, though, I chose the life of a physician over that of a surgeon. I decided I'd rather work with stethoscopes than saws."

Suppressing a sickening vision of a surgeon's saw covered in blood, Juliana took a while to notice that instead of starting up the staircase, he'd drawn her around and underneath it.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"People will bump into us if we wait in the corridor. We'll wait here instead."

It was very dark under the steps, and James would take advantage of the dark. He'd claim he wanted to practice and try to kiss her again. She'd told Amanda as much, hadn't she, because she knew it to be true from experience. "I think we should go back upstairs."

"If we wait here," he argued, "your aunt and the others will surely come down."

"Aunt Frances won't be able to see us under here." Especially considering Frances was probably busy kissing Lord Malmsey. Bold men had a tendency to take advantage of the dark, and while Lord Malmsey might have started out rather shy, he was obviously getting bolder by the minute. Already today he'd been bold enough to kiss Frances in James's carriage and call her my love.

Juliana's stomach felt queer—and suddenly she knew why.

Lord Malmsey had called Aunt Frances my love.

Juliana wanted someone to call her my love.

She wanted James to call her my love.

Because she loved James, and she wanted him to love her back.

But that would never happen.

"I don't know what to do," she said.

She wanted to love the duke. But she loved James instead, because James was warm and affectionate and charitable and everything else the duke wasn't. It didn't matter anymore that James was too tall and had dark hair and a profession. He was brave and stoic. They fit perfectly together, and he was the most handsome man she knew, and as for his profession, well, he was trying to rid the world of the scourge of smallpox, and whatever could be wrong with that?

But she couldn't marry James, because he would never love her. Like her mother, she'd be unhappy all her days. And the duke needed her, and he was very kind, and he was sending her flowers and falling in love with her. James and Amanda belonged together. They shared interests that Juliana didn't. They filled each other's needs.

Juliana's stomach didn't just feel queer anymore—it hurt. And she wished she'd never said she didn't know what to do, because she couldn't possibly explain any of this to James.

Fortunately, he interpreted I don't know what to do in an entirely different context. "It doesn't make much sense to walk all the way up again only to turn around and come back down." Edging her even deeper under the steps, he raised a hand and traced one finger in a shivery line down her jaw. "Don't worry about whether your aunt will see us. I'll watch for her and the others. And while we're waiting, we can practice kissing."

She'd known he would say that, hadn't she? And she knew she shouldn't agree. But she also knew she shouldn't insist he walk up all those stairs again or his poor leg would pain him even more.

"You don't need to practice kissing," she told him with no small amount of conviction. James had been married, after all. She hadn't known that when she'd first suggested he might need lessons, but she knew it now. He'd had practice. He kissed so well a woman would have to be daft to think he needed practice.

His finger lingered at the base of her chin, tracing little circles there, threatening to break her resolve. At the far end of the corridor, the door opened, admitting more people and a little light, just enough so Juliana could see James's gaze, which was so intense she could tell he knew exactly the effect his actions were having on her.

Oh, yes, he'd had practice.

The door shut, plunging the corridor back into darkness as the people made their way to the stairwell. "It's been a long time since I've kissed a woman," he said quietly, apparently reading her mind again.

"It's been less than twenty-four hours."

"But before that, it was a long time."

His finger continued down her throat, slowly, slowly. Wishing she could see him, she swallowed hard. "You're not going to unbutton, are you?"

His laugh was quick, low, and pleased. "No, I'm not going to unbutton here." His finger zigzagged down her chest, lightly, lightly, making every nerve in her body sing. "Practice with me, Juliana," he murmured as it disappeared into the little valley between her breasts.

She couldn't breathe. No man had ever touched her there, and now his finger was tracing up and down, making her heart pound and her breasts ache.

More people were coming down the corridor, but she couldn't seem to care.

"They cannot see you," he whispered, bending his neck, angling his head, lowering his mouth toward hers. "Will you practice?" His breath whispered across her lips. "Will you?"

And she let him. She whispered, "Yes." God help her, though he clearly didn't need practice, she allowed him to practice anyway. Just once. Or maybe twice.

She lost count.

His kisses were drugging. Little nipping ones at first, and then deeper ones, until she opened her mouth and invited him in. People went up and down the stairs overhead while his tongue tangled with hers in a dance so exciting it made heat gather low in her middle. His finger still played between her breasts, and his other hand pressed against her back, pulling her closer.

Her pulse raced, and her head swam, and she didn't want him to stop. She wanted him to kiss her forever. She wanted him to make her forget that she shouldn't be wanting him.

He shifted his finger inside her bodice and touched a nipple.

She sucked in her breath, breaking the kiss.

"I'm not unbuttoning," he murmured, rubbing the sensitive crest.

No, what he was doing was much more effective. It made the heat down lower more urgent. She rocked against him as he kept rubbing and kissed a tingling trail down her throat.

She feared her knees might fail. "James!" she breathed.

"Hmm?" He placed little damp kisses all across her low neckline, maneuvering his hand inside her bodice until he managed to free her other breast.

And his warm mouth closed over it.

"James!"

"Juliana, is that you?"

His mouth left her. "Is that you, Lady Frances?" He whirled around and started down the corridor while Juliana yanked her dress back into place.

More footsteps sounded on the stairs, growing closer. Juliana stepped into the corridor just as four dark forms made it to the bottom. "There you all are!" she said.

At the other end, James opened the door, admitting a shaft of light. "We were looking for you."

"We were looking for you," Frances said, blinking madly. Well, it was dim, and she wasn't wearing her spectacles. "Lady Amanda wishes to return home."

"I was dizzy up there," Amanda said.

Juliana had felt a little dizzy up there, too, but she felt much more dizzy now. Dizzy and confused. She followed the others out into Leicester Square. Her knees still felt shaky. Her breasts ached as though James were still touching them.

She wished he were still touching them.

Her stomach was hurting again.

James would never love her. He needed to kiss Amanda and marry her, or everything would be ruined.

"Where should we go now?" she asked.

"Parliament," the duke said.

James pulled out his pocket watch, opened it, and snapped it shut. "Good God, it's nearly four o'clock." Indeed, people were starting to stream out of the Panorama. "The two of us should definitely go to Parliament."

How in heaven's name was James going to kiss Amanda and decide to marry her if he was always in Parliament? "I've a sewing party from one o'clock until three tomorrow, but how about if we go somewhere in the late afternoon or the evening? The House of Lords doesn't meet on Wednesdays."

"We can go to Almack's," Amanda suggested.

"No," James said at the same time Juliana said, "I think not."

She wondered why he didn't want to attend Almack's, but it didn't really signify, because Almack's was a bad idea. Aunt Frances might be rather blind these days, but the lady patronesses who ran Almack's had vision sharper than tacks. James would never be able to kiss Amanda there. "How about Vauxhall Gardens?" she suggested instead.

"I adore Vauxhall Gardens," Frances put in approvingly. "Especially at night."

"Only ladies of easy virtue attend Vauxhall Gardens at night," Amanda said, either unaware or unconcerned that she'd just insulted Frances. "I enjoy gardens, but I'd prefer to visit one that is more respectable."

"How about Chelsea Physic Garden, then?" James asked.

"Chelsea Physic Garden?" Juliana had never heard of the place. "Where is it?"

"In Chelsea," the duke said dryly.

Juliana shot him a peeved glance before turning back to James. "Is it very exciting?"

"It's very peaceful. If you haven't heard of it, that's because one must be a physician or apothecary to gain entrance. But I'm allowed to bring guests, and I think Lady Amanda would like it. I shall ask my cook to prepare a picnic supper."

"It sounds perfect," the duke said. "Shall we say five o'clock? Now I think we should be off."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

James's aunts were even better seamstresses than Rachael and her sisters. Better and faster. As Juliana sat stitching like mad while her guests chatted, she tried to convince herself that, with Lady Avonleigh's and Lady Balmforth's help, she could successfully finish making all the baby clothes before her deadline a week from Saturday.

At the end of Monday's party, she'd had a hundred and twenty-one completed pieces and needed only a hundred and nineteen more. Well, perhaps the word only was a bit optimistic, especially considering a majority of the finished pieces were simple blankets and clouts. But it had been the first time the number of items accumulated exceeded the number of items still unmade, which seemed a milestone of sorts.

Counting today, she had six sewing parties left. Which meant if all twelve of her guests were willing to attend every time, she'd need them to finish…

Her head hurt. "Emily, how much is a hundred and nineteen divided by six?"

"Miss Emily isn't here," Lady Mabel wheezed.

Oh, that was right. Emily had finished cutting, and she still refused to sew, and she'd been busy lately anyway for some reason or another. Which meant Juliana had eleven ladies—well, twelve if she counted herself—and needed—

"Nineteen and five-sixths," Elizabeth said, interrupting her thoughts.

"Pardon?"

"One hundred nineteen divided by six is nineteen and five-sixths."

"You did that without paper?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "I like to exercise my brain."

"My younger daughter was like that," Lady Avonleigh said. "She could do any calculation in her head."

"Our mother was good at arithmetic, too," Rachael said. "I expect Elizabeth inherited that ability from her."

"Brains do tend to run in families." Lady Stafford smiled toward Juliana. "My James was Aurelia's daughter's cousin."

"Much younger cousin," Lady Balmforth pointed out.

"Yes, had she lived she'd have been a grandmother by now, I expect—unlike my James, who's of marriageable age." Lady Stafford shot another smile to Juliana. "I was noticing at my dinner party, my dear, that the Duke of Castleton seems a mite reserved for a young lady of your enthusiasm."

"Yes, the duke surely is reserved," Juliana said distractedly, trying to figure out if they could make nineteen and five-sixths items at each party. "But that's only to be expected, considering his lonely childhood. Did you know he was born in this house? His cruel uncle and aunt sold it and made him move. The thought of it quite breaks my heart."

Rachael nudged Juliana and leaned close to her ear. "I think Lady Stafford is hoping you'll marry her son."

Juliana wished things were different so she could. In fact, she wished so hard it made her grit her teeth. "Brilliant observation," she said tightly under her breath, "but much as I like Lady Stafford, her son doesn't love me. I'm marrying the duke. He's very nice and he needs me."

"For God's sake," Rachael whispered, "I should think you'd rather have a man who wants you."

"He does want me. He told me he's falling in love with me. He sends me roses. He dances with me at every event."

"From about three feet away. Don't you want a man who physically wants you?"

It wasn't the duke's fault he was physically undemonstrative. He'd never known anything else. That was why he needed her.

Juliana's stomach hurt. She turned away and raised her voice. "I cannot thank you enough for coming, Lady Avonleigh and Lady Balmforth. You're both excellent seamstresses."

"Our mother taught us both to sew," Lady Balmforth said, "along with Cornelia, of course."

Lady Avonleigh nodded. "Cornelia and Bedelia didn't have daughters, but I followed tradition and taught mine to sew. My younger daughter was quite artistic and especially good with a needle."

Juliana and Rachael turned toward Lady Stafford expectantly. She didn't disappoint them. "My son is good with a needle, too. He does excellent sutures."

The cousins shared a smile, but Juliana's faded. "Do you think that together we can finish nineteen and five-sixths items this afternoon?"

"Twenty," Elizabeth said. "It's close enough to call it twenty."

"Of course. Do you think we can finish twenty? Twelve of us?"

"Of course," Corinna echoed. "We did twenty-three on Monday, remember? Without Ladies A and B."

Ladies A and B smiled, their needles flashing.

"Those were all clouts," Juliana said. "Not frocks, coats, caps, and the like, which are more complicated and take much longer."

Alexandra rubbed her belly, even though it still looked flat. "We can finish twenty pieces, even if they're more difficult," she said soothingly. "We'll just stay later, until we're done."

"We can't," Amanda said. "Juliana and your aunt and I are leaving at five to go to Chelsea Physic Garden, and we'll need time to ready ourselves first."

"Chelsea Physic Garden?" Claire looked up from the little frock she was sewing. "What's that?"

"Some garden for doctors," Juliana said. "James thinks Amanda will like it."

Rachael tied off a thread. "You call him James?"

"Lord Stafford," Juliana gritted out, "said Chelsea Physic Garden is very peaceful."

"My son knows exactly what women enjoy," Lady Stafford said. "He's taken me to the garden in Chelsea, and it's lovely."

Reaching for a spool, Rachael leaned closer to Juliana. "So tell me about James," she whispered.

"There's nothing to tell," Juliana said. "And we must stop whispering. It's not polite."

"You're right," Rachael said louder as she threaded her needle. "I've been wondering," she said to the company in general, "whether it's a good idea to marry a man expecting him to change."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Whom are you thinking of marrying?"

"No one in particular. It's just a hypothetical question."

"No," Corinna said flatly. "You cannot change people. If you marry a man expecting him to change, you'll be disappointed."

"Not necessarily," Juliana disagreed. "People change all the time. Look at Amanda."

Amanda blushed.

"Amanda wanted to change," Corinna argued. "That's very different from expecting a change in someone who's happy with himself."

Claire nodded. "Just think, Juliana. How would you feel if someone married you expecting you to change? Or even hoping you would change? Wouldn't you prefer a man who wants you just the way you are without wishing you were different?"

"We're not talking about me," Juliana snapped. "It was Rachael asking the question."

But she knew they were talking about her. Or at least they could be. She was planning to marry the duke expecting him to change, and she knew the duke would probably hope she would change, too.

Whereas James liked her just the way she was. But only as a friend—he would never love her. If it seemed he wanted her in a physical sense, that was only because they were friends and he wanted a child.

And he had to marry Amanda, or else three other people's lives would be ruined.

Her stomach had never hurt so badly in her life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

As James was leaving that evening, Cornelia walked into Stafford House. "How did your day go, dear?"

"Very well." Pausing in the entrance hall, he shifted the picnic basket he was carrying. "I wasn't shorthanded today, so I was able to stop by Gillow's to see the bedroom furniture you and your sisters picked out. It looks fine."

"Good. I chose the fabrics this morning, and I have a painter coming by later this week. This is all coming together very quickly."

"Excellent," he told her. "I truly appreciate your help. Did your sisters enjoy today's sewing party?"

"Very much. They're looking forward to another one tomorrow." She reached up to smooth his hair, making him feel about six years old again. "I was surprised to learn this afternoon that you're going to the Physic Garden rather than Almack's."

He shrugged. "Lady Juliana and Lady Amanda said they'd prefer to visit the garden."

"You've been spending a lot of time with your lovely young ladies."

"They're not my ladies, Mother." He hoped Juliana was getting closer to becoming his lady—her reactions at the Panorama had been encouraging—but she wasn't his lady yet.

"Are you going to marry one of them?"

He leveled his gaze on her. "Are you going to marry Lord Cavanaugh?"

She blinked. "I'm not prepared to say. At the moment I'm just enjoying his company."

"Exactly." He bent to kiss her on the cheek. "Enjoy Almack's, will you?"

He whistled as he went out the door, whistled as his carriage made its way to Berkeley Square. Things were looking up. He might have just managed to get his mother off his back, and in any case, an hour from now he'd be kissing Juliana.

He stopped whistling out loud when his guests joined him in the carriage, of course, but he was still whistling in his head. And toying with the deck of playing cards he'd slipped into his pocket. It was nearly six o'clock by the time they reached Chelsea and alighted from the carriage on Swan Walk.

"Good evening," he said to the guard at the garden's entrance.

"Good evening, Lord Stafford." The man swung open the gate set into the old redbrick wall. "Sunset is at quarter to nine."

"The garden closes at sunset," James told his party. "Is Wheeler here?" he asked the guard.

"Not tonight. He left at four."

"Oh, that's a pity," James said, although it wasn't a pity at all. In fact, it was exactly what he was hoping to hear.

"Who is Wheeler?" Juliana asked as they walked in.

"Thomas Wheeler is the Physic Garden's Demonstrator. He's hired to explain the uses of the medicinal plants to visitors. I can do that, though." He led them along a tree-lined path to the center of the garden. "Would you all like a tour, or would you prefer to dine first?"

"I'm famished," Castleton said. "We can look at plants later."

James suspected the man didn't want to look at plants at all, which suited his plans just fine. He chose a grassy spot by the rockery and laid out a large blanket before opening the basket his servants had prepared. The duke and Lady Amanda hung back while James opened a bottle of wine and Juliana and her aunt unpacked cold chicken, bread, and cheese.

"I don't sit on the ground," Castleton said stuffily, taking his supper to a nearby bench.

What an ass, James thought for the umpteenth time.

Lady Amanda didn't seem to agree with his assessment, however. In fact, she appeared to breathe a sigh of relief. "Neither do I," she said and joined the ass.

"You should sit by her," Juliana whispered.

"There's no more room on the bench," James whispered back. Actually, there would have been room on the bench if the two of them weren't sitting primly spaced apart from each other. But it was just as well, since he had no intention of sitting with Lady Amanda anyway.

"No one else seems to be here," Lady Frances observed, happily settling close by Lord Malmsey on the blanket. "This place is so peaceful and enchanting."

Juliana pulled off her gloves as she sat down by them. "Corinna would love to come here and paint."

"I can obtain a ticket for her entrance," James said. He took glasses of wine to the ass and his companion, then lowered himself to the ground by Juliana.

"What is the purpose of the garden?" Lord Malmsey asked.

James swallowed a bite of bread. "Doctors and apothecaries can visit to obtain cuttings of medicinal plants. But mostly it's used for educational and training purposes. Hundreds of medical and apothecary students visit every year as part of their studies."

Juliana waved a chicken leg toward a white alabaster statue of a man holding a scroll, dressed in a fancy robe and a full, old-fashioned wig. "Who's that?"

"Dr. Hans Sloane, a former president of the Royal College of Physicians. In the late sixteen hundreds, he visited Jamaica and brought back a cinchona tree, having learned that the bark could be used to make quinine to treat malaria. Later, when the Society of Apothecaries was at risk of losing the garden, he bought the land and leased it back to them for only five pounds a year—they still pay the same price now."

"What an unusual rock garden," Lady Frances said, squinting toward it since she wasn't wearing her spectacles.

"The oldest in all of England, or so I've been told. It was built to provide a habitat for foreign plants that grow best in rocky soil. The white stones are from the Tower of London, the black from a volcano in Iceland, and that giant-clam shell is said to have been brought to England by Captain Cook."

"You seem to know everything," Juliana said, smiling over the rim of her wineglass. "We don't need a demonstrator, do we, Amanda?" She turned toward the bench. "Amanda?"

Amanda was gone. As was Castleton, the ass.

"Where did they go?" Juliana asked.

"I don't know," Lady Frances mused. She turned to Lord Malmsey. "Theodore, would you help me look for them?"

"With pleasure, my dear." Belying their age, the two rose agilely to their feet, and Lord Malmsey tucked Lady Frances's hand in the crook of his arm. "Shall we, my love?"

Juliana's jaw dropped open as she watched the older couple walk off. "I cannot believe it," she muttered when they were out of earshot.

James drained the rest of his wine and started putting the remains of their dinner back in the basket. "You cannot believe what?"

She looked up at him, a little frown between her brows. "I cannot believe Aunt Frances asked Lord Malmsey to go off alone with her. She's always been so shy. And I cannot believe everyone left us again."

Her eyes looked greenish, which was no surprise. After many hours of observation and analysis, James had finally puzzled out the mystery of Juliana's changeable irises: They were more blue when she was happy or aroused, more green when she was worried or angry. Right now he guessed she was rather distressed, which put their hue in the latter range.

The distress was a good sign. It wouldn't be long now before she figured out she'd be much happier with him than with Castleton. If his plans for this evening were realized, her eyes would be blue before he was finished. Deep, deep blue.

"Everyone will be back soon," he said. "Lady Frances and Lord Malmsey will find the others."

"They aren't looking for them. They're off somewhere kissing."

"Really?" he said, reaching a hand to help her rise. "I guess we should go look for Castleton and Lady Amanda ourselves, then."

"Yes, we should," she said. "You're supposed to be with Lady Amanda."

Having seen where her friend and the ass had gone, James led Juliana along a path in the opposite direction, which, happily, was the direction he wanted to take her. Trees lined both sides of the meandering gravel walkway, their leaves shimmering and fluttering overhead. The sun was dropping toward the horizon, making the walled garden shady and romantic.

The ambiance couldn't have been better.

"I don't see them," Juliana said after they wandered a few minutes in companionable silence. "I cannot imagine where they might have disappeared to."

"Me, neither," James said, taking her hand. She'd left her gloves on the blanket, and her fingers felt warm in his, especially compared to the air. Juliana was wearing a rather thin dress, and with the sun setting, it was getting a bit chilly. "Maybe they're in this greenhouse," he suggested, leading her off the path. "They might have gone inside to warm up."

"This greenhouse is warm," she said when they entered. Due to the abundance of glass, it was nearly as light inside as out. "It feels wonderful in here."

"I understand this was the first heated greenhouse in all of England," he told her, "and maybe the first in the whole world." He coaxed her between the rows of plants toward the back wall. "Hans Sloane wrote about this greenhouse back in 1684, marveling about the cleverness of putting ovens beneath the floor." Stopping before a door marked PRIVATE, he reached for the knob.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "I don't think we're supposed to go in there."

"Maybe Castleton is in there with Lady Amanda."

"I think not." Still holding his hand, she pulled him away from the door. "Amanda would never go into a room alone with him. She's much too reserved for that."

"She was in a room alone with me," he reminded her. "Lord Billingsgate's library. She even tried to kiss me."

Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink. "That's because she wants to marry you."

Thinking it was too bad Lady Amanda didn't want to marry the ass instead, he reached again for the knob. "Maybe your aunt and Lord Malmsey are in there," he suggested, "kissing."

The pink deepened. Her eyes were back to blue-green. She pulled on his hand again. "I don't think—" she started, and then she gave a little shriek when he opened the door.

Smiling, he stepped inside. "They're not in here. Come in and see, sw—"

Damn. He'd almost called her sweetheart again.

Luckily, she was so concerned about trespassing, she didn't notice. After peeking her head in, she breathed a sigh of relief. "We're not supposed to be in here, James. The door is marked private."

"It's Thomas Wheeler's office," he said with a shrug. "The Demonstrator who went home earlier. He's a friend; he wouldn't mind." He tugged on her hand. "Come in, Juliana."

Reluctantly, she came inside. "It is private."

It was a tiny cubby, with a compact desk against the inside wall and a small round wooden table with two chairs in the center. "The table is for demonstrations," he explained. "Private demonstrations." The exterior wall was glass, of course, it being part of the greenhouse. But trees grew so closely all around that no one could possibly see in, and plenty of light filtered in through the leaves and the glass ceiling overhead.

He shut the door, shutting them off from the world.

She whirled to face him, dropping his hand. "What are you doing, James?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the deck of cards. "Since we can't seem to find our companions, I remembered I wanted you to teach me to play casino," he said casually. "It's cold out there and warm in here, so I thought it might be nice to sit a while and play cards."

She eyed him warily, her gaze still blue-green. "Maybe for a minute."

"Excellent." He sat and waved her toward the second chair. After she sat, he slid his chair around the table and up against hers.

Taking the cards, she frowned. "You're supposed to sit across from me."

"I will after I learn. Right now I need to see your cards."

"Very well." When she shuffled the cards, he could feel the vibrations. They were that close. She dealt out four cards to each of them and four more faceup on the table, then put the rest aside. "Pick up your hand," she instructed, "and see if any of your cards match the ones on the table." Then she proceeded to explain all the rules, none of which he bothered listening to, since he already knew how to play casino.

As she talked and moved the cards around, he noticed her wheaten hair shining in the waning sunlight and thought about how much he wanted to see it slip from its pins. He leaned even closer to smell it, inhaling sunshine and flowers. He rubbed his shoulder against her arm and watched her eyes turn a little bluer. He pressed his thigh up against her thin skirts.

"Are you listening, James? Did you get all of that?"

"Of course." It was a very simple game, really. At least for him. He and his brother had kept a running score for years, and he'd always stayed miles ahead. "I think I'm ready to play now."

"All right." She gathered the cards and began reshuffling them. "You can move to the other side of the table."

"I'd rather stay here for the first couple of hands. In case I need your help. By the way, what shall we wager?"

"Wager? We don't need to wager."

"I never play games without a wager. A wager makes it much more interesting and fun."

"Is that so?" She stopped shuffling and slanted him a sideways glance. "I heard about how Griffin lost thirty guineas to you last month playing chess. I have no money."

"We'll wager something else, then," he said blithely.

"Like what?" She turned to him, looking wary again. But her eyes weren't turning green. They were staying rather blue. Amused, he ran a finger down her arm and watched them get even bluer.

"How about buttons?" he suggested.

"Buttons? We didn't bring buttons."

"We have buttons on our clothes. When one of us loses, he or she can unbutton a button."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Juliana was scandalized. Absolutely, positively scandalized. She'd never heard of wagering buttons. Amanda would faint dead away if James ever suggested wagering buttons with her. The mere idea seemed wicked and immoral and sinful and…

Tempting.

Dear heavens, it was tempting. It would teach James a lesson, that was for certain. After all, he was sure to lose, given that he didn't know how to play the game and he'd been daydreaming while she'd explained it to him. Daydreaming and touching her, making her stumble over her words. If she agreed, he would lose, and then he'd know not to wager buttons with Amanda. It was very, very tempting to say yes.

She did enjoy seeing James with his buttons unbuttoned. And since she was certain to win, she wouldn't have to unbutton any of her own. The whole thing could turn out to be rather pleasurable and amusing. And James would learn a lesson.

"All right," she said, "we'll wager buttons."

James looked surprised, but very pleased. After that, everything started happening rather quickly. His fingers went immediately to his neckcloth, working the knot.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Exposing my buttons. Go ahead and deal." He all but ripped off his tailcoat and dropped it to the floor. "Deal, Juliana."

She dealt. They picked up their cards. James spread his and smiled. "I go first—is that right?" She nodded, and he plucked a king from his hand and used it to claim the king on the table. "Aha," he said. "You have to unbutton a button."

"You haven't won yet!" she protested. "That was just a single trick." Anyone could win a trick; the real skill was winning the whole game. "Were you not listening, James? We have to play until all the cards are gone, and then we add up the points, and whoever has the most points wins. Then somebody unbuttons a button."

She'd almost said then you unbutton a button, but she'd stopped herself in time. Although she was going to win, there was no reason to sound smug about it.

"Oh, no," he said. "We don't have time for that. We're playing for only a few minutes, remember? It's getting dark, and we'll have to leave. We're wagering a button for each trick."

"We are not! We're wagering a button for each game."

"We don't have time to play more than one game. A Chase promise is never broken, remember? You promised you'd wager buttons, Juliana. Unbutton a button."

"Honestly, this is ridiculous." She'd never promised she'd wager buttons. Not exactly. But she didn't want to argue or look petulant, so she reached behind her back and unbuttoned a button, knowing James wouldn't win many more tricks. "There. Are you happy now? It's my turn." She took an eight out of her hand and claimed a seven and an ace with it, smiling because an ace was worth an extra point. "I took a trick," she said. "Unbutton."

James didn't seem at all reluctant to unbutton the top button of his shirt. He pulled a ten from his hand and took the ten of diamonds, which was worth two extra points. "I think you should unbutton two buttons," he said, grinning.

"I think not," she said, amazed that he'd remembered the value of that card when from all she could tell he hadn't even listened to her instructions. "When I took the ace, you unbuttoned only one button, same as I did when you took the first trick, which had no extra points. Each trick is worth only one button, no matter how many points it contains."

"Wrong," he said, flicking open another of his buttons. "There, now I've unbuttoned two buttons for your extra-point trick. And you owe me three buttons for my trick with the ten of diamonds."

"I cannot reach that many of my buttons," she said petulantly, even though she hadn't wanted to sound petulant.

He smiled, a very smug smile. "You poor thing. I'll unbutton them for you." And he reached behind her back and unbuttoned three buttons.

"Really, James, this is very childish." Since there were no cards left on the table, she plucked one from her hand and set it down faceup without even looking at it. Which was a mistake, because it turned out to be the two of spades, which was also worth an extra point.

James wasted no time taking it with the two of hearts. "Two buttons," he said with a grin.

"How did you remember the two of spades was worth an extra point?" she said slowly, and that's when she realized the truth. She turned to him, outraged. "You already knew how to play casino, didn't you?"

His grin widened as he unbuttoned two more of her buttons. "I never said I didn't."

Her dress was all unbuttoned down the back now. "You asked me to teach you!"

"Exactly. But I never said I didn't know how to play." His eyes gleaming, he watched her draw another card from her hand. "Too bad there's nothing on the table to match with that," he drawled as she tossed it down. "I don't have to unbutton any more buttons. On the other hand…" His last card matched that one, and he used it to claim it. "You owe me another button."

"You tricked me," she said. "After you got all mad at me for tricking you."

"Come, Juliana. This is a game. It's not at all the same as trying to trick someone into marriage."

He was right about that. Drat. Right enough to make her feel guilty. Right enough to make her drop that argument like a hot poker.

She set down her last card, grabbed the deck, and dealt them each four more cards. "I don't have any more buttons."

"Hmm." He set down a six. "Then I think you owe me a kiss instead."

"I do not." Drat, none of her new cards matched anything on the table. She had two aces in her hand and had to risk one if she wanted a chance to win both. She chose one and tossed it down. "It's your turn."

"An ace," he mused, "imagine that." He swept both it and the six up with a seven. "Two more points," he said with another smile. "Added to the button you haven't unbuttoned yet, that makes three."

"I have no more buttons," she reminded him. "And I'm not kissing you. What are you going to do," she added dryly, "open up my dress a little more by ripping it?"

"What an interesting idea," he said slowly. "I should have thought of that myself. But no, I don't think I'll rip it. I think your aunt might notice that."

And then his whole demeanor changed. His smile disappeared as he set his cards facedown on the table. He reached out and drew her loosened dress down her shoulders, leaving her breasts covered by only her filmy chemise.

"You owe me three kisses, Juliana," he said softly, gazing at them in a most arousing way.

Her skin prickled, and her nipples puckered, even though it was very warm in the greenhouse. "I do not."

"I think you do." He didn't sound smug now; he sounded raspy and seductive instead. His voice was making her lose her head. He skimmed his fingers along her face and down her neck almost to her cleavage, making her shiver. "I think you do, Juliana," he said in that low, chocolatey tone. "I think you owe me three kisses."

Dear heavens, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to kick herself for wanting him to kiss her, but she wanted him to kiss her nonetheless. Suddenly all she could think of was yesterday's kisses under the stairs, and she wanted him to kiss her in the worst way.

And touch her breasts, like he had yesterday, too. She wanted him to touch her in the worst way. With his hands and his mouth, like he'd done yesterday, only it had happened so quickly she'd hardly had a chance to enjoy it.

And she wanted to touch him. She wanted to touch him in the worst way. Despite herself, despite how he'd tricked her into it, she leaned closer and raised a hand to the little V of skin where he'd opened his measly two buttons.

A faint smile curving his lips, he moved closer. And closer still. Until she could feel his breath on her mouth where she wanted his kiss. "May I kiss you now?" he asked.

Why was he asking? Why didn't he just go ahead and kiss her? He'd done the same thing at Vauxhall Gardens and in the Panorama, asking her permission, making her agree.

She wished he'd just kiss her instead of asking, because she knew she should say no, but she couldn't help herself. She wanted James, and she wanted to kiss him, and she wanted to kick herself for being too weak to say no.

"May I?" he pressed. He was so close, there hardly seemed to be space to breathe between them. "May I kiss you now? Please let me kiss you, Juliana. I want to kiss you in the worst way."

In the worst way, just like she wanted. "Yes," she breathed. God help her, she said, "Yes, please kiss me."

And he did. His mouth crossed that last little space and settled on hers, and he proceeded to kiss her senseless. Positively senseless. The cards fluttered from her hand to the floor. Her senses began swirling, whirling, as she parted her lips and invited him in. His tongue swept her mouth, and she ached, positively ached, in her throat and her heart and, most curiously, in a place between her legs.

Still kissing her, he managed to maneuver her sideways onto his lap. She sighed and leaned into him, wrapping an arm around his neck, kissing him, kissing him. "I want to kiss you here," he whispered, trailing little kisses down her throat on his way to her cleavage. "I want to kiss you here, in the worst way."

Loving it, loving him, she tilted her head back to give him better access. And then his mouth was on a breast like she'd wanted, first kissing her through her chemise and then under it. He opened his mouth and drew in the crest, and dear heavens, it felt marvelous. Like a wanton, she arched her back, offering her breasts, offering herself, hoping he'd keep kissing them and do even more.

What she meant by more, she wasn't sure, but that curious ache between her legs was growing stronger. Stronger and hotter, more insistent. Dear heavens, she loved him. She knew she couldn't, knew she shouldn't, but she loved him nonetheless. And when he began caressing her, stroking her waist, her hips, her thighs, God knew she loved that, too.

And then his hand was underneath her dress, and he was stroking her thighs some more. Kissing her breasts and stroking her thighs, making her head swim. Making her heart pound and her breath come in little gasps. He abandoned her breast to recapture her lips, and her senses were spinning out of control. He was kissing her, stroking her, exploring her mouth with his tongue, and that curious ache between her legs was growing insistent to the point of being unbearable.

And then his hand skimmed the curls that guarded that ache, lightly, lightly, and he broke the kiss.

"Can I touch you here, Juliana? Can I touch you here?"

Dear heavens, why was he asking? She was gasping so quickly she could barely breathe, let alone talk. The ache was becoming so exquisite it seemed to be robbing her of speech.

She managed to nod, and he captured her mouth again, his tongue tangling with hers in a dance while his fingers danced below, parting her thighs and finally, finally touching her where she ached. A gentle slide of his fingers, just once, because once was all it took. He found a spot so sweet it made the breath catch in her throat, and she tumbled over a precipice, swirling, whirling, falling into pleasure fiercer than she'd ever known.

He kissed her and kissed her while she calmed, and then he kissed her again, and her head began to clear.

Dear heavens, what had she done? What had she allowed him to do? He was supposed to marry Amanda. He had to marry Amanda, or Aunt Frances would be devastated. He'd touched her in a place he should touch only Amanda, and even that only after they were married. And she'd not only let him touch her—she'd all but asked. Or rather, he'd asked her, but she hadn't hesitated to allow it. She'd nodded and kissed him, all but begging him to touch her where no man had touched her before.

She was appalled at herself. Absolutely, positively appalled. She'd wanted him to kiss her in the worst way, and she'd wanted him to touch her in the worst way, and it really had been the worst way.

He shifted her on his lap. "Are you all right, Juliana?" He lifted her chin, meeting her gaze. "Your eyes are blue," he whispered, sounding pleased. "Deep, deep blue."

She didn't want him pleased with her. He needed to be pleased with Amanda. "Obviously it's getting too dark for you to see," she snapped. "My eyes are hazel."

He laughed, a low, satisfied laugh, and then he kissed her again. And she let him, which made her feel better and worse all at the same time.

"It is getting dark," he finally admitted, sounding much too regretful. "We need to go find the others before the garden's gates are locked."

She slid off his lap, and he raised her chemise and bodice with gentle fingers, and then he turned her around and buttoned her dress. And tucked in the dratted, too-straight hair that had slipped from its pins. And buttoned his two buttons and shrugged into his tailcoat and knotted his neckcloth in place, haphazardly as usual. And she reached to straighten it, unable to help herself, even though she knew she shouldn't. And she let him kiss her again, a little sweet kiss that doubtless meant nothing to him but meant much too much to her.

She had to remember he would never love her. He was only kissing and touching her because they were friends and he wanted a child. He needed to become friends with Amanda instead.

She couldn't let him kiss her again after this. Or touch her again. Ever.

He gathered the cards from the table and the floor and slipped the deck back into his pocket, and then they left the greenhouse and went back to the middle of the garden where everyone else was waiting.

Aunt Frances had obviously been kissing Lord Malmsey; in the dim light of the setting sun, they both looked happy and flushed. Aunt Frances had finished packing up the basket, and Lord Malmsey had folded the blanket. He was holding it over his arm.

Naturally, the duke and Amanda had done nothing. The two of them were much too aristocratic to do the work of servants. And of course they hadn't kissed. Neither of them was flushed. No doubt Amanda had gone off with the duke purposely, specifically to avoid being kissed by James.

So Juliana had been kissed instead. And touched instead. And she very much feared she was flushed. She was appalled at herself.

It wouldn't happen again, she reminded herself fiercely. She would never again play cards with James.

"Where have you been?" Amanda asked. "David and I have been looking all over for you."

For a moment, Juliana felt puzzled, but then she remembered the duke's name was David. How could she have forgotten the name of the man she expected to marry? And when had Amanda—proper, reserved Amanda—begun calling the duke by his given name? She expected to marry James, and she was still calling him Lord Stafford.

Nothing was right tonight. Nothing. Nothing was going well; nothing was happening as planned.

Her stomach hurt.

"We were playing cards," James explained, pulling the deck out of his pocket to prove it. "All of you went off, so we decided to go in the greenhouse where it was warm and play cards."

Nobody looked suspicious. Apparently it was a reasonable explanation. Nobody, after all—most especially nobody as innocent as Frances and Amanda—would think playing cards could possibly lead to what had happened tonight.

But although that was a relief, Juliana's stomach still hurt. She had to fix everything. Somehow, some way, she had to get James together with Amanda.

"I'm going to the Pevenseys' tomorrow night," she said as they all started walking toward the Stafford carriage. "For a musical evening. I hope you'll all want to come."

What she would do when they got there, how she would get James together with Amanda, she hadn't a clue. But just getting them there would be a start.

"I would love to attend a musical evening," Aunt Frances said as she climbed in.

"I would love to attend, too," Lord Malmsey agreed, following her.

"So would I," Amanda said and climbed in next, sitting across from them.

Juliana's stomachache began to ease. She climbed in herself, taking the opposite end of the seat from Amanda in order to leave space in the middle for James. She gestured to the duke, indicating the spot across from her. "I hope you'll come, too."

"Much as I would be delighted to spend the evening with you, my dear, I think I should go to Parliament," he said as he took the place by Amanda.

How annoying. How absolutely annoying. He was supposed to sit across from her and leave the space by Amanda for James. "I should think you would prefer to attend a musical evening," she said rather peevishly.

"I abhor musical evenings," he said, not peevishly in the least. And then he smiled down at her apologetically, and she realized he wasn't sitting in the space by Amanda, he was sitting in the space by her. Rather close, as a matter of fact, so she probably shouldn't be so annoyed.

He was falling in love with her. He called her my dear and sent her flowers. He needed her, and this close proximity would allow her to finally start teaching him to be affectionate. She scooted a little closer, so they'd be touching.

And that was when she realized she couldn't marry him.

She wasn't going to be a duchess.

They were touching, but she didn't find it the least bit enjoyable. She couldn't even imagine letting him touch her the way James had in the greenhouse. Now that she knew what love felt like, she knew she would never have those feelings for the duke.

She felt terrible. The duke was so nice, and he was falling in love with her, but she couldn't love him back. He'd suffered hurt and rejection throughout his childhood, and now she was going to reject him again. How could she tell him? How could she cast him aside without destroying him completely?

And what about Griffin? Poor Griffin. He was going to be so disappointed; he was going to have to start looking for a husband for her again. She obviously wouldn't be marrying this season—it would probably be another year at least. How was she going to tell Griffin?

James climbed in. "I abhor musical evenings, too," he said as a footman shut the door. He took the place across from her and settled back, his legs so long his knees touched hers. How annoying when she was immersed in trying to figure out a gentle way to break this distressing news to her brother and the duke.

James smiled at her as though he could tell she was annoyed. As though he enjoyed annoying her. "No man worth his salt would choose a musical evening over Parliament," he informed her.

"A Roman proverb!" Amanda exclaimed.

"It is not!" Juliana snapped.

"It is," Amanda said reasonably, sounding very bookish. "It alludes to the practice of paying Roman soldiers with rations of salt. Our English word salary comes from the Latin word salarium, which means salt money."

"She's right," the duke said. "'A man worth his salt' has been a proverb for centuries."

Obviously he was bookish, too. How absolutely annoying.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Lord Malmsey was the youngest man at the Pevensey residence.

"Where is everyone?" Amanda asked.

A rather inane question, considering the Pevenseys' drawing room was teeming with people. But all of them—save Lord Malmsey and a few doddering old men—were female. Remembering the way James and the duke had reacted to her invitation last night, Juliana sighed. "I collect most gentlemen would prefer to sit through Parliament than an evening of music."

"Except for Lord Malmsey," Amanda said.

"If it weren't for Aunt Frances, he'd probably be at Parliament, too." Indeed, Lord Malmsey had made a beeline for Frances the moment they'd walked in the door. The two of them were off in a corner, whispering, even now.

Whispering endearments, no doubt. Lord Malmsey was looking more and more in love—and more miserable that he had to marry Amanda—every day. Juliana wished more than ever that Lord Malmsey could cry off the wedding, but wishing didn't change the facts. It just wasn't possible, not if he ever wanted to show his face in society again.

Amanda clutched Juliana's arm. "I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

"My father," she said, looking even more miserable than Lord Malmsey.

If Frances knew Lord Malmsey was engaged, she'd look more miserable than both of them put together. Juliana's projects all seemed to be falling apart. She still hadn't figured out how to break the news to the duke or her brother. "What about your father?" she asked Amanda.

But before Amanda could answer, Lady Stafford waltzed up. "Good evening, Lady Juliana!" All smiles in contrast to everyone else, James's mother was accompanied by Lord Cavanaugh, who, while older than Lord Malmsey, at least wasn't in his dotage. "It's a pleasure to see you here."

"I adore music," Juliana said. "I was pleased to receive an invitation to Lady Pevensey's musical evening."

"This is your first season, isn't it?" Lord Cavanaugh asked dryly.

"Oh, hush," Lady Stafford said. "Lady Pevensey's musical evenings are always enchanting." She turned back to Juliana. "Are you attending Lady Hartley's breakfast on Sunday?"

"I haven't decided. I'm supposed to have a sewing party."

"Oh, you must attend—it's the event of the season. Everyone will be there."

"Including your sisters?"

"Without a doubt. I must tell you, my sisters are thoroughly enjoying your sewing parties. They haven't called on my son for an examination in two entire days."

"I have only four sewing parties left before the baby clothes are due." Three if she went to Lady Hartley's breakfast, which she might as well do if no one would be available to attend her sewing party anyway. "I told Lord Stafford his aunts would have less time to ponder their health if gentlemen were courting them, but he said they wouldn't be interested."

Lady Stafford flashed Lord Cavanaugh, who was courting her, a fond smile. "My sisters are older and set in their ways."

"I believe they're bored and need something to do. Something to get them out of their house after my sewing project is complete."

"Perhaps you're right, dear. They've been helping me renovate one of Stafford House's bedrooms, but that will be finished soon, too. I cannot imagine what else to suggest to occupy them after that. I've tried to talk them into redecorating their own house, but they won't hear of it."

Standing on the temporary stage she'd had erected in her drawing room, Lady Pevensey clapped her hands. "If you'll all take your seats, we're ready to begin!"

"I shall think about your sisters," Juliana promised Lady Stafford before turning to find a seat. "There must be something they would find diverting."

Frances and Lord Malmsey had seated themselves in the last row, so she headed toward the front in order to give them some privacy. After this afternoon's party, she had a hundred and fifty-seven baby items completed, which meant she needed eighty-three more. That hadn't seemed an impossible task, with four parties remaining—slightly more than twenty items per party. Perfectly reasonable, especially if she made a few by herself in between. But with only three parties…

"We need to talk." As she slid onto a first-row chair, Amanda grabbed her arm. "We cannot talk in the front, right in the faces of the musicians."

Juliana didn't want to talk; she wanted to listen. Though she normally spent hours playing the harp, all her projects had left her scant time for any music of late. But her friend looked panicked. "Very well," she said, walking around to take a chair in a middle row. "What do you need to tell me about your father?"

Amanda took the chair beside her. "I've received word that he'll be arriving in three days. Early Sunday evening." She clutched her hands together in her lap, perhaps to keep them from trembling. "He's coming to see to the final details of my wedding."

Juliana patted her on the arm. "We still have time—"

"No, we don't! It's scheduled for a week from Saturday, and—"

"Ladies and gentlemen," Lady Pevensey announced, "I'm honored to introduce our first guest musicians. Miss Harriet Kent will perform Mozart's Sonata in C Major on the pianoforte, accompanied by her sister, Miss Hillary Kent, on the violin."

The room fell silent while the Kent sisters minced their way to the stage.

"A week from Saturday," Amanda repeated, "and—"

"Shh!" someone hissed behind them.

Juliana laid a hand over Amanda's clenched ones. "Wait," she whispered.

Her friend waited, tense as the younger Miss Kent's bowstrings. When the lively notes of the first movement filled the air, she wasted no time before resuming their conversation in a lower tone. "My wedding is a week from Saturday. My time is running out. I need James to compromise me—I must try again to trick him."

"You must not!"

"Shh!" someone else hissed.

"You must not," Juliana repeated in a whisper. "That would be unethical and dishonest. We shouldn't have tried it the first time, and I won't try it again."

"We have no choice!"

"Shh!"

"Shh!"

"Shh!"

Juliana twisted in her chair to glance behind her. Several people were glaring. All women. A couple of the aging men were already nodding off. "Hush," she murmured, turning back to Amanda. "Of course you have a choice. You can choose to act warmly toward James. Once you become friends, he'll propose to you and agree to the compromise."

She was beginning to think it would never happen. Or maybe she was beginning to hope it would never happen. Because James would have to kiss Amanda before he proposed to her, and even though Juliana couldn't marry him, the thought of James kissing anyone but herself—let alone touching anyone the way he'd touched her—made her stomach hurt.

She leaned closer. "I have an idea," she whispered in desperation. She knew her friend would refuse. But she'd feel much better about abandoning the duke if she could offer a replacement, and Amanda didn't seem to want to kiss James anyway. "Would you like to marry the duke?"

"No!" Amanda looked horrified. "I told you I would never marry a by-blow!"

Whispers broke out behind them, and a few more people hissed "Shh!"

Juliana wished Amanda hadn't said by-blow quite so loud. "Whyever do you keep going off with the duke, then?" she pressed. "Why have you begun calling him David?"

"Well, he's very nice. I think we're becoming friends. But there's a big difference between a friend and a husband."

Juliana was disappointed but not surprised. She'd known all along that Amanda was going off with the duke only to avoid kissing James. "Maybe you should choose another man," she suggested. Plenty of gentlemen were still asking Amanda to dance at every ball. "At the Teddington ball on Saturday—"

"I want Lord Stafford. Besides, there isn't enough time to choose another man and expect him to propose."

"We have a little more than a week—"

"No, we don't. My father will be here Sunday, and for all I know he may not let me out of the house after that."

Drat. Her friend was right. Lord Malmsey could marry Aunt Frances only if Juliana saw to it that James kissed Amanda—and not as part of a plot.

That wouldn't be easy, because Amanda feared kissing. Her reserved nature caused her to cling to people she felt safe with, allowing her to avoid intimacy. If James was to have a prayer of kissing Amanda, Juliana would have to make sure there was no one besides him for her to cling to. Not herself, not Frances, and not the duke.

Especially not the duke.

Amanda gravitated toward him, knowing instinctively he would never try to kiss her, thereby averting the closeness she feared. If James managed to kiss Amanda even once, however, all of that would change. His kisses were so wonderful, Amanda would surely want more. Then one thing would lead to another, and before Juliana knew it, James would unbutton and propose.

Her stomach hurt like the very dickens.

She would have to get Amanda alone with James. It was the only solution. Exactly how she would accomplish this, she couldn't imagine. Amanda wouldn't agree to see a man without a chaperone, but perhaps Juliana could plan another group outing and then claim Aunt Frances felt ill. And she felt ill. And the duke felt ill.

Oh, bother. That would never work. It felt like there was a dagger lodged in her stomach. She'd figure out something tomorrow. Right after she figured out how she would finish eighty-three more items of baby clothes with only three sewing parties instead of four.

"Are you all right?" Amanda asked.

"Shh!"

Amanda lowered her voice. "Why are you clutching your middle?"

Juliana unfolded her arms and tried to draw a calming breath. Another moment and she'd have found herself curled up on Lady Pevensey's exquisite Turkey carpet.

"I'm fine," she gritted out, ignoring another chorus of Shh! "Just fine."

But although she normally loved music and the Misses Kent were more than proficient performers, Mozart didn't prove enjoyable tonight. And neither did the Handel or Beethoven that came after. She almost envied all the men who had gone to Parliament instead of to the Pevenseys'.

She should have stayed home. She needed to sew; she should have spent these hours stitching rather than listening to music. Even more important, she needed to discourage James's attentions so he'd turn to Amanda instead. And for that, she needed a few hours in the kitchen.

It was time to bring out her secret weapon: Miss Rebecca Chase's lemon slices.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

LEMON SLICES

Take a measure of Butter and one of Sugar and mixe them together with the grated rinde of two Lemons. Put in two Eggs and then Flower, a spoon of leavening, and a little Milk. Put in a loaf tin and Bake until it rises and turns golde. Make holes with a skewer and pour in the juice of two Lemons. Leave the cake until colde and then turn from the tin and cut it into slices.

The sour lemons will turn a man sour to your charms. I thwarted my grandmother's matchmaking scheme twice by serving these slices to the dratted suitors.
—Miss Rebecca Chase, 1695

For five days—ever since she'd come to his house and offered to volunteer—James had been thinking about getting Juliana alone in one of his treatment rooms.

One would have expected the interludes at the Panorama and the Physic Garden to have slaked his passions, but the opposite was true. He'd spent yesterday's session in Parliament woolgathering instead of listening. Overnight, he'd dreamed impossible dreams. This morning, as he'd shaved and dressed, he'd concocted a fantasy so lurid he knew it would never happen. But he'd been looking forward to trying.

Unfortunately, life was conspiring against him.

Juliana rushed in as the clock struck one. Juggling two baskets while she folded her umbrella, she made her way through his crowded reception room. "I'm sorry, but I cannot stay long. I've instructed the driver to come back in three hours. I've too much sewing to do." She paused and blinked. "What are you doing behind the counter?"

"Playing assistant while I interview for a new one," he said, frowning at the front of her dress. For the first time ever—in his experience, anyway—she'd filled in her low neckline with some sort of froufrou scarf, which was hardly conducive to his fantasies.

"Another assistant has left?" She came around to join him and set down her baskets. "Again?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Another one found herself with child." He shook his head. "It's an epidemic."

"I suppose you gave her fifty pounds?"

"Yes. She was much relieved, but now I need to find someone new. What did you bring me?" he asked, lifting the doily that covered one of the baskets.

"Fabric." Laughing at the look on his face, she pulled out a handful of white material and waved it under his nose. "Would you care for some? Appetizing, isn't it?"

He gave her a wry smile. "I thought maybe you'd made some sweets."

"I don't have time to bake. I barely have time to breathe." She sighed and delved into the second basket. "But I baked anyway. Have a lemon slice." After he took one, she shooed him toward the back. "Go vaccinate some of these people before even more show up, or else they'll have to stand out in the rain. I'll take over here, and I'll let you know if anyone promising comes in to apply for the position."

James went, finding the lemon slice delicious but grumbling all the way nonetheless. He'd never resented having too many patients before—the more people who agreed to be immunized, after all, the sooner smallpox would become a thing of the past. But he hadn't been picturing sniffling children in his treatment rooms all week, damn it…Juliana was supposed to have been there.

Without a stupid scarf hiding her charms.

Between sewing baby clothes, Juliana proved a model of efficiency, but he and the other physician could vaccinate only so fast. Nearly three hours passed before the number of patients dwindled to the point where everyone waiting had a seat. When Dr. Payton left and two more doctors arrived for the second shift, James heaved a sigh of relief and joined Juliana behind the counter.

A frown creased the area between her brows, and though her gaze flicked to meet his for a moment, it was soon back on the task in her hands. Her shoulders looked stiff and hunched. He stepped behind her to rub them, finding her muscles tense and knotted.

"Come into the back with me," he murmured. "I'll make you feel better."

"I cannot. The carriage will be here any minute, and until then I must keep sewing." Though her needle stabs seemed frantic and rather random, she was getting the job done. "Besides, we really shouldn't be alone, James. You know what will happen."

Of course he knew what would happen. He would tempt her, and it would work, which would eventually lead to better things. Though he knew it was only a matter of time before she realized that she, not Lady Amanda, belonged with him, he was beginning to get impatient.

He kept massaging her, firmly but tenderly, wondering why her taut muscles weren't relaxing with his ministrations. "Just for a minute," he coaxed. "Nothing will happen in just a minute."

In two or three minutes, however…

"Your afternoon assistant has yet to arrive," she said toward her handiwork. "We cannot leave all these people out here unsupervised."

She was right about that. He kissed the top of her head and sighed. "No luck finding a new assistant?"

"Have another lemon slice, will you?"

He didn't take one, because he didn't want to let go of her to do so. Touching her was much more appealing than sweets. And her tenseness wasn't easing, which was worrisome. "I'm not hungry," he said.

Now she sighed. "Your last assistant sent in a friend, but I didn't think you should hire her."

"Why not? Could the woman not read?"

She bit off the end of a thread and leaned away from him to reach into her basket for a spool, sighing again when he leaned with her. "Yes, she could read. But I feared she'd find herself with child before long."

His fingers stilled. "What?"

"You heard me." She pulled off a length of thread. "You've lost two assistants due to pregnancy already. Why do you think that is?"

Actually, he'd lost four assistants, not two—but he wasn't about to admit that now. "The water?" he speculated.

"Your generosity," she declared. "You're too nice, James."

"Pardon?" He relinquished her shoulders and walked around to face her. "How the devil can a person be too nice?"

"These girls are taking advantage of your generosity," she said, sticking the end of the thread in her mouth to wet it. He wanted that mouth on him. "They're getting pregnant on purpose. I'd lay odds that last girl sent her friend here with a promise of fifty pounds. You need to find someone older, someone more responsible."

"Older women aren't seeking work. They're busy raising children."

"I mean much older women." Having threaded the needle, she looked up, and he found himself lost in her greenish eyes. "Like your aunts."

He blinked. "My aunts?"

"Excuse me," she said, turning away to hand a number to a woman waiting by the counter with two children.

He hadn't even noticed they were there.

"You're number forty-two," she told the woman. "I'll call you when it's your turn."

She looked back to him, meeting his gaze again, making him think she wanted to say something. But she didn't. Her eyes went even greener. She swallowed slowly and then gradually seemed to go limp, like a marionette whose strings had gone loose.

The chatter of the waiting patients grew louder in their personal silence.

He whipped out a hand and pulled the scarf from her dress.

"Hey!" She snatched it back. "Whyever did you do that?"

"You're not acting like Juliana. And you don't look like Juliana—not with that silly scarf or whatever it's called."

"It's a fichu," she informed him primly, stuffing it back into place.

Juliana was never prim. Or so tense and emotionally distant. Wondering what could be ailing her, he skimmed his knuckles along her chin. "What's wrong, Juliana?"

Her jaw set. "Nothing."

"You're working too hard. You're exhausted."

She reached into one of the baskets and handed him a lemon slice. "Eat this, please."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat it," she demanded in a most un-Juliana-like way. Her gaze flicked to the door, where a footman in Chase livery had just entered. She waved to him, looking relieved. "My carriage is here. But your aunts are bored. They need something to do."

"They're both countesses, in case you've forgotten. They're not looking for employment."

"I'm not suggesting you pay them. Your mother told me they're enjoying my sewing parties, and even more significant, they've stopped calling on you to examine them. But I've only three more parties, and then they'll be bored again and back to their tricks. Unless they help you instead." She shoved the fabric, needle, and thread into the other basket. "Don't you see, James? They won't consider helping you to be employment or work; they'll see it as charity, an act of goodwill. And if they're busy helping here, they won't have time to fret about their health. They'll stop asking you to come examine them for one imagined ailment or another."

It was brilliant. In one fell swoop, Juliana might have solved both his problems, giving his aunts something to do and providing him with assistants who wouldn't find their bellies full of baby inside of a week. Or at all, for that matter. He'd never considered hiring women past their childbearing years.

Apparently Juliana's meddling really did help sometimes.

"How do you do it?" he asked. "How do you analyze what people need and put two and two together? Why are you so good at what you do?"

She shrugged. "I'm just attentive to the people around me."

It couldn't be that simple, that easy. "What if my aunts don't want to assist here?"

"They'll be thrilled at the very suggestion," she promised with a confidence that implied she positively knew. Which she very probably did. "Shall I ask them for you?"

"I can ask them. I'll stop by on my way to Parliament." When he reached to touch her arm, she flinched. A frisson of hurt took him by surprise, but then he reminded himself that she wasn't past her childbearing years, and if there was one thing he'd learned in his too-short marriage, it was that younger women were sometimes moody.

Although she'd never been moody with him.

"What's wrong, Juliana?"

"You're right. I'm exhausted. And overwhelmed. And the dratted lemon slices aren't working."

"Pardon?" He looked down to the uneaten slice in his hand and back up, horrified to see tears flooding her eyes. "What do lemon slices have to do with anything?"

"Nothing," she muttered. "I'm sorry." She inched around the counter and headed toward the door. "Eat the lemon slices, will you? All of them. I'll see you at the Teddington ball tomorrow. I must go home and sew."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

On Saturday evening, Griffin watched Juliana scan the Teddingtons' ballroom. "Where's Lord Stafford?" she asked.

"Shouldn't you be looking for Castleton?"

"He's in the card room, gambling away his fortune."

Griffin wondered why she sounded so disapproving. "Castleton isn't an inveterate gambler. He plays only to amuse himself."

She shrugged. "He only ever does anything to amuse himself."

"And you find this objectionable?" He narrowed his gaze. "Since when?" She was supposed to be in love with the man. Good God, had she changed her mind? "Do you not want to marry him anymore?"

She looked away. "He needs me."

"I should hope you'd want to marry a man because you need him."

She cocked her head at him. "Rachael says people should marry because they want each other, not need each other."

If men married all the women they wanted, he thought, polygamy would be the norm. "Has Castleton kissed you yet?"

"Would you want to hear about it if he did?"

He supposed he didn't; there was little more uncomfortable than thinking about one's sister in a romantic embrace. However, he knew Juliana well enough to know she wouldn't hesitate to give him the details in all their embarrassing glory, so he had to figure her answering his question with another question meant the prig hadn't kissed her yet.

He'd meant to have a talk with Castleton in his stables the next time the man paid Juliana a call, but he hadn't run into him lately. "I think I'll go play cards," he told his sister.

"Just don't lose thirty guineas."

Wherever had that caustic comment come from? he wondered as he made his way to the card room. He very rarely gambled, and never for ridiculous stakes.

Castleton was playing whist. "Yes?" he asked when Griffin walked up.

"I heard from my stableman yesterday. Velocity has been running well. You still want him, don't you?"

He shifted, tossing a card on the table without meeting Griffin's gaze. "Very much."

"Excellent. You might try kissing my sister."

Griffin turned around to see Rachael standing there, wearing a dress the same sky blue color as her eyes. It was very low-cut. She looked like she had a slight cold—her nose was a little red, her eyes a bit glassy—but that didn't make her any less alluring.

It was a good thing he didn't make a habit of marrying all the women he wanted, because he would have married her seventeen times.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"My sisters dragged me here tonight. And then I saw you walk into the card room." She glanced around at all the people uneasily. "I have something I'd like to ask you. In private."

"Let's find Lord Teddington's library."

"All right." She walked beside him from the room. "What does Velocity have to do with the Duke of Castleton kissing your sister?"

He hadn't realized she'd overheard that conversation. "I promised him Velocity if he married her."

"You promised him a horse for marrying Juliana?" Her glassy eyes looked incredulous. "How could you do that, Griffin?"

He looked away from her, turning down a corridor he hoped would lead to the library. "She wants to marry him. I want to see her happy."

"How happy do you expect she'll be when she finds out her husband married her for a horse?"

He peeked in an open door to find a music room. "Whyever would she find that out?"

"Maybe because I told her?"

"You wouldn't." He turned to her. "Tell me you wouldn't."

"I'm not sure I shouldn't."

"Rachael, tell me you won't tell her. It would only hurt her feelings."

"You should have thought of that before you made the offer." She stared at him for a moment while he shifted uncomfortably. "All right. I won't tell her. Unless she ends up engaged to the man, at which point I think it will be in her best interests to know, whether it hurts her feelings or not."

"Thank you," he said, not sure what he was thanking her for, since in all likelihood Castleton would ask for Juliana's hand and then Rachael would go running to her. But maybe not. And at least she wasn't running to her now.

They walked to the next room, but it turned out to be a small family dining chamber. "Whatever made you think of offering a horse for your sister?" she asked, continuing down the corridor.

He shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. I think I was a little foxed."

"Well, it's a good thing you're not a heavy drinker." She stopped before another open door. "Ah, the library." Taking a deep breath, she entered and walked over to a long leather sofa. She turned and sat carefully, folding her hands in her lap. "A few weeks ago you asked if I wanted you to help me find my father. I was wondering how you'd propose to do that. Seeing as he's dead, I mean."

Although he was relieved to be on a different subject, he hated to see her so apprehensive. Leaving the door open, he joined her on the sofa. "He might not be dead," he suggested.

"In the letter I found, Mama referred to herself as a widow."

"The letter could have been deliberately misleading," Griffin pointed out, and then, seeing hope leap into her eyes, hurriedly added, "although it probably wasn't. But in either case, I may be able to help you discover his identity."

"How?" She coughed, then sniffled. "Mama left no other letters that mentioned anything about an earlier marriage. Her parents died young, and after her sister died when I was but a child, she had no family left. She never even had any close friends other than your folks—Mama always kept to herself, do you remember? I wouldn't know where to start."

"Her things? Did she keep nothing to remind her of her previous husband?"

"Nothing at all. I went through everything when I cleaned out her rooms to ready them for Noah."

Noah, Rachael's younger brother, had recently come of age and taken responsibility for the earldom—a responsibility Rachael had borne on her own since the tender age of fifteen. Rachael was intelligent and competent. If she'd found nothing, there was likely nothing to find.

But now that she was willing to pursue the subject, Griffin didn't want to give up so easily. "Perhaps you missed something. Or saw something but didn't recognize it as a clue."

She looked dubious. "There was nothing, Griffin."

"Would it hurt to look again?" If he could judge by her expression, it very well might. "I'll go through your mother's things with you," he offered. "I might notice something you missed."

She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. "All of Mama's things are at Greystone," she said on a sigh, referring to her family's country estate. "Perhaps we can go through them at Christmas."

As much as Rachael clearly wished to put this off, he couldn't bear to see her unhappiness last until Christmas. It was so against her nature. "Christmas is six months away—"

"I'll think about it," she said, standing suddenly. "I'm not feeling well. I'm going home."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Aunts Aurelia and Bedelia had been thrilled when James asked them if they might help out at the Institute. They'd arrived at New Hope to be trained first thing after breakfast Saturday morning and taken to their tasks with great enthusiasm, running his reception room with a precision he hadn't witnessed since his stint in the military. As a result, James had vaccinated more patients in a day than he usually did in three.

At four o'clock, before his aunts departed to ready themselves for the Teddington ball, he'd penciled their names on his schedule, careful to make sure their assigned shifts wouldn't overlap and run him ragged. Then he'd gone home to change, decided to rest his feet and close his eyes for just a moment, and awakened four hours later.

By the time he dressed and left, it was past ten o'clock. He arrived at the ball very late and a tad grumpy. When Occlestone happened to swagger by the door as he walked in, his piggish nose high in the air, it took everything James had not to snarl. But he knew he'd feel better after sharing the day's success with Juliana, assuming she was no longer moody.

Unfortunately, Lady Amanda buttonholed him before he could find out.

He hadn't even been announced yet—he'd barely handed his things to the footman manning the cloakroom—when she approached him, wringing her hands. "Lord Stafford, where have you been? One of Lady Teddington's guests is terribly ill."

Absurdly, he noticed she wasn't wearing gloves. And she looked quite distressed. She was usually so cool and aloof, he couldn't imagine her caring enough about anyone's illness to appear so troubled. She seemed to have no close friends, except for—

"Is it Juliana?" he asked, his heart suddenly beating double time.

"No. Let me show you to her." Bypassing the ballroom, she hurried him down a corridor.

"It's another lady, then? What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know." She turned into a room and swung to him so fast he all but bumped into her. "Kiss me," she said, and then, throwing her arms around him, she pressed her lips to his.

Addled, he froze for a stunned moment. When his wits began returning, he seemed to have only enough brainpower to marvel that he'd never before kissed a woman and felt nothing. Or rather, something—her stiff, closed lips were mashed against his, after all—but nothing good.

Coming to his senses, he pushed her away. "What in blazes do you think you're doing?"

"Kissing you!" Her cheeks were pink; her chest heaved. "Have you fallen in love with me yet?"

"What?"

"Juliana said that after I'd kissed you, you'd fall in love with me. Have you?"

"Hell, no." She was a very lovely girl, even more lovely now that she was a little lively for once. Her blue-gray eyes were sparkling.

But he loved a girl with hazel eyes.

"Where is Juliana?" He glanced around, his own eyes widening. "Good God, this is the ladies' retiring room." The chamber was strewn with reticules and other feminine belongings. Screens in two corners most likely hid chamber pots—but he wasn't about to make his way over and find out. "It's a miracle no one else is in here. Someone could appear any minute."

"I know."

"Ladies tend to visit in bunches. Any number of guests could have seen us kissing!"

"I know."

"You know? You know?" He grabbed her by an arm and took a step back, and then another, and another, until they'd returned to the momentarily deserted but very public corridor. "Have you any idea what could have happened had we been caught?"

"What I was hoping would happen?"

"What you were hoping—" He broke off as the truth dawned on him. "You and Juliana planned to trick me again, didn't you?" The accusation came through clenched teeth. "I'm going to kill that meddling little chit."

Was it just yesterday he'd decided her meddling was actually helpful?

"She didn't meddle," Lady Amanda said, her eyes flooding. "It was my idea this time. All my idea. She refused to help me. She said it would be unethical."

"Damn right it is!" What was it with ladies crying in his presence? Yesterday Juliana, and now Lady Amanda. Was the female race unified in their efforts to cut him to pieces?

A tear overflowed and ran down her cheek, slicing him even more. "Why can't you just agree to kiss me, then? You want to, don't you? You've been courting me for weeks."

"I most certainly have…"

Not. He'd meant to say not. But the word wouldn't pass his lips. Good God, he abruptly realized, he had been courting her for weeks. Or at least it must have seemed that way to her. He'd sent gifts and asked her to dance and—

Suddenly he needed to sit down. But there were no chairs in the corridor, and he seemed to have lost the strength to propel himself to another location. He leaned against the wall instead. "Well, that is…"

How could he explain it? Although she and Juliana had certainly been wrong to trick him, what he'd done was just as bad in its own way. His actions had implied he was interested in Lady Amanda, so he could hardly be surprised she'd come to that conclusion. He'd had no right to mislead her in order to achieve his own ends with another woman.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I—"

"My father will be home tomorrow afternoon," she interrupted in clipped tones, clearly impatient with his half-assed efforts to explain himself. "For all I know, he may not let me out of the house again before my wedding. However will I escape marrying Lord Malmsey then?"

"Escape…what?" He blinked. "Your wedding? I don't understand. What on earth makes you think Lord Malmsey would marry you? He's in love with Lady Frances."

"Well, he offered for my hand before he met Lady Frances. And my father is going to make us marry, unless—"

"You're engaged?" he interrupted. "To Lord Malmsey?"

It was beyond his comprehension. All the time Juliana had been trying to match him with Lady Amanda, the woman had been engaged?

"We're to be wed a week from today. And the only way I can get out of it is if I'm caught with another man." She grabbed both his hands. Reserved Lady Amanda grabbed his hands, and she wasn't even wearing gloves. She was that desperate. "Could you please just cooperate?"

A better man would. A better man would make amends for his actions by following through. But he couldn't.

He just couldn't.

Two women entered the corridor, heading for the ladies' retiring room. He pulled his hands from Lady Amanda's and lowered his voice. "I cannot," he said. "I'm sorry, but I cannot cooperate. I cannot marry you. I'm in love with another woman."

He turned and stalked back to the cloakroom, unsure whether he was more furious with Lady Amanda for trying to trick him again, Juliana for trying to match him with an engaged woman, or himself for misleading them both. All he knew was he was in no state of mind to socialize. He wanted to go home.

"James!" he heard as he passed the ballroom.

He turned to see Juliana, a cautious smile on her face.

Cautious? Juliana? Was this another one of her mercurial moods?

"How did it go with your aunts?"

"Fine," he said shortly.

Her smile disappeared. "Is something wrong?"

"Your friend tried to trick me again. Your engaged friend."

"Oh." Her face went white. "Dear heavens. I can explain—"

"I'm sure you can, since you always have a plan to fix everything. But I don't want to hear it tonight. I'm going home."

Still deathly pale, she hesitated a moment.

She hesitated. Juliana hesitated. Confident, self-assured Juliana.

"All right," she said at last. "Can we discuss this tomorrow at Lady Hartley's breakfast?"

"I don't think so. I have more important things to do than attend a silly breakfast." The Institute would be closed since it was Sunday, but perhaps he'd work on the account books. Or clip his nails. Anything would be better than wasting half the day smiling at people he didn't care about. He'd never enjoyed garden parties or balls—he attended them only to placate his mother and, more recently, to see Juliana.

But he didn't want to see Juliana. Or more precisely, to have her see him. To face her in a tent full of nosy spectators.

Hell, he couldn't even face himself.

CHAPTER FORTY

After James left, Juliana returned to the ballroom, furious and intending to find Amanda.

Before she had a chance, Amanda found her.

"Whom?" the older girl asked, tears spilling from her red-rimmed eyes. "Whom is Lord Stafford in love with?"

"I told you not to try to trick him again! And why on earth did you tell him you're engaged?" People were gawking at them, so Juliana hurried her to a corner of the ballroom where they could talk behind a potted palm. "Now he'll never agree—" She stopped short, finally registering Amanda's question. "What makes you think Lord Stafford is in love with anyone?"

"He told me! I kissed him, and then—"

"You kissed him?" A stab of jealousy took Juliana by surprise. Or, all right, to be honest, she wasn't surprised. But it certainly felt bad and very wrong. "What did he do then?"

"He pushed me away. You said he would fall in love with me, but he pushed me away!"

The jealousy faded as quickly as it had flared, replaced instead by elation. Unmistakable, jubilant elation. Juliana had never felt more buffeted by uncontrollable emotions, and she wondered how she could feel so exultant when Amanda was clearly so desperate. But she couldn't seem to help herself. Amanda had kissed James, and he'd reacted by pushing her away.

She must be a bad, bad person, because she wanted to scream with joy.

"I asked him if he'd just cooperate," Amanda continued with a pathetic sniffle, "and compromise me so my father would have to let me marry him. But he said he couldn't, because he's in love with another woman." She heaved another prolonged, woebegone sniff. "Who is it?"

"I don't know," Juliana said. It wasn't a lie. She had her suspicions, but she didn't know.

James had claimed he would never fall in love with anyone. While he'd certainly never pushed her away, no declaration of love had passed his lips. He'd never called her my love or even my dear. He'd never sent her flowers. And he'd seemed very angry that she'd deceived him regarding Amanda's engagement.

"I don't know," she repeated, looking away.

Because although she didn't know, she couldn't help hoping…

Her gaze wandered the ballroom, past Lord Malmsey dancing with Aunt Frances. Had her meddling doomed them both to despair? Even if James did love her and eventually forgave her, how could she ever be happy with him while she knew other people she cared for were miserable?

And then there was the duke…

Having at last emerged from the card room, he stood gazing at her, a heated look in his eyes. He'd never looked at her with that sort of expression before. Just her luck, now that she'd decided she couldn't marry him, he'd finally decided he wanted her.

Amanda shifted uneasily beside her. "Why is David looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" Juliana asked. Then she blinked. And stared.

Dear heavens, the duke wasn't looking at her at all, let alone like that. He was looking at Amanda. Like that. Could the duke love Amanda?

Amanda?

Well, why not? she suddenly realized, glancing back and forth between them and recalling all of their interactions. Honestly, it was amazing she hadn't considered the possibility much earlier. The duke and Amanda were two peas in a pod. Two perfectly round, blemishless peas, with about as much passion between them as one would expect from a pair of legumes.

The duke and Amanda were ideal for each other. Absolutely ideal. He related better to Amanda than he ever had to her. Amanda's cold upbringing had matched his own, after all. The two of them understood each other.

She turned back to face Amanda. "It's a shame you won't marry a by-blow, because that would solve everything."

Amanda bit her lip. "I would marry a by-blow if the by-blow was the duke," she said meekly.

Juliana gasped. "Are my ears deceiving me? Did you just say you would marry the duke?"

"You were right all along." Instead of looking down at her feet as she used to, Amanda met Juliana's eyes. "He's not to blame for his parents' mistakes, and he's kind and a good man."

"Then whyever did you say no last night? With such vehemence, no less?"

"You want to marry him yourself. You've been trying so hard to help me. The last thing I want to do is repay you by stealing your intended. You're such a good friend."

"You're a good friend, too." Juliana took Amanda's hands. "I don't want to marry the duke. I want you to have him instead. Wait here," she added, squeezing her fingers before she released them. "I'm going to make it happen."

As she walked toward the duke, she couldn't help noticing that his blond, pristine handsomeness matched Amanda's pale beauty precisely. If he didn't realize they belonged together, she would see that he soon did.

Coming to a stop before him, she looked up into blue eyes as bland as Amanda's. "You're not in love with me," she said. Although he'd claimed he was falling in love with her, it was a statement, not a question. "You're in love with Lady Amanda."

"I wouldn't go so far as to call it love," he demurred. "But I hold her in some affection."

Juliana supposed it was the most Amanda could ever expect, since it was the most the woman could give herself. Neither of them possessed enough emotion for anything stronger.

"Would you like to marry her?" she asked.

He hesitated, but only a moment. "Very much. Even though she doesn't come with a horse."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. I would definitely like to marry her. Unfortunately, I understand she's engaged to another."

"She told you that?" Juliana asked. But obviously, Amanda had. While Juliana and James were kissing, Amanda and the duke must have been talking. "We can fix her engagement," she said. "But first you need to ask her for her hand."

The duke nodded gravely.

"It might help to tell her how you feel," she advised as she walked him toward Amanda, thinking him the sort of man to forget that. "You may want to exaggerate a bit."

After delivering him to her friend, she backed away and watched from afar as he and Amanda conducted a conversation that looked more like a business discussion than a proposal. In the end, when Amanda nodded, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

It seemed an auspicious beginning. Maybe after a year or two they'd progress to kissing on the lips.

Perhaps within a decade they'd make a child.

The negotiations complete, they summoned Juliana. In the course of the next half hour, the three of them came up with a plan. After church tomorrow, they would all attend Lady Hartley's breakfast party, where, at precisely three o'clock, Amanda would be caught in the library with the duke, her dress unbuttoned down the back.

Amanda blanched when Juliana suggested the last bit, but they all agreed it was necessary to assure her ruin. By the time Amanda's father arrived that evening, her compromise would be a fait accompli. He would have to allow her to marry the duke.

"Will you ask Lord Stafford to help 'discover' us?" Amanda asked.

"No. He told me he won't be in attendance." Juliana thanked goodness for that, because he'd never approve of their plot. "But I'm sure plenty of other people will come running when I call, so there's no need for him to be involved."

With any luck, James would never hear about what happened at all.

And after all was said and done, if she was fortunate enough to learn he loved her, she would never—never ever—meddle again.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

In his study at Stafford House the next day, James pushed aside his paperwork and sighed.

Sometime during the sleepless night, the hot fury had settled into a coldness deep inside him. Cornelia had the sniffles. He'd passed the morning in a haze, hoping she'd decide she was well enough to leave for Lady Hartley's breakfast. When she finally did, he'd sat down at his desk, added the same column of numbers three times, and come up with three different answers.

He couldn't concentrate. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Juliana had been hiding Amanda's engagement from him for all the time since they'd met. He'd thought he knew her.

But then again, he'd thought he knew himself, too. And when it came right down to it, his disappointment in himself was much harder to swallow.

True, Juliana had done wrong. But she was a meddler, and he'd known that all along. Sometimes her scheming worked—with his aunts, for example—and sometimes it didn't.

Everyone made mistakes, and as bad as her actions had been, his own had been no better. He was hardly in a position to judge. They'd both been playing games. His games had hurt Amanda, and Juliana's games had nearly saddled him with an unwanted wife.

But he loved her nonetheless. He loved every scheming, meddling inch of her. Should he be fortunate enough to marry her, he would gladly put up with her antics for the rest of his life.

And he, for one, was finished playing games.

Decision made, he pushed back from the desk, summoned his valet, and went to his newly renovated bedroom to change. The red-and-yellow-striped bedroom he hoped to share with Juliana.

It was time to buy her roses.

Only the cream of society held "breakfasts" in the afternoon.

Beneath a tent in Lady Hartley's garden, the breakfast was well underway when James arrived just before three o'clock. As he scanned the several hundred guests seated at round tables, searching for Juliana, Lord Occlestone rose from one nearby.

"You owe some lady an apology, Stafford?"

James glanced down to the flowers he held, a dozen red roses. "Something like that." In his carriage between the florist's shop and Lady Hartley's, he'd unwrapped and nervously dethorned them. Now, rewrapped in the crumpled paper, they didn't look like much.

"I missed you in Parliament all this week. Or rather, I didn't miss you."

"I was there Thursday," James said mildly, still searching the crowd. He had more important things to do than bicker with Occlestone.

"Oh, yes, you were there Thursday. How could I have forgetten your arguments regarding your ridiculous notion that we should return the Elgin Marbles to Greece rather than purchase them for the British Museum?"

"It's a matter of morality," James snapped. "We have no right—"

"Where the devil is my daughter?" another gentleman cut in.

Grateful for the interruption, James turned to him, then blinked at his stern demeanor. "And your daughter is…?"

"Lady Amanda Wolverston," Occlestone answered for him, clapping the man on the shoulder. "Good to see you at long last, Wolverston. What has it been, two years? Three? We Tories have sorely missed your voice of reason."

While Lady Amanda's father muttered something about excavating antiquities on his property, James looked him over. He was rather short, with fair hair and beady, pale blue eyes. His mouth was compressed and turned downward, and deep lines on either side gave the distinct impression such a frown was his habitual expression.

He didn't look the least bit pleasant. Poor Lady Amanda. The thought of Wolverston as a father-in-law would make any man think twice before proposing to the unfortunate girl.

A flash of yellow caught James's eye. Juliana, leaving the tent. "Excuse me," he said quickly and moved to follow her.

He reached the garden just in time to see her enter the house. Wondering what could possibly compel to her to go into a house during a garden party, he crossed the threshold just in time to see her reach the other end of what seemed an impossibly long corridor. From there, best he could tell, she turned and stole into a room.

He hurried after her, composing apologies in his head, desperate words spilling from his brain in a rhythm that matched the cadence of his rushing feet.

Juliana, I shouldn't have judged—

Juliana, please listen—

Juliana, I love you—

Reaching the end of the corridor, he opened what he hoped was the right door and stepped into a library. As he quietly shut the door behind him, his mouth fell open.

It had been the right door. Between two deep red velvet curtains, Juliana stood facing a window, a dark silhouette against the light. Her dress was unbuttoned all down her back, and the bodice had slipped down her arms, revealing a slim column of tempting skin.

"Juliana," he gasped softly.

She turned and stepped forward, her hair glinting the palest blond.

It wasn't Juliana.

"Lord Stafford!" Lady Amanda's cheeks flushed bright red. She swiftly jerked her dress up to cover herself, but not before he glimpsed an oddly shaped birthmark on her left breast. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" Had he entered the wrong room? What had happened to Juliana? "Fix your clothes, will you?"

"I—I cannot!"

She was clutching her bodice for dear life, unwilling to let go in order to button her dress. Vaguely wondering how she'd managed to unbutton it in the first place, James stalked across the room to fasten it for her.

The door opened and closed again. "What are you doing here?" the Duke of Castleton asked in an exceedingly stuffy manner.

The ass. "Buttoning the lady's dress," James spat, stating the obvious. "What are you doing here?" The paper-wrapped roses tucked under one arm, his fingers awkwardly worked up Lady Amanda's spine as quickly as possible.

But not quickly enough. Before he was anywhere near finishing—before Castleton could even open his mouth to answer James's question—the door flew open once more, and a flood of people poured in.

Led by Lord Occlestone.

"How dare you preach morality to the House of Lords, Stafford."

James's fingers fell from Lady Amanda's buttons, and the roses fell, too. He scooped them up. "This isn't what it looks like."

Occlestone's squarish nose went into the air. He'd never looked more like a pig. "I doubt the lady's father will agree."

"My father is here?" Lady Amanda squealed.

"Lord Wolverston is looking for you. I shall fetch him forthwith."

"Please don't," she said quickly, but he was already gone.

The onlookers turned as one to watch him, then broke out in excited whispers.

"Gracious me," Lady Amanda breathed, slowly turning to face James. "What an unpleasant man."

The woman was a master of understatement. Unpleasant, indeed. James hadn't missed the smirk on the man's face. Occlestone was enjoying this tiny bit of revenge.

And unfortunately, the revenge could turn out to be far more than tiny.

Lady Amanda's gaze darted about the whispering crowd. "What are we going to do?" she asked in a low, panicked tone.

"Nothing. There is nothing we can do." His instincts said to run. But escape was impossible. Alerted by Occlestone, Lady Hartley's guests were arriving in droves, filling the doorway, cramming the room. He could only be grateful his mother and aunts weren't among them. So far, anyway. Perhaps they'd all come down with the sniffles and gone home.

A long velvet curtain swished behind him, and he turned, shocked to see Juliana step from behind it. "What the devil is going on here?" he asked.

Her gaze swept the fascinated bystanders, then settled on him as though they were the only ones there. "I'm so sorry." She did look sorry, not that that did any good. "We'd planned for Lady Amanda to be discovered with the duke."

James swung to Castleton in disbelief. "You were party to this? You willingly—"

"Yes," Castleton interrupted stiffly, but before he could explain anything, more people streamed into the room—Cornelia and her sisters among them, damnation—as Lord Wolverston arrived with a roar.

"Stafford, you will pay for this!"

James's stomach sank. He'd never been formally introduced to Amanda's father—in fact, he'd never even laid eyes on the man until a few minutes earlier. But he wasn't surprised to find that Wolverston knew his name. Occlestone would have supplied him with all the lurid details as the two of them made their way from the tent to the library.

He should have run.

Although he was no taller than his offspring, Lord Wolverston was commanding in his fury. "You will wed my daughter in place of Lord Malmsey. Next Saturday, as planned."

A buzz filled the room. Gasps of surprise and astonished whispers. It seemed Lady Amanda's betrothal had been a well-kept secret.

"No!" she cried. "This is all a mistake!"

Her father turned to her, his jaw clenched. "A serious mistake indeed, young lady." He swung back to James. "I'll expect you at Wolverston House at noon with a special license."

James's gaze flicked to his horrified mother before he nodded. There was nothing else he could do. Having been witnessed buttoning Lady Amanda's dress at an event attended by half of the ton, he had no choice but to comply or lose all honor.

"What if Baron Malmsey still wants her?" someone shouted over the babble. "Will you deprive him of his betrothed bride?"

"I would never go back on my word." Lord Wolverston craned his neck, searching the crowd. "Malmsey!" he bellowed. "Do you still wish to wed my disgraced daughter?"

Someone pushed Lord Malmsey forward. "I—I—" he sputtered. A meek man to begin with, he seemed to have shrunk into himself. "I—"

"The baron doesn't want her," Wolverston said.

Well, of course he didn't. He wanted Lady Frances.

"She must wed the earl," Wolverston concluded, suddenly sounding less discontented. In fact, if the man were possessed of a more pleasant demeanor, James suspected he'd have looked positively delighted.

"Please, Father!" Lady Amanda begged. "This isn't fair! Father, you must listen! You must reconsider—"

"There will be no reconsidering." Lord Wolverston grabbed her by the arm, making her wince. "We're leaving."

"Please, Father!" she wailed as he dragged her through the crush. "Pleeeease!"

It was a wail James feared he would hear the rest of his life.

Literally.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

As Lady Hartley's guests followed the Wolverstons from the room like rats mesmerized by a piper—except in this case they were riveted by Amanda's dramatic pleadings—Juliana watched Lady Stafford push through them in the other direction.

"James!" she cried, throwing her arms around him.

He held her for a few seconds, but then extricated himself. "Please go, Mother. Take Aunt Aurelia and Aunt Bedelia back to the tent. I'll talk to you in a few minutes."

She looked to her sisters, who were standing there with their mouths open, and back to him. "But, James—"

"Go. Please. I need to talk to Lady Juliana."

As they departed, leaving the two of them alone, he turned to her.

She felt like she hadn't breathed in the last five minutes.

And like she might never breathe again.

She thought she should cry, but she felt numb. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what she could say. All the words seemed to have been sucked right out of her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. It was all she could manage.

James only nodded.

She'd never seen him look so pale, so lifeless. Not even when he'd been deathly afraid of Emily's snake. The very sight of him in that state made anger rise in her, which finally loosened her tongue.

"Lord Occlestone should be shot."

"I may not like the man," he said wearily, "but others followed us in here as well. Lady Amanda's father would have found out one way or another. Occlestone isn't to blame for this."

"I know. I'm to blame. But I'll fix it."

She had to fix it.

James's lips quirked to form something that might have been a sad smile. "You cannot fix everything, Juliana. But the fact that you never stop trying…well…it's one of the many things that made me fall in love with you."

There was no way she could live with herself if he had to marry Amanda. "I can fix this, and I will," she reiterated. "I have to." And then she froze. "One of the many things that made you…what?" She held her breath again, but for an entirely different reason, and then her gaze dropped to his hand. And her breath went out in a rush. "You brought roses."

He glanced down, as though he'd forgotten he was holding them. "They're a bit worse for the wear."

They did look a tad bedraggled. "But they're red roses."

"There aren't many of them. I couldn't easily carry more than a dozen. Not two dozen like we ordered for Lady Amanda, and compared to what Lord Malmsey sent to your aunt—"

"They're red roses." He wasn't handing them to her. "Are they for me?"

Abruptly, he held them out. "Who else could they possibly be for? For what other woman in all of London—nay, in all of the world—would I buy and dethorn red roses? Bloody hell, I must've nicked myself twenty times."

"You said you would never fall in love again." She grabbed the flowers and held them tight to her chest, the paper crinkling, their sweet scent wafting to her nose. "Oh, James, I love you, too."

He held out his arms, and she bolted into them, and he held her close, the bouquet crushed between them. And then the tears that wouldn't fall finally did, because really, it was just too much.

And too late.

He'd brought her red roses. She'd been hoping he loved her, but now that she knew he did, her meddling had ruined everything.

She was going to fix it, but for now she couldn't stop weeping. Couldn't stop sobbing. Couldn't stop.

"Hush," he murmured while her tears wet his waistcoat. And, "hush," while they soaked through to his shirt. And finally, "Do you know what I hate even more than snakes?"

She shook her head, rubbing her nose in the damp warmth.

He put a finger under her chin and lifted it, until her eyes were forced to meet his. "A woman's tears," he said. "I swear to God, sweetheart, they make me feel more helpless than anything."

"I'm sorry," she said, and she was. Sorry for crying, and sorry that made him uncomfortable. But mostly sorry James loved her and she loved him and everything was such a mess.

"Hush," he said one last time, and then he lowered his head and kissed her, a little soft kiss. And another one. And yet another, but it wasn't soft, it was devouring instead.

Juliana stopped crying, because she didn't want to upset James anymore. Or maybe it was because his kisses were such a distraction. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned into him, and threaded her fingers into the dark curls that spilled over his collar. Everything was wrong, but this—this one thing—was heartbreakingly right.

She was in love.

She couldn't remember ever being so happy and so sad all at once.

"I'll fix this," she said when he finally allowed her to draw breath. "We have five days before Saturday."

He smoothed her hair back from her face, her dratted, slippery hair. "Five short days."

"Five and a half," she whispered, inhaling his scent, starch and soap mixed with roses. She wanted to hold that scent inside her. She hugged him tighter, wishing she didn't have to let go.

But she did have to. At least for now.

"Five and a half," she repeated.

It would have to be enough.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The next day, Juliana paced around the drawing room while she waited for her guests to arrive for her one o'clock sewing party.

"I cannot concentrate." Seated at her easel, Corinna dabbed a bit of gray on the underside of a cloud. "I know you're going to make me sew all afternoon, so for now, will you please sit down?"

Juliana sat and stabbed her needle in and out of a little white nightshirt. For about a minute. Then she rose and began moving again, the nightshirt dangling from her clenched fingers. "There must be some way to fix this. It's disastrous for everyone involved."

"Aunt Frances doesn't think it's a disaster," Corinna pointed out.

That much was true. Although Frances had been shocked to learn Lord Malmsey was engaged, he'd managed to talk his way back into her good graces before Juliana even had a chance to help. In fact, last evening she'd returned to the tent in Lady Hartley's garden to find him proposing on bended knee—a proposal Aunt Frances had joyfully accepted.

But the fact that the two of them were thrilled hardly mitigated the disaster that had come of all her plotting.

She and James were devastated. The duke was devastated. No doubt Amanda was devastated, too, although Juliana hadn't seen her since last night. Lord Wolverston had taken his daughter straight home—proclaiming loudly, according to several eyewitnesses, that she wouldn't be seen again in public before she was a wife. Juliana had received an apologetic note from Amanda this morning, explaining that she wouldn't be able to attend any more of her sewing parties and her Aunt Mabel wouldn't be there, either.

Apparently, Lord Wolverston, having been less than impressed with his sister's chaperoning proficiency—or rather, her lack thereof—had given her such a lecture that she'd gone straight to bed with the asthma and expected to remain there for the week.

Out in the foyer, the knocker banged on the door. A few moments later, Adamson came into the drawing room with two letters for Juliana.

"Thank you," she said, breaking the seal on the first one and scanning the short message. "Drat!"

"What is it?" Corinna asked.

"Rachael cannot come today. She has a cold." She opened the second letter, her eyes widening as she read the words. "Double drat!"

"What now?"

"James's aunts are ill, too. And his mother. How in heaven's name am I going to make twenty-five items of baby clothes today with only you and Alexandra, Claire and Elizabeth, and Aunt Frances?"

Working feverishly in every free moment, Juliana had managed to complete seven garments on her own between her last sewing party and today, but she still needed to collect seventy-six pieces of baby clothes during just three more parties. That was more than twenty-five per party, and today she would have six fewer women contributing.

"In the scheme of things," Corinna said, "I should think those baby clothes are the least of your troubles."

"You're right." Ordering herself to stay composed and keep things in perspective, Juliana plopped down on the sofa and resumed sewing. Her gaze went to the bedraggled red roses sitting in a vase on the mantel. They looked nearly as droopy as she felt. "James's forced betrothal to Amanda is much more distressing."

"Perhaps Lord Wolverston has calmed down by now," Corinna suggested. "Maybe if Amanda explains that it was all a misunderstanding, he'll reconsider."

"I don't think so. For all his bluster, it was clear he was well satisfied to see her catch an earl in place of a lowly baron." Juliana's needle dropped from her fingers. "That's it!"

"What's it?" Corinna tilted her head, perusing her work in progress.

"If the Duke of Castleton offers to marry Amanda instead of James—"

"Her father would refuse, wouldn't he?" She dabbed at the cloud some more. "Isn't that why you plotted her compromise in the first place?"

"But everything's different now. Lord Wolverston wouldn't be breaking his word or breaching a contract. At this point, he only wants to see his ruined daughter wed and off his hands, and after all, if an earl is better than a baron, surely a duke is better still." It was so simple, Juliana wanted to kick herself for not thinking of it on the spot. All this worry could have been avoided. "Why on earth would he refuse?"

Corinna shrugged and dipped her brush. "Your logic seems sound, but Amanda thinks her father is unreasonable."

"I'll bake some wafers, then, just in case." According to the recipe in the family cookbook, wafers were reputed to have a calming effect and help make one reasonable. "But I cannot imagine why he would refuse."

"Well, then, I'm certain he won't. You always know best, after all."

Since Juliana obviously didn't always know best—as proven by last night's disaster—she found her sister's sarcasm somewhat annoying. But she was sure Lord Wolverston wouldn't refuse. The man would have to be an idiot to reject a duke as a son-in-law.

Five minutes later, Juliana was on Amanda's doorstep, explaining her new plan. "Why on earth would your father refuse?" she concluded.

"I cannot imagine." Amanda's eyes had been dull with despair, but now they shone with hope. "I wish he were home so we could ask him right now."

"The duke must be with us, in any case. Your father is a stickler, after all, so the duke will need to formally request your hand. And Lord Stafford should be in attendance as well, to confirm he agrees with the proposed solution. When will Lord Wolverston be home?"

"I'm not privy to his schedule. But I heard him instruct the cook to prepare roasted duck for his dinner, and he always insists on dining at precisely six o'clock."

"Perfect. I'll send a footman with notes to summon Lord Stafford and the duke, and we'll all be here at half past six."

"He won't take callers in the middle of dinner."

"Do you know for certain he'll stay home afterward?"

Amanda shook her head.

"Then inform your butler beforehand that we're expected. That way he won't go to your father to ask his permission." Juliana started down the steps, then turned. "Oh, bother. I'm sure Lord Stafford is at the Institute, but I have no idea where to send a note that will reach the duke."

"He'll be at his club," Amanda said, "playing cards."

"Which club?"

"White's, of course."

"Of course," Juliana echoed. She wasn't surprised to learn the duke belonged to a Tory establishment—he was the embodiment of the word conservative. What was surprising, however, was that Amanda knew where to find the man, while she didn't.

Despite expecting to marry him, it seemed she'd never really known him at all.

"Are you sure you're not upset that David loves me?" Amanda asked suddenly and rather warily. "I know you wanted to be the duchess."

While she wasn't sure the duke actually loved Amanda, Juliana shrugged. "No, I'm not upset. I believe the two of you belong together." Truer words were never spoken. "Um…if I told you I'm the woman Lord Stafford loves, would you be upset about that?"

"Gracious me," Amanda said, "you can have him. The man's chilly as a Gunter's ice."

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

WAFERS

Rub Butter into Flour with some small amount of Salt. To this put Cream and Honey and roll out until very thin. Cut into small rounds and put them in your oven and eat them hot or cold.

A very simple treat, these have a calming effect. My grandmother used to serve them to my grandfather to make him reasonable.
—Anne, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1764

Even with a flurry of activity, Juliana's afternoon had passed excruciatingly slowly. Despite the heroic efforts of her five guests, her sewing party had added only eight items to her stockpile, well short of the twenty-five she'd been hoping for. But she hadn't been able to prolong the gathering past her usual four o'clock stopping time, knowing the men would be arriving at quarter past six.

She'd shooed everyone out of the house and hurried to the kitchen to make the wafers. When the sweets came out of the oven, she donned her most modest dress—a white one—and applied just enough cosmetics to look fresh and innocent. Then she paced around the drawing room until Corinna grew irritated enough to set down her paintbrush and summon her maid to accompany her for a walk.

She hadn't meant to drive her sister away from the house. But all the same, she couldn't help but be a little pleased that she'd be able to explain her plan to James and the duke without enduring Corinna's usual caustic asides.

James arrived first. She hurried him into the drawing room, giving him the details as they went.

"Then Lady Amanda can marry the duke," she concluded, "which will leave you free to—" She clamped her lips shut. While James had proclaimed his love, he hadn't made an offer of marriage. "Why on earth would Lady Amanda's father refuse?" she added instead.

"I don't know." Sounding hopeful but maybe also a bit hesitant, he glanced toward the open door, then shrugged and drew her into his arms. "But I pray he won't, because Lady Amanda isn't the woman I wish to wed."

She laid her head against his chest, savoring his warmth, hoping she was the woman he wished to wed instead. Wishing he could be hers forever.

He would be hers forever. "Lord Wolverston won't refuse," she said firmly. "He'd be an idiot to reject a duke as a son-in-law."

"My confident Juliana." James tilted her chin up, and she found herself captured in his intense chocolate gaze. Something fluttered in her middle as he lowered his lips to meet hers.

He brushed her mouth with aching tenderness, then settled there, deepening the kiss. His hands skimmed down her sides and found hers, lacing their fingers together, squeezing tight. There was something different about their kisses now that they'd admitted their love, something possessive, something more meaningful.

Something she knew she'd never find with any other man.

"Ahem." They broke apart to find the duke standing in the doorway. "Your note said you have a plan?"

Though she blushed wildly, she kept one of James's hands in hers. "Yes," she said and quickly explained, finishing with "Why on earth would Lady Amanda's father refuse?"

"He shouldn't," the duke said stiffly, his disapproving gaze on their clasped hands. "He won't reject me as a son-in-law. He'd have to be dumber than a box of hair to do that."

Juliana and Castleton were both sure Lord Wolverston wasn't stupid enough to reject a duke. And James had silently agreed with them—until they arrived in the man's dining room and he greeted them with all the warmth of an icicle.

"I don't recall issuing dinner invitations."

Lady Amanda set down her fork. "They're not here for dinner, Father."

"Excellent. Then I'm certain they'll have the good manners to leave."

"No, they won't." In all the weeks James had spent in Lady Amanda's company, he'd never seen her look so resolute. "The Duke of Castleton has something to ask you, Father."

"I don't choose to listen." Lord Wolverston leisurely drained his wineglass before setting it down. "Hastings, see these people to the door," he said and began to rise.

"No!" Amanda jumped from her chair and pushed him back down. "You will sit here and listen."

He gazed at his suddenly assertive daughter as though she'd grown an extra head. "Since when—"

"Lord Wolverston," Juliana interrupted, holding forth her basket. "If you're finished with your dinner, would you care for a sweet? I baked wafers this afternoon."

He stared at her as though she had three heads. "Ladies don't stoop to the level of kitchen maids."

An awkward silence filled the room. Even stuffy Castleton seemed discomfited by the man's attitude. But he stepped forward. "My lord," he said formally, "I assure you that my wife—my duchess—will never step foot in a kitchen. I would like to request the honor of your daughter's hand in marriage."

"My daughter is marrying Lord Stafford," Wolverston replied stiffly. "This Saturday." He rose again. "Now I expect you all to leave before I have to see that you're thrown out."

"Father!" Tears sprang to Lady Amanda's blue-gray eyes. "The Duke of Castleton is proposing marriage. A duke, Father! Surely you cannot refuse him!"

"I can, and I will." He looked to Castleton. "When next I see you at White's—this evening or another time—we shall pretend this interview never occurred," he said and turned to leave.

"No, we shall not." Castleton strode around the table and stood blocking the man's way to the door. "I wish to wed your daughter, and she wishes to wed me. If you've a valid reason to object, I want to hear it."

Wolverston hesitated a moment while his expression shifted to something resembling stone. "You don't want to hear it," he finally said mildly.

"I demand to hear it," the duke insisted through gritted teeth.

James had to give Castleton credit. In contrast to Wolverston's expressionless expression, the ass had never looked less reserved in his life. In fact, he looked formidable—and rather like he was preparing to strangle the older man.

Until he heard the next words from Wolverston's mouth.

"Very well, then." Calm, emotionless words. "I once had a liaison with your mother. Thirty-three years ago, to be precise. I fear you may be my son."

Juliana's basket dropped from her hand to the floor while the man pushed past Castleton as though the duke were about as substantial as a piece of paper.

"I expect you'll find that to be a valid reason for me to object to your marrying my daughter," Wolverston added as he went out the door.

For the next few moments, silence reigned.

"He didn't eat my wafers," Juliana finally whispered. "They were supposed to make him reasonable."

"They wouldn't have made a difference." James wrapped an arm around her shoulders—an arm that felt heavy as lead.

He glanced from her stunned face to the others. Castleton no longer looked formidable; instead, he looked as though he might crumple like that piece of paper. Lady Amanda had crumpled. In the shocked silence that had followed her father's confession, she'd folded back onto her chair and lowered her head to her lap.

"Gracious me," she breathed now, the words muffled in her skirts. "I cannot marry my brother."

"He said I might be his son," Castleton pointed out. But his voice sounded defeated.

"You and Amanda's father are both blond and blue-eyed," Juliana observed wanly.

There was no need for her to point out that Lady Amanda had blue-gray eyes and blond hair as well. Or that everyone had always known his natural father hadn't been the Duke of Castleton. The expression on his face made it clear he was all too aware of those facts.

He shifted uneasily. "Hair and eye color are hardly proof of paternity," he mumbled, sounding less sure of himself by the moment.

But it was more than coloring. Now that the possibility had been raised, James realized Castleton looked much more like Wolverston than the man's daughter did. It was something in the line of the jaw, something in the tilt of the head, something in the length of the nose. Something about the stiff carriage and the lack of stature.

Something twisted in James's gut.

"The thought of you two marrying now…" Swallowing hard, Juliana put a hand to her middle. "It makes me feel slightly ill."

"It makes me feel very ill," Lady Amanda muttered into her lap. She slowly lifted her head, looking very ill indeed. Avoiding Castleton's eyes, she gazed unfocused at James. "We shall have to marry—"

"There's still Lord Malmsey," Juliana cut in.

She was grasping at straws, and broken ones at that. His gut now sinking as well as twisted, James moved to face her and took both her hands. "Lady Amanda can no longer wed Lord Malmsey, my love. She's been publicly disgraced. Under the circumstances, Lord Malmsey is perfectly within his rights to terminate the engagement, and furthermore, he wishes to wed Lady Frances. You wouldn't want to see him ripped from your aunt's side, would you?"

She shook her head, tears glazing her suddenly green eyes. "No," she whispered.

He gathered her close, knowing it would be for the last time. Much as he hated tears, he wanted to cry with her. He would cry with her if he could.

But he felt dead inside. Sinking and twisted and dead.

There was no way out. He had to marry Lady Amanda.

He had to marry Lady Amanda.

He had to marry Lady Amanda.

No matter how many times he repeated the fact to himself, it seemed impossible to believe.

Impossible to accept.

But he had to.

Slowly he released Juliana, thinking it was the hardest thing he'd ever done…

…but not as hard as it would be to say "I will" to someone else.

"I'm going home," he said. "I'll be back Saturday at noon."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHOCOLATE CREAM

Take a Quart of Cream, a Pint of white Wine, and a little Juice of Lemon; sweeten it very well, lay in a sprig of Rosemary, grate some Chocolate, and mix all together; stir them over the Fire till it is thick, and pour it into your cups.

Chill your cups in ice before serving. A delicious cure for melancholy.
—Belinda, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1792

"Why are you so sad, Lady Juliana?"

"I'm not sad, Emily." Sad was much too mild a word to describe how Juliana felt the next day. "You're doing very well. Keep mixing."

The little girl looked up from the cast-iron stove in Juliana's basement kitchen. "You look sad." Stirring with one hand, she stroked the snake draped over her shoulders with the other. "Herman, don't you think Lady Juliana looks sad?"

Juliana half expected the reptile to answer, considering nothing else in her life was going as expected. A talking snake would be less of a surprise than Lord Wolverston's revelation last night.

And James's reaction to it.

He'd left. He'd held her for a moment, but then he'd left. He'd apparently come to the conclusion that he had to marry Amanda, and accepted it, and just…left.

By all appearances, he had no intention of discussing this tragedy. He'd said he'd be back on Saturday. He'd made up his mind, and he wasn't planning to see her again until he was a married man.

If then.

She sighed and began grating chocolate into the triple batch of cream and sugar that Emily was stirring in the pot. "I haven't seen you in quite a few days, Emily."

"A new family moved in across the square. Lord and Lady Lambourne. And they have three children. Three girl children."

Another surprise. Juliana usually knew everything that went on in Mayfair. Evidently she'd been a tad preoccupied of late. "What are the girls' names, then?"

"Jane, Susan, and Kate. Susan is just my age."

"That must be lovely for you." She kept grating. "And what do the Lambourne girls think of Herman?"

"Oh, they find him bang up to the mark," Emily said enthusiastically.

Usually Juliana would have smiled at the girl's use of the newest slang. But she was too dejected. Not to mention this news didn't bode well for the success of her project to rid Emily of the horrid creature.

Emily stirred faster. "You're putting an awful lot of chocolate in, aren't you?"

"One can never have too much chocolate," Juliana said.

So what if she'd added twice as much as usual? She needed chocolate. Her mother had always said it was supposed to cure melancholy, and she'd never been more melancholy in her life.

How was she supposed to go on when the man she loved was marrying another woman? When four people's lives had been ruined? When it was all her fault?

Emily had stopped stirring. "You're crying," she said. "You are sad."

"I guess I am." Setting down the chocolate and the grater, she forced a smile. "I think we're finished here."

"What's wrong, Lady Juliana?"

What wasn't wrong? She couldn't marry the man she loved. She'd doomed him to a dreadful future with a woman reserved beyond belief, a future full of chess and antiquities and very little else. She was exhausted and overwhelmed—she hadn't slept last night at all—and somehow, some way—God only knew how, and apparently He wasn't telling—she had to produce sixty-two items of baby clothes in the next three days even though she'd made less than three times that many in the last month and a half.

"What's wrong?" She could barely push the words through her tight throat. "Everything, it seems."

"Is it about Lord Stafford?"

She blinked. "What makes you think that?"

The girl rolled her big gray eyes. "It's obvious you like him. I've known that for ages. And he likes you."

How ironic that the truth had been obvious to an eight-year-old but not to herself. Then again, Emily always had been rather precocious for a girl her tender age. "Well, he doesn't seem to want to see me right now."

"Then you must go see him. You have to talk to him. You cannot just stand here and mope. You have to do something, Lady Juliana."

Dear heavens, Emily was right. Juliana had never before just stood by and let things happen without trying to influence the outcome, and she couldn't imagine what had made her do so now. Melancholy, she supposed. But she couldn't allow melancholy to rule her.

Thank goodness she was making chocolate cream.

"Oh, you dear, dear child." She dashed the tears off her cheeks and wrapped Emily in a hug. "I'm supposed to be helping you, but you're helping me instead."

"Are you going to go see Lord Stafford now?"

"Not right now. I sent notes asking all the ladies to come sew today even though I've never held any parties on a Tuesday before. They'll be here in less than an hour, and I cannot get to the Institute and back in that short time." Dear heavens, James would be at Parliament by the time her sewing session was finished. "I shall have to go see him tomorrow. You'll stay for the sewing party, won't you?"

"Is there any more cutting to be done?"

"No. The cutting is all finished."

"Then I'm going to play with Jane, Susan, and Kate." When Juliana opened her mouth to protest, Emily held up one of her small hands—the one that wasn't stroking her snake. "You don't really want me to sew, do you? I'm sure to end up bleeding."

No, Juliana didn't want Emily to bleed. The mere thought of that made her feel sick. And the last thing she needed now was to spew a stomachful of chocolate over a stack of her hard-won baby clothes.

"Go ahead and play with the Lambourne girls. You have my blessing."

"Can I eat some chocolate cream before I leave?"

"I need to put it on ice first to make it cold. I'll bring you some tomorrow."

Emily helped her transfer the sweet pudding into three dozen cups before she departed to visit her friends across the square. After that, Juliana had just enough time to steal upstairs to her bedroom and wash her blotchy face before her guests arrived. She brushed on a little powder and went down to seat herself in the drawing room. As she picked up her sewing and Corinna kept painting without comment, she congratulated herself on how calm and composed she must seem.

Rachael was still ill, and now Claire and Elizabeth were, too. As were Lady Stafford and Lady Balmforth. Lady Avonleigh was feeling better, though, and she arrived first.

"Oh, my dear," she cried, "I'm so sorry." And she rushed across the room to enfold Juliana in her arms.

Juliana rose from the sofa and let herself be comforted by James's aunt. Except the embrace wasn't comforting. The harder Lady Avonleigh hugged her, the harder she had to fight to keep the tears from falling again.

"I wanted you to marry my nephew," Lady A murmured, tears in her voice, too. "I wanted you to be my niece."

"I wanted you to be my aunt. I wanted Lady Stafford to be my mother." It seemed forever since she'd had a mother, and Juliana knew no one warmer or more motherly than Lady Stafford. She shuddered in Lady A's arms, inhaling camphor and gardenias. "There has to be something we can do."

"Our James doesn't believe there's anything to be done. But if anyone can think of something, it's you, my dear." Lady Avonleigh pulled back and wiped the moisture from Juliana's cheeks with gentle fingers. "You keep thinking, and I will, too."

"Thank you," Juliana said wanly.

She was about to say something more, but then Aunt Frances came downstairs, and Alexandra arrived, and Corinna reluctantly abandoned her painting and came over to join them all and sew. And the talk turned to Frances's pending marriage and Alexandra's burgeoning belly. Not that Alexandra's belly was actually protruding yet, but she kept rubbing the dratted thing as though she could feel the baby inside, which made Juliana insanely jealous.

Yes, jealous.

James had been wrong when he'd said she was jealous before—when she'd first learned of Alexandra's pregnancy—but she was jealous now, because God only knew when she'd have a child of her own…the way things were going, probably never. And now Aunt Frances was talking about having a child. In her mid-forties! While Juliana doubted that would actually happen, she had to admit it was a possibility, since Frances still complained about her monthlies on a regular basis. She wondered if she'd have a child before forty. Probably not. But all the talk around her was happy talk, so she gritted her teeth and forced another smile and kept sewing, because they all had been kind enough to help her make baby clothes, and there was nothing more she wanted than for everyone to be happy.

But the smile wasn't just forced, it was downright rigid.

She rang for chocolate cream, but eating it didn't seem to help. The conversation flowed around her. Lady Avonleigh got up and wandered over to Corinna's easel, admiring her latest painting. "Very impressive, my dear."

"Thank you," Corinna said.

Alexandra smiled as she plied her needle. "Did you know Corinna plans to submit a painting to the Royal Academy next year?"

"Several," Corinna corrected. "I'm hoping one will be accepted for the Summer Exhibition."

"Really?" Lady A mused. "I did tell you my younger daughter was artistic, yes? Though it seemed unlikely, she always hoped to see one of her paintings in the Summer Exhibition, too. But her real dream was to be elected to the Royal Academy."

"That's my dream as well," Corinna said. "I know it won't be a simple matter, but I'm willing to work hard for the honor."

The older woman measured her for a moment, then returned to sit beside her. "I want to help you," she announced. "My daughter never attained her dream—I want to see you attain yours."

Aunt Frances knotted and snipped off a thread. "How can you help her?"

"I don't know, but I'll think of a way." Lady A picked up the little cap she was making and smiled at Juliana. "You're good at coming up with ideas. If you wouldn't mind helping, maybe together we can see that your sister becomes the next female member of the Academy."

That would be wonderful for Corinna. And of course Juliana wouldn't mind helping. She needed another project. It would be a lengthy project—it would likely take years—but keeping busy would make it easier to bear her and James's despair.

Well, not really. But she'd find a solution for their despair soon. She would talk to James tomorrow.

Damnation—make that dear heavens—she was not going to cry.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

There were different ways of dealing with the blows life randomly chucked at some people. James's method—perfected during the years he mourned his brother, father, wife, and newborn child—was to bury himself in work.

Since Sunday he'd been operating in a blur—a dark, painful, all too familiar haze. The miasma had lifted momentarily on Monday, when it had seemed Juliana's plan might succeed. But since learning the truth of Castleton's birth, the dark had closed in again.

James couldn't say that what he faced now was worse than coping with death. Of course it wasn't worse. But it didn't seem better, either. Like loving Juliana compared to loving Anne, it was different.

Death was final. One mourned, one grieved, one eventually moved on. But what he faced now…it wasn't final—it was forever. It was a life sentence. It seemed so arbitrary, so accidental, so damned unfair.

And so bloody damned inescapable.

And so he'd worked. Because it seemed there was nothing else he could do.

He knew what he couldn't do. He couldn't abandon a fine young lady to a life of utter disgrace. He couldn't condemn himself to a future devoid of all honor. He couldn't make sense of anything in his irrational, haphazard world.

But he could work.

He could work at the Institute to save the world from smallpox. He could work in Parliament to better his country. He could work on his estate to improve the lives of those who depended on him.

He couldn't help himself, and he couldn't help Juliana. But there were other people he could help. Right here, right now, his work was the only thing that seemed to make sense.

One thing James knew—probably the only thing he knew for sure—was how to bury himself in his work to the exclusion of everything else. To the exclusion of everything painful. And so on Tuesday he'd risen at dawn and spent the entire day at the Institute. And the entire evening in Parliament. And then he'd gone back to the Institute and stayed there until the wee hours, finding things to do, until he could go home and fall into bed and get up and start all over again.

Today he'd risen at dawn and returned to the Institute, even though he had two physicians scheduled and wasn't really needed. There was no Parliament tonight, so he'd stay here until the wee hours, finding things to do, until he could go home and fall into bed and get up and start all over again.

He'd do the same tomorrow and Friday. Saturday would be a little different—there would be an interlude in the middle for his wedding. But then he'd come back here to the Institute and repeat the pattern again.

It wasn't an unbearable life. At least he had a purpose. And he was keeping himself so busy he didn't have time to think. Thinking threatened his mental health, and the busyness was a sort of medicine—a medicinal ointment he could smear all over everything to obscure the ills infecting his world.

The medicine, sadly, was an imperfect cure. As the Bible said—Ecclesiastes, if he remembered right—"Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savor." Despite countless Sundays in church, he'd never quite understood what "stinking savor" was supposed to mean. But to put it another way, in simpler words, there was a fly in the ointment.

And the fly was women.

Women always—always, always—wanted to talk. Not the superficial talk of men—talk of news and the weather and horses—which didn't make one think. Men's talk could substitute for busyness. But women's talk was different. Because women didn't just talk.

Women wanted to discuss things. And discussions required him to think. Which in turn sent forth that stinking savor he was striving so hard to avoid.

If only he could avoid women.

Unfortunately, that was impossible, since approximately half the world's population was female. There was his mother, always wanting to discuss things. There were his assistants, always wanting to discuss things. The stinking savor was everywhere, threatening to make him think, bombarding him with stinking thoughts.

Since Aurelia was his only healthy relation, she was this morning's assistant and therefore his current threat.

"There must be something that can be done, James, something we haven't considered."

"There's nothing, Auntie. Would you hand me that box of sugar sticks?"

"Certainly." She reached to the shelves behind the counter. "But there must be something," she said, handing him the box. "We need to talk."

"I've got an Institute to run. I don't have time for a discussion."

"We'll have to talk later, then. I've promised to help Lady Juliana sew this afternoon, and then I was planning to stay home and nurse Bedelia this evening. But I suppose I can sneak out and meet you at Almack's."

"I won't be attending Almack's." If there was a place in London where the stinking savor was most prevalent, it had to be Almack's. And besides, the last thing he needed was a marriage mart. In three short days he'd be married.

Damnation, his pending marriage was the worst thought of all. He wasn't even really having a discussion, and yet Aurelia was making him think stinking thoughts.

Gritting his teeth, he turned from the counter. "Fifty-two! Follow me, please." A mother rose with her three little girls. Four more talking females. He led them to a treatment room as quickly as possible.

He walked another set of patients to the door and brought more patients to the room they'd just vacated. He restocked sugar sticks in all three treatment rooms. He unwrapped lancets and other supplies. He scribbled in his account books and revised next week's schedule. He returned to the reception room to fetch more patients.

"You're not needed here," Aurelia said. "You're not leaving me anything to do."

"Just keep handing out numbers. And smiling at patients. They appreciate the reassurance."

"You should go home, James. You've got dark circles under your eyes. Before you need a physician yourself, you should go home and rest."

Home? Where Cornelia was languishing in bed waiting to discuss things? "I think not." The door opened, and two people went out past another person waiting to come in. "Here comes another patient. You can give her a number." In fact, maybe he'd do that himself. Handing out numbers didn't require one to think. Turning away, he reached over the counter for one of the worn paper squares.

"You're number sixty-seven," he said as he turned back. "I'll call you when…Juliana…"

His voice trailed off, sinking along with his heart.

"James." Walking closer, she offered him a tentative smile, a sad smile, a smile that made his heart keep sinking until it dropped clear down to his toes. "We need to talk."

Oh, no. "Have you thought of a solution?"

"Not yet. We need to think together. We need to discuss—"

"There's nothing to discuss. Nothing will come of it, Juliana. What's the point?" It would make him think. It would make him think stinking thoughts.

"Can we go somewhere private?"

"I don't want to talk."

"Please, James." Her eyes were green, deep green, green and pleading. "Please, let's just go to a treatment room."

"James," Aurelia said softly, "your patients are staring. Take her to a treatment room."

Women. If only he could avoid women. "The treatment rooms are all in use."

"Take her to your office, then," Aurelia pressed.

"Don't you think that would be improper?" he asked his aunt, and to Juliana he added, "Don't you think Lady Frances would disapprove?"

"Bosh," they said in unison.

"We've been together in private before," Juliana reminded him, no doubt referring to not only a treatment room here at the Institute but also a secluded, lantern-lit pocket garden, a secret hideaway under a staircase, a warm cubby inside a greenhouse. "I didn't hear you protest then."

He hadn't been trying to avoid thinking then.

"It's not as though you're likely to ravish her," Aurelia pointed out. "You're marrying another woman."

There it was. That word marrying. A stinking thought. And he wasn't even having a discussion.

He gave up. "Very well," he said, "but there's nothing to discuss."

He hurried Juliana into the back, determined to avoid a discussion. There was only one way he knew of to do that. One way to avoid stinking thoughts.

He tugged her into his office, shut the door, and crushed her mouth with his.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a kiss born of frustration, of disillusion, of fury and pent-up lust. It was a kiss meant to distract, a kiss meant to devour. It was a kiss full of hurt and regret and indelible, immeasurable emotion.

A kiss that consumed them both.

Juliana's arms went around him. Her lips parted under his assault, her mouth warm and sweet and tasting of passion and promise. She smelled not of a stinking savor but of sunshine and flowers and everything he desired. He didn't think; he just felt. He just felt Juliana, and she felt impossibly wonderful.

Bodies straining, they fell together to the desktop that filled most of the tiny office. Papers flew. Buttons unbuttoned. Fingers skimmed, hearts pounded, skin prickled with delicious heat. He wanted her more than he wanted life, needed her more than he needed to breathe.

"Juliana," he choked on a shuddered sigh.

She sat up. "We cannot do this."

"We cannot not do this." He sat up, too, and brushed silky strands from her troubled eyes. "We cannot keep our hands off each other."

"You're right, but it's wrong." She slid from the desk, suddenly pale, her fingers shaking as she reached behind herself to fasten buttons. "We must talk—we must figure out—"

"We cannot change anything." Still sitting on the desk, he turned her around so he could button her dress for her. Between his spread knees, her hips felt warm through her thin dress, her back like silk beneath his fingers. "We cannot talk, not without touching, and we cannot touch, because that's wrong, and—" He swore under his breath and buttoned faster. "This is why I didn't want to see you until after Saturday."

"You were right." He heard tears in her voice, those blasted tears that seemed to rip him up inside. "I cannot see you again until after you're married, until after—"

"Don't say it." He couldn't stand that word married. After he was married, he'd never feel her warm body again. "I cannot bear to hear it."

"I'll go home," she said, trembling. "I have to make fifty-two more items of baby clothes by the day after tomorrow." Her voice wobbled. "Your mother is still ill, and so are Lady Balmforth and Rachael and Claire and Elizabeth." Her tone rose in pitch. "That leaves only Alexandra and Lady Avonleigh to help me, Corinna, and Frances, and of all of us, your aunt is the only decent seamstress."

He turned her to face him. "You're going to kill yourself, Juliana." Her chin was wobbling, too. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "You cannot sew in the state you're in. The Foundling Hospital can make do with a few less clothes."

"I promised. A Chase promise is never broken—have I ever told you that before, James? It's been our family motto for centuries. I have to make fifty-two items of baby clothes, even though I'll never have a baby."

"Is that what you're thinking?" He didn't know which ripped him up more, her tears or her line of thought. "You'll have a baby, Juliana." He pulled her close and felt the warm tears dampen his half-buttoned shirt. "You'll have a baby with another man."

"I don't want another man's baby," she whispered.

"You say that now, but you will." Another man would love her. Another man would make her his. Another man would join his body with hers and give her a child.

Those were among the most stinking thoughts he'd ever had, ever.

He'd known he shouldn't think.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

For two days, Juliana had done little but sew baby clothes morning, noon, and night, but she still needed to complete thirty-three more pieces by the end of the day.

She didn't know how she was going to do it. Her sisters and Aunt Frances were sewing almost as much as she was, but none of them were very speedy or talented. Lady Avonleigh had helped them all morning, but James had needed her this afternoon at the Institute. And everyone else was still ill. Recovering—and thank heavens for that—but not yet strong enough to spend hours plying a needle.

Her fingers ached. Her vision was blurring. And she didn't have bad eyes.

"You're crying," Alexandra said sympathetically.

"I'm not. I think I must be catching everyone's sniffles."

"In your eyes?" Corinna asked with a smirk.

Alexandra nudged her. "I think Juliana needs chocolate."

"I'm not hungry." She hadn't felt much like eating the past couple of days, not even chocolate. "There are still cups of chocolate cream left, if you want some," she said, and that was when she remembered. "Oh, drat."

Aunt Frances looked up. "What's wrong, dear?"

Other than a dearth of baby clothes and the man she loved marrying another woman tomorrow? "I promised Emily I'd bring her chocolate cream. Three days ago."

"Take her some, then," Frances said. "The fresh air will do you good."

She couldn't spare the time. Could she? "Maybe I will," she decided. It would take but a few minutes. She set down her sewing, fetched two cups from the kitchen, and walked next door to knock on the Nevilles' door.

Their gaunt butler answered. "Yes?"

"I've come to call on Miss Neville."

"I fear Miss Neville isn't available."

"Is she playing with the Lambourne girls?" The fresh air did feel wonderful. Maybe she'd fetch three more cups and walk across the square to introduce herself. It would take only a few more minutes—a few more minutes she wouldn't be sewing in a melancholy fog.

"I'm afraid not, Lady Juliana." The old retainer looked mournful. "The poor child is in bed."

"In bed?" It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and Emily was well past the age for napping. "Is she ill?"

"Not yet, but she will be. The Lambourne girls came down with smallpox today."

"Smallpox!" Her heart suddenly beat double time. "Has Miss Neville not been vaccinated?"

He shrugged his thin shoulders. "I'm only the butler, my lady."

"I'd like to visit with her, if you please."

The butler, who was pock-scarred himself, eyed her smooth, unmarked skin. "She may be contag—"

"I've been variolated, so I cannot catch smallpox. Please show me to Miss Neville."

Juliana heard Emily's sobs before she even entered the room. In her bed, the girl was buried beneath a mountain of blankets. A fire blazed on the hearth, and the windows were closed and draped, making the chamber dim and stiflingly hot. The air smelled slightly of vomit.

And a man held Emily's arm over a small bowl with her blood dripping into it.

Juliana gulped convulsively. Her mouth felt dry, her breath came short, and her stomach clenched, making her fear she might vomit next. It was silly, and it was stupid, but she couldn't help herself.

She walked closer, forcing herself to focus on Emily's tear-streaked face. "Dear heavens, what is going on here?"

"The doctor is hurting me!" Emily wailed. "I want Herman!"

Her heart pounding, Juliana set the chocolate cream on the bedside table and smoothed Emily's hair back from her brow, seeing no sign of pocks. "Surely she hasn't fallen ill already?"

"Not yet," the doctor said. "I'm preparing her for the disease."

"Preparing her? I think not."

"She must be purged and bled and blistered. The procedures will help her body withstand the infection."

"They will not!" James didn't believe such things. "They will only weaken her." Juliana's gaze jerked back to the bowl of red fluid, and her head swam. She quickly looked away, but not before noticing the doctor's hands appeared none too clean. James wouldn't approve of that, either. He thought cleanliness helped prevent infection. "Please leave. Bandage Miss Neville's arm and—"

"Lord Neville sent for me—"

"Well, I'm sending you away!" Where was Lord Neville, anyway? Did he have any idea what this man was doing to his daughter?

"You have no authority—"

"I have every authority," Juliana lied. She squared her shoulders. "I'm Lady Neville, and I order you to unhand my daughter and leave at once."

She could hardly believe those words had come out of her mouth. And even more than that, she could hardly believe the doctor believed her.

But he did.

"Pardon me, my lady. My apologies." He set down the bowl and dug in his bag, removing a cloth. "I assumed you were naught but a visitor," he explained hurriedly as he pressed it to the cut he'd made in Emily's arm.

"That will teach you to make assumptions," Juliana said tightly, moving to hold the cloth in place. "Hush, Emily," she soothed. "You're going to be fine." At least she hoped Emily would be fine. She had no idea whether the girl might come down with smallpox, but she was certain the doctor's ministrations were of no help. "You may send a bill to Lord Neville," she instructed him, "but I'll thank you to leave now."

She kept herself busy tying the bandage while the doctor quickly gathered his things and left.

"I want Herman," Emily said as soon as he cleared the door. She struggled up to a sitting position and motioned toward a terrarium in the corner. "G-get me Herman. P-please."

Juliana walked over to the glass box, sighing as she reached in to lift the reptile. She'd never actually touched him before, and it really wasn't the thing for ladies to handle snakes. But Herman felt drier and warmer than she'd expected, and she smiled to see the little girl relax as he settled around her neck.

"Th-thank you," Emily breathed. Her sobs had diminished to shuddering sniffles. "I c-cannot believe that doctor be-believed you were my mother."

"I cannot believe it, either," Juliana said dryly. Honestly, she'd have had to have given birth at fourteen for Emily to be her daughter. Apparently the doctor thought she looked either very old or very fast, neither of which made her very happy.

But she was extremely happy he'd left.

"I don't want to get smallpox, Lady Juliana."

"Of course you don't. But I don't believe what that doctor was doing would prevent it."

She had a sinking feeling there was nothing that could prevent it other than luck, but there was someone who would know for sure. Someone who knew more about smallpox than anyone else in London.

"I'm going to send for Lord Stafford," she said. They'd agreed not to see each other until after tomorrow, but really, she had no choice. Emily's health was at stake—maybe even Emily's life. "Wait here while I write a note and give it to one of your father's footmen." She started out the door. "No, make that one of my brother's footmen," she amended. The Neville staff was so old, it would be tomorrow before one of them managed to shuffle to the Institute and back. And besides, she needed to send a note next door in any case, because they'd be wondering what was keeping her so long.

A few minutes later, she returned and peeled all the blankets off Emily. She banked the fire and drew back the curtains and opened the window. Gritting her teeth, she took the little bowl of blood and dumped it into the bushes outside, then rinsed it with water from Emily's washstand and dumped that out, too. When all that was finished, her heart calmed a little and her stomach felt much better. She dragged a chair to Emily's bedside, found a book, and read aloud for more than an hour until James arrived.

When the butler showed him to the room, he paused in the doorway and looked at her. Just looked at her, like he was drinking her in.

"Juliana," he said softly. He looked tired and disheveled, his hair tousled and his neckcloth askew. He'd probably donned that and his tailcoat in his carriage on the way from the Institute.

Her chest ached at the sight of him. "I know we said we wouldn't—"

She cut off, noticing his gaze had shifted to Emily. And Herman. A moment ago his heart had been in his eyes, but now those eyes were glazed, and he looked very much like she'd felt when she'd seen Emily's blood. Like his pulse was thready and his stomach was clenched.

Which was very probably true.

"Emily," she said carefully, rising from her chair, "you need to give Herman back to me now. I'm going to put him in his box until Lord Stafford is finished."

"No!" Emily clutched the olive green snake. "I want to keep him."

"Emily—"

"The other doctor took him, and then he hurt me. I want to keep Herman!"

"Emily—"

"It's all right," James said, looking pale as paper. "She can keep him." He drew a deep breath and looked back to Juliana. "Your note said she was ailing?" His gaze flicked to Emily's bandage and back again. "Did she hurt her arm?"

"Not exactly. The other doctor bled her. She's been exposed to smallpox, and—"

"Where? When?" He walked closer to the bed, seemingly unafraid of the snake. Except his hand was gripping the handle of his leather bag so tightly his knuckles had turned white. "Tell me what you know."

"She's been playing all week with three girls who came down with smallpox today."

"How do you know it's smallpox? Do they have spots, or only a fever?"

"Spots," Emily said. "But Susan told me she was hot the day before."

"Damn," he said under his breath. On the other side of the bed from where Juliana stood, he set his bag down on Emily's night table. "Do you feel hot?"

"No. Not now. I did before, but Lady Juliana took all the blankets off of me."

"The other doctor had her under seven of the things," Juliana explained disgustedly.

"Idiot." James leaned closer to Emily and reached toward her, flinching before he placed a hand on her forehead. "No fever," he reported, quickly pulling back from the girl and her snake. "That's a good sign. Smallpox usually isn't contagious for the first week or two after exposure, but one can never be certain."

"If it's a good sign," Juliana said cautiously, "does that mean you can do something to prevent her getting it?"

"Maybe." He opened his bag and drew out items she'd seen at the Institute. "Very possibly. Vaccination within three days of exposure will usually completely prevent it. Between four and seven days, vaccination still offers a chance of protection, and at the very least should modify the severity of the disease. Has she already been vaccinated?"

"I don't know," Juliana said. "The butler doesn't know, and Lord Neville isn't here."

"The doctor sent him to the apothecary," Emily said. "To get more purg—purg—"

"Purgative," James supplied.

"Lovely," Juliana muttered. "Do you think it's been less than three days since she was exposed? Since the Lambourne girls became contagious?"

"We don't know," he said. "It would be better if Emily's friends hadn't developed spots. But then I suppose we wouldn't be certain it was smallpox, so…" He shrugged and lifted the quizzing glass that dangled from the chain around his neck. "Open your mouth, sweetheart," he said, bending closer to Emily.

He held his breath as he examined her, his lips clamped tight. Knowing Herman must be scaring him to death, Juliana held her breath with him. Maybe it was a bit silly to be afraid of a harmless snake, but not any sillier than to feel ill at the sight of blood. Her heart cracked at the evidence of his bravery, his determination to put the girl's health before his own fears.

How could she have ever thought his having a profession was a bad thing? Amanda had better appreciate having such a wonderful husband, she thought fiercely.

When he straightened, they both blew out a breath. "What were you looking for?" she asked.

"Small red spots on her tongue and in her mouth. Pocks usually show up there first, although I wouldn't expect to see any this early, before the fever. In any case, she has none."

"That's good, right?"

He nodded and visibly steeled himself before leaning close again to unfasten the buttons that went down the front of Emily's nightgown. Herman was draped on either side of the placket, and his fingers shook a little. Regardless, Juliana had never seen anyone unbutton anything so quickly.

"I want to check the rest of her body. Spots most likely wouldn't appear there yet if she's contracted smallpox, but we can hope her friends actually have some other disease that presents differently—"

He snatched his hands back and froze, staring.

At first Juliana thought he'd gone rigid due to the snake. Then she noticed he wasn't staring at Herman, but at Emily's young, flat chest.

Or, to be more precise, at an odd, fleur-de-lis shaped birthmark on the left side.

He frowned and murmured, "I think I've seen a birthmark like this before."

Emily nodded. "My father has one, too. All the Nevilles have one. In exactly the same place."

"Oh," James said. Still staring at Emily's bared skin, he frowned again. "But I've never seen your father's chest."

"Yes, you did," Juliana reminded him. "At Lady Hammersmithe's ball, remember? Lord Neville was choking, and you saved his life."

"I removed his neckcloth but not his shirt. I only loosened a couple of buttons. I never saw—"

He blinked. And gasped.

"What?" Juliana asked.

His gaze flew to meet hers. "It's another birthmark I remember. Because another night—the night I was caught with Lady Am—" He broke off, glancing toward Emily and back again. "With your unbuttoned friend," he revised.

Then he paused before concluding, very slowly, "I saw that birthmark on her."

Dear heavens, he was right. Juliana suddenly remembered seeing it herself from where she'd been peeking from behind the curtain. A similar birthmark on Amanda's half bare, hastily covered breast.

No, she couldn't have seen it then. She'd been at entirely the wrong angle.

But she had seen that birthmark on Amanda.

Her brain felt fuzzy, but she knew she'd seen it. She closed her eyes and pictured it…in her very own bedroom, the night she'd presented the "new" Amanda to society, when she was dressing for Lady Hammersmithe's ball.

And that meant…

Something hovered in the back of Juliana's mind. Something significant. Across the bed from James, she followed his gaze down to Emily's chest. If all the Nevilles had that birthmark, and Amanda had that birthmark…

Then Amanda was Lord Neville's daughter, not Lord Wolverston's.

And that meant…

"Oh, my heavens," she breathed.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

James's eyes met Juliana's in understanding, and it took everything they had not to voice their conclusions aloud in front of the little girl. Her father arrived, purgative in hand—muttering about hiring some servants young enough to run errands—and James asked him if his daughter had ever been vaccinated.

The answer was no, which James found rather annoying. If the educated upper class didn't make vaccination a priority, was there any hope for the common people?

To everyone's relief—except perhaps Emily's, since the last thing she wanted was to be cut again—the purgative was put aside, and James vaccinated her instead. A tiny incision, a little dip into the wound using an ivory lancet tipped with cowpox virus, and a swiftly applied bandage. It all went very quickly, even though James didn't have a sugar stick. In fact, he couldn't remember ever vaccinating anyone faster.

Herman might have had something to do with that, and it seemed the girl preferred chocolate cream, anyway.

There was nothing else to do but wait. The incubation period for smallpox generally ran seven to fourteen days, but occasionally went as long as seventeen. Emily had most likely been exposed two or three days earlier, which meant it would be at least two weeks before they knew for certain whether she was out of the woods.

But there was much reason to hope. And for now Emily was healthy, so even though she should stay at home to assure others' safety, there was no reason for her to remain in bed.

It was almost seven o'clock by the time all was said and done and James and Juliana left the Neville house. As soon as the door closed behind them, she turned to him on the doorstep. "Will Emily really be all right?"

"I cannot make any promises, but I think she will. She may not get smallpox at all, and if she does, it should be a very light case."

While even a light case of smallpox could be arduous, at least it wouldn't be fatal. And in any event, what would be would be. It was out of his hands at this point, and there were much more pressing matters to discuss.

Yes, he wanted a discussion.

He was ready—he needed—to think.

And after he and Juliana talked, he wanted to kiss her senseless. Or perhaps while they talked. Or before. All of the above wouldn't be a bad plan, either.

Easy, he told himself. Everything was still up in the air. Instead of kissing her, he took her hand. "Lady Amanda isn't Castleton's sister."

"I know. I figured that out." She squeezed his fingers, looking more lively than he'd seen her in days. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"She may not think so," he said cautiously. "A woman who's such a stickler for propriety may be unhappy to learn she's another man's daughter."

"She'll cope with the knowledge. She'll have to. And the best part of it is, you shouldn't have to marry her when there's no good reason for her not to marry the duke." She seemed to be holding her breath. "You won't, will you?"

Much as he wanted to make her that promise, he couldn't. His honor was at stake; there was no way for a man to honorably back out of a betrothal. And while he might back out anyway were it only his own reputation on the line, his mother and aunts would also be affected. "Lord Wolverston may still insist—"

"He can withhold Amanda's dowry and inheritance, but he cannot make her say 'I will.'" Sounding very sure of herself—well, she was Juliana—she finally released her breath. "Amanda won't need Wolverston's money if she's wed to the duke."

"The duke may not agree."

"He wants her. I think he'll agree. Let's find him and ask him now." She started down the steps, then stopped and turned back to him. "Oh, drat. We can't." Her newly recovered enthusiasm disappeared, replaced by something closer to panic. "I still have to make thirty-three pieces of baby clothes before tomorrow morning."

"No, you don't." He took her face in both hands and kissed her softly on the lips. "Relax."

"I cannot. Perhaps my sisters and Aunt Frances made three or four items in the past couple of hours, but that still leaves—"

"You don't have to make any more baby clothes, Juliana." Slowly, while she stood there looking puzzled—or maybe transfixed—he skimmed his hands along her neck, across her shoulders, down her arms. Lacing his fingers with hers, he eased her down the steps and next door, stopping on the pavement in front of the large window that fronted number forty-four's drawing room. "Look," he murmured.

On the other side of the glass, Corinna leisurely painted, a dreamy smile on her face. Behind her, Lady Frances stood with her back to the window, gesturing or perhaps explaining something. On the far side of her, a dozen young women were perched on the drawing room's chairs and sofas, hunched over the needlework in their hands.

Juliana turned to him, a bewildered frown creasing her brow. "Who are they?"

"My former assistants and a few friends they managed to scare up. Some of them may not be able to read and write, but the sort of women who live near the Institute all know how to sew."

She blinked. "How did they get here?"

"When Aunt Aurelia came to assist me today, she had such stories. Poor Lady Juliana is sewing her fingers to the bone, dear Lady Juliana will never finish in time." He shrugged. "So I hired them."

"You hired them?"

He nodded. "Before you summoned me to Emily's house."

"Dear heavens." Her eyes shone with disbelief and gratitude and something else. Something that made his heart sing. "Have I told you I love you?" she whispered through an obviously tight throat.

He squeezed her hand. "Yes, but I'll never tire of hearing it."

"I hope…" She bit her lip. "Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart." She squeezed his hand back. "I must go help them now, but—"

"No. Oh, no. You're much too exhausted, and we have much more important things to do."

"James—"

"Go inside if you must, tell them Emily is all right and you've been invited to Stafford House for dinner."

"Aunt Frances might be oblivious, but she's not stupid. She knows your mother is still too ill to be inviting guests."

"I'm inviting you. We'll go there as soon as we've talked to Castleton. Your aunt is needed here to supervise, and this is no time to fret about proprieties, Juliana. I'm starved, and my mother is in bed. We shan't even wake her. Now, go. I'll wait here."

He leaned to give her a soft kiss, wanting so much more but knowing now was not the time. Her sister was ten feet away—thankfully absorbed in her artwork—and there was much that still needed settling.

Everything was still up in the air.

Juliana looked like she might argue for a moment, but then she nodded and went inside. It started raining while he waited on the doorstep, and when she came back out, they dashed to his carriage together.

"They've made twenty-one items of baby clothes already," she reported. "With only twelve to go, they really don't need me." Being Juliana, of course she already had a plan. "The House of Lords is in session. You'll have to go in alone to fetch the duke, but then you should bring him out to the carriage so we can talk to him together."

James sent an outrider to Stafford House to ask his cook to prepare a meal, and told his driver to head for Parliament.

Unfortunately, Castleton wasn't at Parliament.

He wasn't at his Grosvenor Square town house.

And he wasn't at White's, which was the final place Juliana could think to check.

It was rather disconcerting, really. Everything was still up in the air. They left notes at the last two locations, explaining all they'd learned, along with their conclusions, and requesting that Castleton notify them of his intentions at his earliest convenience. Then they went to Stafford House to wait, because there was nothing else they could do.

Dinner was ready when they arrived, and the table was set for two, one plate at either end of the oval table that seated six. "I'm not hungry," Juliana said.

"You have to eat," James told her, "or you'll fall ill."

He moved the dishes at the far end to the spot around the curve from his. And then they sat. Because there was nothing else to do.

James wasn't actually hungry, either. He'd lost his appetite. Everything was so up in the air. They both picked at their food, alternating between silence and spurts of forced conversation through three courses.

There was nothing else to do.

"Maybe we should go look for the duke again," Juliana suggested when they finished an hour later and James was pouring port.

He set down the bottle. "Where?" he asked, taking a rather large swallow from his glass.

"I'm not sure." She took a generous sip herself. "But there's nothing else to do."

Just then, a red-liveried footman walked in. "My lord." He set a letter on the corner of the table, gave a smart bow, and left.

It was a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper, folded in thirds and secured with a large red seal. James and Juliana stared at it for a moment, as though they were both afraid to touch it.

"The stationery is from White's," he finally said, pushing it toward her.

"It's from the duke." Her hand shook as she lifted it. "It has to be."

"Open it."

She turned it over, her eyes green and apprehensive. "It's addressed to you."

Obviously she felt it was his right to read it first, but James suspected she'd snatch it from his hands if he tried. "Open it," he repeated.

She nodded and broke the seal, slowly unfolding the single page. Before she even finished scanning it, she let out a little shriek and launched herself onto his lap, the letter landing on the floor as she wrapped her arms around him and held tight.

So tight he could barely breathe. "What does it say?" he asked, unsure whether her tears indicated happiness or despair. Her only answer was a heartfelt sob. Something tightened painfully in his chest as he leaned awkwardly with her attached to him, picked up the paper, and read it.

Lord Stafford,

I wish to wed Lady Amanda Wolverston with or without her dowry. No horse will be necessary, either. I would appreciate the assistance of yourself and Lady Juliana in explaining the matter, which I expect Lady Amanda will wish to verify with Lord Neville. To that end, I shall present myself at Cainewood's home at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, unless I hear from you otherwise.

Yours sincerely,

Castleton

The pain in James's chest eased as he dragged in two lungsful of the most delicious air he'd ever breathed. Apparently Castleton wasn't quite the ass he'd thought. Everything was going to work out. After the nightmare of the past week, it seemed a bloody miracle.

"No horse." Juliana sniffled into his shoulder. "He said that once before. What on earth could he possibly mean?"

He supposed it couldn't hurt to tell her now. "Your brother promised the duke a horse as part of your dowry if he'd marry you."

She raised her head. "You've got to be jesting. A horse?"

"I believe Griffin was rather foxed when he made the offer. The particular horse is named Velocity, if I'm not mistaken."

"Idiot."

"Griffin? Or the horse?"

"Griffin, of course. Velocity is a very intelligent horse."

He laughed and gave her a quick kiss. "Do you expect I will get Velocity when I marry you?"

"It would serve Griffin right if you insist on it. Although I didn't realize you cared for racehorses."

"I don't, particularly. But the sale of such a fine animal would pay for a lot of vaccinations. I expect Castleton would bid mightily—what?" Juliana had pulled back enough to stare at him, tears streaming down her cheeks again. "What could be wrong now?"

"Was that a proposal?"

He blinked. "I suppose so. But it wasn't a very good one, was it?" He rose and set her on the chair, then dropped to one knee. "Ouch."

"Try your good knee," she said with a watery laugh.

He did. Carefully. And then took both her hands in his. "My dear Juliana, my love…would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?"

"Oh, yes!" She launched herself at him again, with such force he fell back onto the floor, which, thankfully, was carpeted, since he banged his head so hard he saw stars. "I'm sorry," she said, crawling over him. "Are you hurt?"

"Not in the least." His head ached like the dickens, but he didn't care. "Are you?"

"No. I know you hate it when ladies cry, but I just can't seem to help myself."

"It's all right," he assured her, "as long as you're crying from happiness." Watching a fat drop fall from her chin to his neckcloth, he added, "You are happy?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed and leaned down to kiss him.

She kissed him. And he wasn't even unbuttoned.

He savored that for a moment, then gathered her close and kissed her back. Her lips first, then both cheeks and her forehead and chin. And then her lips again—

"Lord Stafford? Is everything all right?"

Juliana jumped up, and James turned his head to the side to see his housekeeper standing over him. "Very much so, Mrs. Hampton, I assure you." He pushed himself to sit and ran a hand through his hair. "We were just, um, going upstairs. Yes, that's it. We're going to drink our port in the Painted Room."

"Very well, my lord. Shall I have something brought to you?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Scrambling to his feet rather ungracefully, he took both their glasses. "We'll just go up now."

"Should you need anything, do let me know," Mrs. Hampton said. And just stood there.

"Of course. We're going up now." Handing Juliana a glass, he gestured with the other in a way he hoped looked suave and above suspicion. "Lady Juliana?"

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

At the top of the elegant staircase, James didn't walk Juliana through the library and into the gorgeous room with the lion head chairs. Instead, he took her the opposite direction.

"Um, James? Isn't the Painted Room the one with all the marriage scenes? The one where I gave you the Richmond Maids of Honour and—"

She broke off, thinking this might not be the best time to remind him she'd come to apologize for tricking him. To remind him she'd thought he was in love with her friend and hadn't known he'd once had a wife.

Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice the abrupt, awkward pause. "I thought I'd show you another room. Mine, to be precise. Though it will be ours very soon." Stopping by an open door, he gave her a quick kiss, a kiss that left her wanting more. "Close your eyes," he said, "and wait here."

The room beyond was so dark she couldn't see anything anyway. "Why do I have to close my eyes?"

"Just do it," he said. "Humor me, please."

So she did. She closed her eyes and waited. She heard some rustling, a dull thud, and finally a rush that she guessed was a fire coming to life. And then she waited a little longer, listening to him walk around, doing who knew what, until finally he came back to her.

"All right," he said, "You can open your eyes."

So she did. He was waiting on the threshold, the sheer size of him blocking her view. "I cannot see past you," she said.

Appearing to be holding his breath, he nodded and stepped aside. "What do you think?"

Beyond him, the room now glistened with light. On the tables, atop a bureau, on the nightstands, candles flickered. At least a dozen, or maybe more.

"Dear heavens," she breathed, "it's splendid." His bedroom looked nothing like the rest of the house; there was nary a hint of gilt and nothing ancient or ornamental. The furniture was all matched, modern Hepplewhite, the height of fashionable style, carved of light satinwood in lines that were gracefully curved and distinctive. The red and yellow fabrics all looked silky and sumptuous. Even the walls were covered with silk, wide stripes above enameled white wainscoting. Arranged before a white-manteled fireplace—the fireplace he'd lit on this cold, rainy night—sat a love seat and two plush chairs, upholstered with narrower stripes.

And then there was the bed. Covered in solid red damask and heaped with plump yellow pillows, it had slender, towering posts and positively dominated the room.

The very sight of it weakened her knees. Just realizing that someday—someday soon—she'd be in that bed with James, made her pulse start pounding, made her skin prickle with sudden, heated awareness.

She sipped some of the port in her glass, hoping the heady sweet wine might calm her. "It's the most beautiful bedroom I've ever seen."

Releasing a tense breath, he bent to press a warm kiss to the top of her head, a kiss so cherishing it made her insides clench. "I'm so glad you like it."

She turned and gazed up at him. "Everything looks brand-new."

"It is. I had it redecorated especially for you. For us. My favorite color is red, and you do like yellow, don't you?"

She sipped again, using her free hand to smooth her yellow skirts. "It's my favorite color." Her head swam with confusion. "But how…I mean…dear heavens, however did you redecorate it so fast?"

"I've known for weeks that I wanted to marry you, Juliana." His low, chocolatey voice seemed to vibrate right through her. "I'm only sorry it took me so long to tell you. We could have avoided so much heartache."

Tears sprang again to her eyes. Honestly, she was turning into a veritable waterworks. "I should have realized," she admitted, swallowing a lump in her throat. "But I was so sure you'd never love me. I was so set on marrying the duke and having you marry Amanda in place of Lord Malmsey."

"We both made mistakes, love. But everything's going to be fixed now."

Yes, they'd both made mistakes. She wasn't perfect; nobody was. She was human like everyone else, and the past few weeks had proved it.

It was disappointing in a way, but in another way she knew it had always been inevitable. And she was so, so thankful that everything was turning out all right. "Oh, James, I don't think I've ever, ever been so happy." Her heart was swelling so much she feared it might burst. "I can hardly wait to climb into that bed with you."

"Oh, my love." Putting the arm that held his wineglass around her, he pulled her close and cupped her chin in his free hand. And then he kissed her, his mouth hot, his tongue plunging deep. Her senses spun, and she knew it had nothing to do with the wine.

But the caress was over all too quickly.

He drew away, a captivating smile curving his lips. "I was hoping you'd say that." He grabbed her free hand and began pulling her into the room.

"What?" He couldn't mean to climb into the bed here and now. "Your mother is in the house!"

"Yes, and she's ill and no doubt sleeping soundly, and her bedroom is way down the hall." When she planted her feet and stopped going with him, he reversed direction and tugged her back into the corridor. "See? That very last door. There's not a chance in hell she'll hear us, sweetheart. No matter how loud I make you moan."

She blushed furiously, wondering if he'd ever made her moan before. Honestly, she couldn't remember, but she wouldn't be surprised. For all she knew, she could have been moaning thirty seconds ago. That kiss had certainly stolen her breath. If there was one thing James was proficient at, it was making her lose her head.

And it was a very long corridor, she conceded silently as she sipped more port. She'd noticed a door inside James's bedroom, which probably led to a sitting room or a dressing room. Or both. Doubtless his study was on the other side of those, and then his mother's dressing room before her bedroom, and maybe a sitting room for her besides. And perhaps some guest rooms in between. Stafford House was enormous.

But all of that was beside the point. "We cannot go to bed with your mother sleeping down the hall. Not before we're married. It's not the thing, James—it's highly improper."

"You've never worried about being improper before. As you pointed out to Aunt Aurelia just two days ago, we've been in private together more than once." His voice went even deeper, more seductive. "At Vauxhall, and the Panorama, and the Physic Garden…"

She blushed again, remembering all those times. Remembering the greenhouse in Chelsea especially. Remembering all those feelings he'd aroused in her. "But we weren't in a bed." She gulped more port.

"Do you really think a bed makes a difference, my love?" Easing her back into the room, he shut the door behind them. "I've kissed you before without a bed," he reminded her, edging her toward a table. He took her wineglass and set them both down. "If you'd prefer, I will kiss you right now without climbing into the bed. All right?"

And he did. He drew her against his hard, muscled form, and he kissed her, a kiss invitingly warm and deep. A kiss persuasive and divine. He tasted of lust and sweet wine and James, which made her senses begin whirling in an oh-so-familiar way.

Slowly, very slowly, he inched her toward the bed, and she moved with him, her arms going up and around him, her fingers plowing into his unruly hair. His hands wandered her back and worked their way down to her bottom, still moving her, pressing her closer, so close she felt the proof of his desire straining against her. It made answering emotions rush through her, made heat pool in that place between her legs that ached whenever he touched her.

And all the while, he kept inching them toward the bed.

Before she knew it, they were on the bed.

"It's only a bed," he murmured. "It really doesn't make a difference." And it didn't, not really. She knew that. "It's more comfortable here," he whispered, a whisper so raspy it made her melt.

It was more comfortable. There had to be a featherbed under the covers, because she sank right into it. He rolled closer, and closer still, until his body covered hers, pressing her farther into the plush, sensual mattress. It cradled her, cocooned her, and still he kept kissing her.

He felt warm on top of her, and heavy, but not too heavy; he had to be supporting himself somehow, because he was just heavy enough to feel deliciously exciting. And she wanted him to kiss her forever. She knew she shouldn't allow him to do anything else, but just the feel of his mouth on hers was enough to satisfy her every desire.

But then he abandoned her mouth to kiss her throat, finding an especially sensitive hollow. She moaned…oh, yes, he could make her moan. Thank heavens his mother was so far down the hall, because James was so excessively proficient at making her lose her head, there was no way on earth she could help herself. She moaned again, and her breath came faster, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever.

And then he kissed the wide expanse of skin framed by her low neckline, fluttery little kisses that went everywhere, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever. And he kissed the tops of her breasts, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever.

And then he worked a hand beneath her body, just long enough to unfasten a few buttons. And drew her bodice and chemise down, exposing her breasts.

He paused, his chocolate eyes going hazy with hunger. "Do you want me to kiss you here?" he asked in that raspy, heartrending whisper.

Her breasts tingled, and he hadn't even touched them yet. They tingled, and he was just looking. Their tips were puckering and making her squirm.

"Oh, yes," she breathed, and he kissed her there. One breast and then the other. And then back to the first, and his mouth opened, drawing her in, and the sensation was hot and so exciting that the aching place between her legs began to pulse.

And suddenly, remembering how he'd made her feel when he touched her there that one time, it wasn't enough to satisfy her every desire.

She wanted more.

"Oh, James," she breathed, "kiss me more."

He lifted his head, his warm breath wafting over her bare skin. "Should I kiss you here?" he asked, indicating her other breast.

"Oh, yes."

He did, and it felt even better, more amazing. Her blood was rushing, and her breath was coming in little panting bursts. Wanting to give him the same pleasure, she touched him everywhere she could reach. His springy, curly hair, the curve of his head underneath, the roughness on his cheeks. His hard, sculpted shoulders. The smooth, muscled expanse of his back beneath his clothing.

He felt wonderful, marvelous, but she couldn't reach any lower. Her arms simply weren't long enough. "More," she whispered. "Kiss me more." Thinking he would return to her mouth, thinking he would move up her so her hands could reach farther down, she breathed, "More. Kiss me more."

But he moved down instead of up. He kissed her through her thin yellow dress, down her middle and across her belly. And a hand went lower still, pulling off her slippers. And stealing beneath her skirts.

And skimming up her legs. And untying her garters and rolling her stockings down and off, a slippery, tingly slide of silk. And then his fingers danced up her calves, and over her knees, and around and behind them, teasing a ticklish place on the back. And higher, between her thighs, spreading her legs a little.

The place between them ached so badly and pulsed so persistently, she thought she might go out of her mind. But she knew she shouldn't let him touch her there again, not until they were married. She couldn't ask him to touch her. "More, James," she whispered instead. "Kiss me more."

And he did. He drew up her skirts, and he kissed her knees, swirling his tongue in tantalizing strokes. And he drew her skirts higher and kissed her thighs, all over and between them, little kisses that were melting her, melting her heart, melting her resolve. And then he drew her skirts higher still, higher and higher, until they were pooled around her middle. Without lifting his head, while he was still kissing her, he bared her all the way up to her waist.

She knew she should stop him, but she was moaning, and she couldn't seem to help herself. Though she knew she was wanton, she didn't care. And then he lifted his head and, using his hands to ease her legs wider, he looked at her there…and she knew it was wicked.

But she'd never experienced anything better or more exciting. Ever.

"Should I kiss you here?" he rasped.

She'd never heard of such a thing. Never even imagined it. But she wanted him to kiss her there more than she'd wanted anything in her life.

That place wasn't just pulsing now—it was throbbing.

"Should I?" he asked, and his hot breath made it throb more. "Should I kiss you here?"

She couldn't bring herself to say yes. She couldn't bring herself to agree to something so wicked. Even though she wanted him to kiss her there so badly that tears pricked in her eyes.

He lowered his head, but he didn't kiss her. His hair had flopped over his forehead, those dear, unruly curls, and she couldn't see his eyes. But she knew he was looking, and that knowledge made the throbbing mount unbearably.

"Should I?" he whispered, and his breath was hotter than ever, so hot it made her hips lift right off the bed.

"Yes!" she cried. "Oh, yes!"

And he kissed her there. He kissed her there over and over and over, his tongue finding that sweet spot that made her throb even more. It felt hot, slippery hot, little slippery hot strokes. She wanted to touch him more than ever, but she couldn't reach him anywhere, so her fingers curled into the damask beneath her instead. And he stroked and stroked until that slippery heat sent her flying into oblivion.

She had never, ever felt anything like it in her life. Not even in the greenhouse. She moaned. She moaned until James crawled up her body and captured the moans in his hot, talented mouth.

She thought she might calm then, like last time, but the opposite was true. His kisses were devouring her, making the ache build all over again. She tasted not only James now, not only lust and wine and James, but also the faintest hint of herself. A combination that proved the most delicious, most incredible, most arousing flavor ever.

It wasn't enough. She wanted that flavor forever, she wanted him to kiss her forever, but it wasn't enough.

And then he lifted his head and looked at her for a moment. Just looked at her. And kissed her again and lifted his head again and just looked at her again.

The expression in his eyes, the devotion and the love, was almost more than she could stand.

"Can I come inside you?" he whispered in that raspy, heartbreaking tone. "I swear, Juliana, I want you more than I want to breathe. More than I want my own life. Sweetheart, can I come inside you?"

She moaned again, but it was a silent moan, only a moan in her head. Why couldn't he just take her? Why did he always have to ask? Why did he make it her decision as much as his, make it so she couldn't claim he'd ever taken advantage, not even to herself?

Why, why, why?

But she knew why. It was because he was honorable. Because he was the best man she'd ever known. Because he was everything she'd ever wanted all along, even before she'd known herself enough to know it.

She loved him. She loved him more than she'd known it was possible to love another human being. And he was waiting. He was still waiting for her to answer. Waiting to hear she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Patiently waiting, his heart in his chocolate brown eyes.

How could she deny him? How could she deny herself? They'd be married soon anyway, and if anyone deserved to hear the words he was waiting for, if anyone deserved to know she wanted him with all of her heart, it was James.

She drew in a breath. And, "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, please. Please make me yours."

He froze. He didn't move; he didn't even breathe. "Are you sure, love?"

Why did he have to ask?

But she knew why. "I'm sure. I want you more than I want my life."

He didn't ask her again. He rolled off of her, leaving her wanting, but only to rip off his cravat and tailcoat and waistcoat. And unbutton his shirt. And pull it off over his head. And then, while she drank in the mouthwatering sight of his firm, bare torso, his fingers went to the buttons on his falls, and she realized, somewhere in her hazy, love-drenched mind, that all this time he hadn't even unbuttoned. He'd kissed her and caressed her and sent her to oblivion without even unbuttoning.

He unbuttoned now, and before she knew it, he was naked. Dear heavens, he was magnificent. She wanted him even more, much more than she'd thought possible. He fell on her then, and took her mouth with his, and she could hardly wait to have him inside her. He kissed her, and kissed her, and—

"James? Are you home?"

It was his mother, out in the corridor.

"James, is that you?"

"Bloody hell," he gritted out and leapt off of Juliana. Muttering obscenities the likes of which she'd never heard, he stalked to the new Hepplewhite wardrobe and slammed the door open. And yanked out a red silk dressing gown. And shrugged into it so violently she feared he might rip it.

"James?" His mother knocked on the door.

"I'm coming, Mother."

Juliana had enjoyed seeing him without the dressing gown much more than with it. Looking furious, he tied the belt and tied it again, and knotted it with a jerk, and went to the door and opened it just enough to slip through—so his mother wouldn't see her inside, thank heavens—and shut it behind him.

And then Juliana lay there on the red damask, shaking, listening to their conversation.

"Oh, James, I thought I heard you. How are you feeling, dear?"

"Tired. I was sleeping."

"Poor dear." There was a pause, during which Juliana imagined Lady Stafford ruffling James's hair, even though he was much too old to have his hair ruffled. "I'm so sorry about everything that's happened. I so wanted you to marry Juliana."

"I know." She heard James sigh. "It may still happen."

"What do you mean?" Lady Stafford sounded very excited. "What do you mean, it may still happen?"

"I'm very tired, Mother, and I don't want to explain it now. Can we talk about this in the morning? How are you feeling?"

"Better. Much better. I think I'll be able to attend your wedding tomorrow."

"I'm hoping there won't be a wedding." His voice was getting fainter. "Let me take you back to bed, Mother. We'll talk in the morning."

"I really don't want to wait until morning to hear this, James," Juliana heard very faintly.

And then she heard nothing. He must have been walking his mother back to bed. It took him a very long time to return, and at first Juliana figured that was because it was a very long corridor, but when he took even longer, she figured he was probably explaining everything to his mother. Lady Stafford was rather persistent, after all. Most mothers were. Juliana figured she'd probably be a rather persistent mother herself. If she ever got to be a mother.

Dear heavens, what if everything didn't work out?

At last James hurried back into the room and shut the door behind him. His fingers went to the knot in his belt.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, pushing her skirts down and pulling her bodice back up. "What are you doing?"

"Getting out of this damned dressing gown." He seemed to be having trouble. Apparently he'd knotted the belt too tightly when he'd jerked it. "Getting back to what we were doing."

"We cannot do it, James."

"What?" He looked up, his fingers still working the knot. Or rather, not working it. It didn't look like it was going to budge. "Whyever would you say that? I realize you've probably cooled off some while I was talking to my mother, but I'll soon have you warm again, sweetheart. I'll have you moaning in no time—"

"What if everything doesn't work out?"

"What do you mean, what if everything doesn't work out?"

"I heard you, James. I heard you tell your mother it may still happen. I heard you tell her you're hoping there won't be a wedding tomorrow."

His fingers slipped on the knot, but he bent his head and resumed fighting with it. "I was just trying to get her back to bed. I didn't want to stop and explain everything. I didn't want to have a discussion. I wanted to get back to you."

"We cannot go back to doing that. What if everything doesn't work out? We cannot make love if you're going to marry Amanda."

He stopped working the knot and looked at her. "I'm not going to marry Lady Amanda. You read Castleton's note. Everyone is in agreement."

"Her father isn't."

"He isn't even her father!"

"That doesn't signify. He's legally her guardian. He might have another objection."

James plopped to sit on the bed beside her. "What could he possibly come up with now? Who could he possibly claim slept with whom in order to make Lady Amanda and Castleton's marriage impossible?"

"I don't know. All I know is we all thought he couldn't possibly have a valid objection before, and it turned out he did. So he could have another objection. Or someone else could have an objection. We don't know, James." She rubbed his back through the red silk, thinking he felt very tense and looked very frustrated. Well, she was frustrated, too, but that didn't change anything. "We're going to have to wait. It won't kill us. It won't be long."

"Damn right it won't be long. As soon as we straighten everything out, we'll be wed tomorrow. I was planning to get married tomorrow, anyway."

Despite her frustration, despite everything, she couldn't stop a soft laugh from escaping her throat. "Don't be ridiculous. We cannot get married tomorrow."

"Why not? It was ridiculously simple to get the special license to wed Lady Amanda—all it took was money. I can get another license with your name on it tomorrow with no trouble."

"We need more than a license, James. I need a wedding dress. And we have to deal with the whole mess regarding Amanda's parentage tomorrow, and I have to deliver the baby clothes. The Governors are expecting me at the Foundling Hospital tomorrow afternoon, with two hundred and forty items."

Thank heavens they were finished. The women James had hired had only needed to make twelve more. Everything was going to work out.

She hoped.

"All right," he said dourly. "We'll get married the Saturday after that. Can I kiss you now?"

"Yes, you can kiss me. And then we need to go let Amanda know what's happening."

He kissed her and he kissed her again, and all the while, all the time she had her arms around his neck and was kissing him, she was crossing her fingers and hoping everything would work out.

CHAPTER FIFTY

And so it was that James arrived at Lady Amanda's house on the day Lord Wolverston had commanded, but a full twelve hours before the man expected him. Also not according to plan, he didn't arrive by the front door.

"I think her bedroom is right there," Juliana whispered, peering up from the back garden. "That window with the pale blue drapes."

It was on the second floor. James eyed the wall, which was plain stucco with no footholds in sight. He bent down to gather some pebbles.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting Lady Amanda's attention." He tossed one, and the little clink sounded like it carried for miles.

She winced. "You're going to wake someone."

"Mmm-hmm. That's the whole idea." Clink.

"I thought you would scale the building."

Clink. "Sorry to disappoint you"—clink—"but you're marrying a physician, not a sportsman." Clink, clink. "I already have one bad knee."

"I'm marrying a physician," Juliana echoed as though she couldn't quite believe it.

James also thought it was too wonderful to quite believe. Especially since several people involved didn't know what was happening yet. Especially because someone might make an objection. That was the reason she'd insisted they couldn't make love, and she'd been right to insist.

But he still loved hearing those words from her mouth.

"James."

"Hmm?" Clink.

Before he could toss another pebble, she caught his hand. "I love you."

He turned and smiled down at her. The rain had stopped, and the sky had cleared, and the low light of the full moon gleamed off all her beautiful, straight hair that had slipped from its pins while they were on his bed. Her hair that was a million different colors of blond and brown. She reached her free hand to touch his cheek—he imagined she was feeling the slight roughness—and as he bent his head, she sucked in a breath of anticipation—

"Whatever is happening out there? Lord Stafford?" Lady Amanda had opened her window. "Whatever are you doing with Lady Juliana?" She didn't sound very approving.

James and Juliana jerked apart. "We came to wake you," he said.

They quickly explained their discovery, while Lady Amanda's eyes got wider and wider. At the end, Juliana sighed sympathetically. "I do hope you're not terribly distressed to learn you're…well…"

"A by-blow?" Lady Amanda supplied shakily. "I shouldn't be, should I? After all, the man I love is a by-blow, too."

"Dear heavens," Juliana exclaimed with a soft laugh. "You've surely had a change of heart. Meet us at my house at ten o'clock. The duke will be waiting, and we'll all go next door to Lord Neville and verify the truth."

"My father won't let me out of the house at ten. He's expecting me to marry at noon."

"He's not your father," Juliana reminded her. "You have no obligation to obey him. I'm sure you can find a way out."

"I cannot—"

"Tell Lord Wolverston you're dressing for the wedding," she said out loud, and then softly under her breath, "Honestly, do I have to plan everything?" She sighed and raised her voice again. "I'll make sure there's a ladder from your window down to here. I'll have one of my brother's footmen deliver it."

"I cannot climb through a window!"

"Then use the servants' exit. Either way, I'll expect you at my house at ten o'clock."

Muttering, Lady Amanda shut the window, and Juliana turned and looked at James for a moment. She raised her hands and placed them on his shoulders. "I was going to kiss you before Amanda opened the window," she said softly.

Actually, he'd been going to kiss her, but he didn't think it would be a good idea to argue. Especially when she was looking at him like that, with her eyes so very blue. Even with only the moonlight, he could tell they were blue.

"Can I kiss you now?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, and Juliana kissed him. After all the weeks he'd spent trying to tempt her into letting him kiss her, she kissed him. She kissed him as they walked back to the street, stumbling and kissing along the side of the house. And as they walked down the street, ignoring a carriage that rumbled by. And when they got to her doorstep, she still kept kissing him.

Finally, James pulled back with a low laugh. "You're wearing me out."

She pulled his head down and kissed him again, a quick, joyous kiss.

"I'm never going to last until next Saturday," he said. "I need macaroons for extra stamina."

"Oh," she said with a sigh, and then, "You know what, James? I don't want there to be any more secrets between us."

"I agree," he said. "No secrets, and no lies."

"I never lie," she said, sounding a little defensive. "Well, I did lie to that dratted doctor, but I never lie unless it's absolutely unavoidable. I don't want any lies, either, and no half-truths." She drew a deep breath. "The macaroons don't really lend a man stamina," she confessed in a rush.

"Oh, really?" He snickered.

"Did you snicker at me? Me, the woman you want to marry?"

Well, maybe he had, but only because he found her little superstitions so amusing. He wasn't superstitious at all, and he couldn't quite believe anyone would think macaroons could lend a man stamina. Or do anything else, either, other than taste delicious.

But he hadn't snickered in a nasty way; he'd only snickered because he loved her, and he loved all her little quirks, especially this one. "I didn't snicker," he said, although that meant he was already telling her a half-truth.

He'd been married before, so he knew some half-truths were necessary to sustain a harmonious relationship. But he wouldn't tell her a half-truth unless it was absolutely unavoidable.

"All right," she said, and then, in a lower tone, "I actually baked them to make you amorous."

"Oh, really?" he repeated, but he didn't snicker. He was actually feeling quite amorous at the moment, even without her macaroons, which made sense because there was no way macaroons could make a man amorous, either. But he loved that she thought they did. "You're a treasure, Juliana," he told her, hoping she'd bake him macaroons many, many times in the years to come.

Hoping very hard.

And then he kissed her again and left, and went home and spent the rest of the night with his fingers crossed, even though he wasn't superstitious.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

In the end, Amanda was the one who objected.

Shaking like a leaf, she arrived at Juliana's house at quarter past ten. "What took you so long?" Juliana asked. "You were supposed to be here at ten. You only live down the street."

"It was this dress." She brushed at enormous, voluminous white skirts that were at least twenty years out of fashion. Dear heavens, they were so wide there had to be hoops under them. "Have you ever tried to climb down a ladder in a dress this big?"

"Why are you wearing it?"

Amanda looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "It's my grandmother's wedding dress. It's a tradition in my family to wear it."

Fifty years out of fashion, then. The skirts were actually somewhat yellowed, not pure white. "You're not getting married today, Amanda. That's the whole point of going to talk to Lord Neville."

"After I told my father I was getting dressed for my wedding, I couldn't very well not do that, could I?" She looked to the duke. "Besides, we're getting married today, aren't we?"

"Not today," the duke said stiffly. "A ducal wedding generally requires some months of preparation."

"If you love a woman," James said disparagingly, "I should think you'd want to marry her as soon as possible."

Juliana thought she heard him mutter "what an ass" under his breath, but surely he wouldn't say that. Not about a duke. And she worried for a moment that the duke would blurt out that he didn't actually love Amanda, but only held her in some affection, which could ruin everything.

But thankfully that didn't happen. They all walked next door to Lord Neville's house, and James banged the knocker.

The gaunt butler answered. "Yes?"

"We've come to call on Lord Neville," Juliana said.

The old fellow's eyes widened when he spotted Amanda in a wedding dress that his own bride could have worn fifty years ago, assuming he'd ever married, which he probably hadn't since most people required their butlers to remain bachelors. But he was a mannerly sort of butler, so he didn't say anything. About that, anyway. "Wait in the drawing room, if you please," he said instead, "and I shall see if Lord Neville is at home."

Viscount Neville was at home, of course. He spent his evenings with various mistresses or at his club, which meant he was never out and about very early. In fact, he came downstairs looking a bit rumpled, as though perhaps his valet had needed to drag him out of bed.

Juliana could see right off that he was Amanda's father. Amanda fit in age between Emily's two brothers, the one who was married and the other one who was away at Cambridge most of the year. Lord Neville was blond and gray-eyed like both of his daughters, and tall like both of his daughters, too. And as he seemed to overindulge in everything, Juliana wasn't surprised to learn that he'd slept with Amanda's mother.

Or at least not as surprised as she'd have been a few weeks ago. It seemed she lived on a very promiscuous street. Besides Lord Neville sleeping with Amanda's mother, Lord Wolverston had slept with the late Duchess of Castleton when she'd lived in Juliana's house.

It was a good thing she and James would be living in St. James's Place, not Berkeley Square. Assuming everything worked out, that was. She really couldn't wait any longer to find out.

No one was saying anything, and, in fact, Viscount Neville seemed a little mystified to find all these people in his house. He seemed especially fascinated by Amanda in her ancient wedding dress. Juliana was dying to resolve everything, so she figured she might as well just spit it out. "Lord Neville, are you Lady Amanda's father? She has a fleur-de-lis birthmark in the same place as you and Emily."

Amanda gasped and blushed wildly, and Juliana was sorry to embarrass her, because she knew Amanda considered that private. But she figured it was better to come out and say it than to wait and have Lord Neville ask to see it, which would have been even more embarrassing for Amanda.

"I've been wondering about that," Lord Neville said slowly, "for twenty-three years. Please, let me explain."

Lord Neville had been between wives when Amanda was conceived. He'd been very much in love with Lady Amanda's mother, but Lord Wolverston had refused her the divorce she wanted. Unfortunately, it was impossible for a woman to divorce a man, although a man could divorce his wife if she'd been unfaithful. Lord Neville and Lady Wolverston weren't precisely sure that the child she was carrying was the viscount's, so they'd been planning to wait to see if the baby had the Neville birthmark, and if that proved to be true, they'd planned to use it as leverage to pressure the earl for the divorce. He wasn't the sort of man who would have wanted word out on the street that he'd been cuckolded, especially if they'd had the proof to show all of society. His honor meant everything to him. He put his reputation before everyone else's happiness.

"Well, that's certainly the truth," Juliana muttered.

"I'm so sorry, my dear," Lord Neville said to Amanda. Her face had gone rather white, and she was looking at him. Just looking at him. He started walking toward her. "I was terribly distressed when your mother died giving birth and Lord Wolverston refused to let me even see you. He wasn't a very nice man."

"He still isn't," Juliana said.

"I never knew for sure whether you were my daughter," Lord Neville continued, still walking toward Amanda, who was still just looking at him. "I hoped you were, but there was no way to find out. As you grew, I would see you sometimes, and I thought more than once about asking you if you had the birthmark. But you seemed a very reserved young lady, and I feared such a question would shock you clear down to your toes."

"It would have," Juliana said.

Lord Neville was standing right in front of Amanda now. "I also feared Lord Wolverston might treat you harshly, suspecting you might not carry his blood in your veins—"

"He did," Juliana interrupted.

Lord Neville hung his head. "I'm so sorry."

Amanda suddenly came to life. She was a very reserved woman, so she didn't jump into Lord Neville's arms like Juliana might have done, but she finally opened her mouth.

"Don't be sorry," she said. "I understand. And I'm so glad you're my father instead of Lord Wolverston."

Lord Neville did gather her into his arms then, embracing her tightly. Amanda's arms went around him, too, although they stayed rather loose.

"I'm glad that's settled," the duke declared. "Now we can start planning our wedding for next summer."

And that's when Amanda objected.

She released Lord Neville—heaven forbid she should stay too close to a man, even a man she'd just discovered was her father—and turned to the duke. "I object to that plan," she said, and then she added disparagingly, "If you love me, I should think you'd want to marry me as soon as possible."

Once again, Juliana feared the duke might blurt out that he didn't precisely love Amanda, which could ruin everything. But he didn't. Instead he stood there with his mouth open, just looking at her.

Amanda lifted her chin. "I'm wearing my grandmother's wedding dress. I think we should elope right now to Gretna Green."

"That wouldn't be very ducal," he finally said, "and, in fact, it would be highly improper."

Amanda raised her chin higher. "I don't care," she said. "I'm tired of being proper. I want to marry you now."

And then she gave him the look. She glanced down, bowing her head a little to display her lashes against her cheeks. Then she swept her eyelids up, gazed at the duke full on again, and slowly—very slowly—curved her lips in a seductive smile.

The duke didn't fall at her feet. But he did sigh and say, "Very well, then."

Juliana was shocked. Positively shocked. When she'd tried that on the duke, he hadn't reacted at all.

Obviously she'd been right that he and Amanda were ideal for each other. The duke needed Amanda. With Amanda in his life, he might learn to be affectionate and manage to sire a child inside of a decade.

James's arm stole around Juliana's waist, in front of everyone. He pulled her against his side, where she fit perfectly. "Everything worked out," he said in that low, chocolatey voice that made a shiver run through her.

Though everything probably had worked out, it was too wonderful to quite believe. Especially because someone could still make an objection. "What about Lord Wolverston?" she asked Amanda, crossing her fingers. "He might still have an objection."

"He's not my father," Amanda reminded her, flashing a smile at Lord Neville. "I have no obligation to obey him. And I couldn't care a fig about my inheritance. David is all I need."

It was too bad Amanda didn't want the duke instead of needing him, Juliana thought. But neither of them possessed enough emotion for anything that strong. And with her help, Amanda was changing. Perhaps she wasn't quite a swan yet, but she was far from being an ugly duckling.

Juliana uncrossed her fingers, thinking she was so, so thankful that everything had turned out all right. "Oh, James, I'm sure I've never, ever been so happy," she breathed, turning to him and throwing her arms around him. And then, her heart swelling so much she feared it might burst, she kissed him in front of everyone.

It was a divine sensation. He tasted of love and lust and James, which made her senses begin whirling in an oh-so-familiar way.

"Ahem."

The caress was over all too quickly. She broke apart from James to find the duke gaping at them, looking very disapproving. Unlike Amanda, he hadn't changed much. But after all, it had taken an entire childhood of cold treatment to turn him into the man he was today. She shouldn't be surprised if it took more than a few years with Amanda to counteract that.

And Juliana had changed. She'd learned a lesson. And she had a declaration.

"I'm never going to meddle again," she said.

James snickered, and everyone else laughed.

"Thank you very much," one of the Foundling Hospital's Governors said in the Committee Room that afternoon. "Our next reception day is the second Saturday in August."

"The tenth?" Juliana asked.

"Yes," another Governor confirmed. "We very much appreciate you donating the baby clothes, my dear."

James held his tongue until they were outside in the Hospital's courtyard. But he couldn't contain himself any longer than that. "I cannot believe you committed to making more baby clothes! You're exhausted and overwhelmed!"

"How can I deny these poor children anything I'm able to give?" Juliana gestured to all the girls exercising in their matching uniforms. "If, due to my donation, only one more baby can be accommodated, only one more mother restored to work and a life of virtue, it will be so worth it."

Apparently seeing he wasn't convinced, she moved closer and reached up to put her hands on his shoulders. She smelled of sunshine and flowers.

"I know what I'm getting into this time," she said. "I can pace myself better. Last time I started with just one party a week, but now I know—"

"You're not having any more sewing parties," he interrupted. "I'll hire people to make the baby clothes."

"Much as I love you for doing that yesterday, this shouldn't be your responsibility. You have enough trouble finding people to hire for the Institute."

"You solved that problem for me, and I won't have any trouble hiring seamstresses. My former assistants all owe me favors."

"I should say so. You gave them fifty pounds each! Do you realize that's enough to cover a small family's expenses for two years? You're too nice, James. You're too generous."

He could never be too nice or too generous to her. She deserved everything he could give her and more. Quirks and all, there couldn't be a more wonderful woman in all of London—nay, in all of the world—than Juliana.

She was a treasure. She was exactly what he'd needed to make his life complete. He didn't know how he was going to wait until next Saturday.

"None of those former assistants will have to give their babies to the Foundling Hospital," he reminded her. "But they cannot really work, either; no one will allow them to bring their children to a place of employment. Yet they can sew the baby clothes at home, and I'm sure they can use the extra income even with my fifty pounds."

"But you need to save your money to pay for smallpox vaccinations."

"Oh, my precious Juliana." Was there another woman anywhere as concerned for everyone else? "I don't have enough money to rid the world of smallpox by myself, but I can do my part here in London and still afford to pay a few seamstresses. And buy you beautiful dresses and anything else you ever want. I'm not a pauper, you know."

"I know. You set your table with gold spoons."

"They're sterling plated in gold," he informed her.

"I figured that out." She sighed. "Are you sure you don't want me to make baby clothes?"

She wasn't particularly good at it, and there wasn't another lady of the ton who wanted to do anything more with a needle than embroider and make samplers. But then, no other aristocratic ladies he knew set foot in the kitchen, either. Juliana was different, and that was why he loved her.

He smiled down at her, loving her more than he'd ever thought possible, wanting her more than he wanted his own life. The next seven days were going to be hell.

Sheer, utter, excruciating hell.

"Of course I want you to make baby clothes," he told her. "For our babies."

And he watched her eyes turn blue before he kissed her.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Saturday, August 10
Cainewood Castle

When Juliana had dreamed of walking down the aisle the past few weeks, she'd often pictured the duke. But she'd never imagined Amanda on the man's arm. Yet here in her family's ancient chapel, as she turned to face her guests after the ceremony, she glimpsed the two of them and realized her wedding picture was perfect.

Even with a snake accompanying the flower girl.

Everything had worked out. Emily had never come down with smallpox, and the Lambourne girls had recovered. Since Amanda and the duke had returned from Gretna Green, Juliana had sometimes seen them holding hands, and she was beginning to think they might make a child within a year. And miracle of miracles, Aunt Frances and Lord Malmsey had already started a child. Juliana had returned from delivering the baby clothes to find the two of them waiting in the drawing room with a minister and a special license. Two weeks later, Frances had missed her monthly.

Everyone was happy.

Except for James.

She could feel the tension in his arm, and, gazing up at him as they walked back up the aisle, she feared he was gritting his teeth. He'd been so frustrated when Frances, his aunts, and his mother had all insisted on having a full month to plan this wedding, and even more frustrated to find that the preparations had proved so consuming—and all the older women in his life suddenly so vigilant—that the two of them had found it impossible to steal even a moment of private time.

Well, she'd been frustrated, too, of course. But after all, she planned on marrying only once. She'd needed a wedding dress, and she'd wanted everything to be perfect. And although she knew James was so proficient at making her lose her head that she'd have been moaning and giving in had he managed to get her alone for thirty seconds, she'd suspected that waiting until they were married would make their wedding night that much more special.

Besides, sharing a bed before the wedding would have been highly improper. True, she wasn't reserved, but she did try her best to do what was right. She wasn't a rebel like Corinna. Kissing before marriage was one thing, making love quite another.

Still and all, waiting had been terribly difficult, and she'd found herself relieved a couple of weeks ago when Parliament adjourned, meaning the season ended and everyone dispersed to their estates in the countryside. James had stayed in London to help his mother move to his aunts' house, and the four of them had arrived here only last night.

The hours since then had proved to be sheer, utter, excruciating hell for them both.

As they emerged from the chapel into Cainewood's quadrangle, James ran his hand down all the little covered buttons on the back of her beautiful white wedding dress. "There. We're married. Can I make love to you now?"

Despite her frustration, she laughed. "We cannot leave our guests two minutes after the ceremony, James."

There hadn't been time to plan a large wedding—it would have taken much longer than a month for that—but everyone she cared about was here. Her gaze skimmed the clipped green lawn that sat in the middle of the castle's towering four stories of living quarters. There, in the shadows of the crenelated walls, stood her sisters. Corinna's eyes shone with something like wonder as she laid a hand on Alexandra's blue-silk-covered middle, which was protruding a little bit now. Beside them, Tristan beamed at his wife.

People Juliana had grown up with were scattered over the grounds, a contingent from Berkeley Square by the tumbledown keep, a few countryside neighbors walking the battlements. James's friends and associates were here, too. Claire and Elizabeth were sharing a confidence, their dark heads gleaming in the setting sun. Juliana's tall, handsome cousin Noah was chatting with James's aunts.

There was Lady Stafford—finally her mother-in-law—leaning much closer to Lord Cavanaugh than was strictly proper. There were the duke and Amanda, holding hands again and talking to Lord Neville and Emily. There was Lady Mabel, who wasn't wheezing out here in the countryside. There, standing in the untamed, ankle-high vegetation way over in the old tilting yard, were Lord Malmsey and Aunt Frances—

"James? May I borrow your quizzing glass?"

Dressed formally as he was, he had it in a pocket instead of hanging from a chain around his neck. When he pulled it out and handed it to her, she raised it to her left eye.

"Aunt Frances is wearing her spectacles!"

"Lord Malmsey doesn't seem to mind," James observed as they watched the older couple steal a kiss. "They do say love is blind."

"Who says it?" she asked, handing him back the quizzing glass. "Please don't tell me it's a Roman proverb."

His low laugh vibrated right through her. "I believe I heard it at the theater. Romeo and Juliet, if I'm not mistaken. I'm not all that bookish, you know. I mostly prefer newspapers and novels."

So did she. And she loved the theater. They did have common interests. With a happy sigh, she scanned all their guests again, noticing Rachael standing off by herself, watching Griffin mount the steps to the great hall.

James slipped the quizzing glass into his pocket and pulled something else out instead. Something that sparkled in the afternoon sun. "A little something to remember this day," he said with a smile.

"I have my ring," she pointed out. She twirled the plain gold band—a Stafford heirloom that she'd instantly adored—around her finger. "And I have you, which is the best thing of all."

"And now you have this." He held up the pendant, a white gold heart encrusted with diamonds.

Her breath caught at the sight of it.

James moved closer to fasten the delicate chain around her neck. "It's been at least five minutes," he murmured by her ear. "Can I make love to you now?"

"No," she said with another laugh, touching the gorgeous pendant where it was framed in her neckline. "I need to mingle with our guests."

With a finger on her chin, he lifted her face. She smelled soap and starch and James, and her heart squeezed in her chest. Suddenly, she felt breathless.

"I'll give you an hour," he warned softly against her lips. "But not a minute more." Then he quickly kissed her and sent her off.

Griffin scanned the great hall one final time, pleased with what he saw.

The chamber hadn't looked this good since the ball he'd thrown last year in hopes of finding Alexandra a husband. The enormous Gobelin tapestries on either end of the hall had been cleaned and rehung, their vibrant colors defying their age. Beneath the old hammerbeam roof, the ancient planked floor gleamed with polish. Servants were busy lighting the torches mounted between each of the arched stained-glass windows, and soon the huge chamber would be ablaze with light. Up in the minstrel's gallery, the musicians were tuning their instruments.

In a matter of minutes, the hall would be filled with music and dancing, laughter and glittering guests. He hoped it would be a night Juliana would remember forever. There was nothing he wanted more than to see his sisters happy.

Thank God he had only one more left to marry off.

"Griffin," he heard nearby. A low, sultry voice.

He turned to see its owner, finding her standing there in a red dress that clung to her seductive curves. Most of her hair was done up in a sophisticated style, leaving just a few loose chestnut tendrils to fall in soft waves around her face. A come-hither scent wafted from her skin, making him take an uneasy step back.

Since she'd dismissed his offer to help last month, he hadn't seen her. Juliana hadn't hostessed any more sewing parties, and he hadn't attended any more balls. He'd been wrapped up in the business of Parliament, followed by some mild problems here on the estate. All the damned responsibilities he'd found thrust on him along with the unwanted title had kept him too busy for any socializing.

Which had been fine by him. He hadn't clenched his teeth in five whole weeks.

"What do you want, Rachael?"

She blinked, no doubt taken aback by his unintended harshness. But she recovered her composure quickly. "If your offer is still open, then yes, I'd like your help going through my mother's things."

He smiled, his heart softening. "Before Christmas?"

She drew a deep breath and nodded. "How about next week?"

Five hours later, James found himself confronted by the most daunting column of buttons he'd ever seen.

During the last month—seemingly the longest month of his life—he'd imagined this night a hundred times, if not a thousand. And up until now, it had gone more or less as he'd planned.

He'd closed them both into this room—the Gold Chamber, Juliana had called it—and proceeded to kiss her senseless while faint snatches of romantic music drifted in from the great hall far down the corridor. Still kissing her as much as he could, he'd managed to rid himself of all his clothing save his trousers and his unbuttoned shirt. Still kissing her, he'd managed to remove some of her clothes, too—little essentials like her satin slippers and her stockings.

He'd been quite proud of himself, really, because he'd been determined to proceed slowly, because it was her first time, and if anyone deserved a first time that was slow and cherishing, a first time she'd remember forever, it was his precious Juliana. And so far, despite the fact that he'd been all but shaking with anticipation, all but trembling with need, he'd managed to keep going slowly.

But then he turned her around and saw all those tiny, fabric-covered buttons.

"What in heaven's name possessed you to order a dress with so many buttons?" he breathed through gritted teeth, more frustrated than he remembered ever being—ever. Good God, should he continue going as planned, should he continue going slowly, unbuttoning this damned dress was going to take all night. He would expire from want by the time he managed to unbutton all these buttons. He would perish of starvation. He would die from unrelenting need. "There must be at least a hundred buttons."

Juliana laughed, a low, frustrated laugh that made every nerve in his body sing. "I thought you liked buttons, James," she chided softly over her shoulder in a voice so heart-wrenchingly sensuous he feared he might go out of his mind. "For some reason, I've come to believe you like buttons. I instructed the seamstress to put so many buttons on my dress because I had the impression you'd enjoy unbuttoning all of them."

And in a sense, he did. Still clenching his jaw, he bent his head and steeled himself to the task. Slowly he swept the hair off the nape of her neck, slowly he placed a soft kiss on the sensitive, warm bit of skin above her top button. A cherishing kiss, drawing in her scent, that impossibly tempting scent of flowers and sunshine and Juliana. And then slowly he began unbuttoning the buttons, the never-ending column of buttons, kissing each precious new patch of skin as it was exposed along her sweet, slender back. And in a sense, he did enjoy it. But in another sense, the mounting pressure of anticipation seemed to be more, much more, than any man should have to bear.

It didn't take all night, but it took much, much longer than he wanted. Going slowly proved to be much, much harder than he'd hoped. Juliana sighed, and she moaned, and each of her sounds, each of her tiny, precious sounds seemed to crawl into him and lodge someplace in his heart. It seemed forever by the time he managed to unbutton all the buttons. It seemed longer than the longest month of his life.

After all the waiting, after all the torturous unbuttoning of buttons, he finally slid the loosened dress down her body, over curving hips, down silky limbs, her soft skin all burnished by the light of the flickering fire in the Gold Chamber. Finally, finally, he bore her down to the bed. And stood back, for what seemed like one everlasting moment, the last moment before he made Juliana his.

It was a moment he'd remember forever, a scene eternally imprinted in his mind. Cainewood Castle was filled with heavy, dark oak furnishings that had served her family well in the nearly six hundred years they'd owned the place, but this one room had been decorated for a royal visit in some previous century, and all the furniture was gilt, all the walls and the four-poster bed draped with heavy golden fabrics.

Everything seemed to glitter. Juliana's skin seemed to glitter, beckoning him. Juliana's eyes seemed to glitter, her passion-filled, half-closed eyes a deep, deep blue glitter that taunted him. Even her hair seemed to glitter. No sooner had they entered the room than he'd released it from its pins, and now all the shining straight tresses seemed to be shimmering over her shoulders, spread across the bedclothes, glimmering in the golden light.

An answering glimmer heating his body, he shucked the last of his clothes and lowered himself slowly to meet her. He didn't ask her this time. He knew what her answer would be, and he didn't want to hear any words. He wanted only to hear her soft cries as he finally, finally slid into her, as he finally, finally came home and made her his.

Juliana had dreamed of this moment, but nothing she'd imagined matched the feeling of completion when James joined his body with hers. Nothing had ever felt so beautiful, nothing had ever felt so right. Nothing had ever felt so perfect as the two of them together. It had been worth waiting for, she thought fiercely just before she seemed to burst into a million glittering pieces.

But still and all, as the million pieces slowly started drifting back together, as James kissed her again, his mouth a warm promise on hers, she couldn't help being thankful that she'd never have to wait again.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear Readers,

In April 1815, Mount Tambora erupted on the Indonesian island of Sumbawa, sending more ash into the air than any volcano in the last ten thousand years. Over the next year, the dust rose into the upper atmosphere and spread slowly across the planet, obscuring the sunlight to such an extent that extreme weather conditions prevailed in places halfway around the world. The growing season was plagued by a series of devastating cold waves that destroyed crops, greatly reducing the food supply and causing widespread famine. Snow fell in June, and 1816 came to be known as "The Year Without a Summer."

The people of the time hadn't the knowledge of our modern meteorologists, so they didn't know why the weather was so cold. Countless absurd theories were proposed, including those expounded by the guests at the balls in Tempting Juliana. Although some people did indeed blame Benjamin Franklin's lightning rods, had Franklin still been alive, he might have guessed the real reason. During a similar cold spell in 1784 caused by the great eruption of Mount Asama in Japan, Franklin wrote of a "constant fog over all Europe and a great part of North America," speculating that the dust he observed in the sky might be due to volcanic explosions or the breakup of meteorites.

In James's time, smallpox was sometimes called the Speckled Monster. Throughout recorded history, it killed ten percent of the population. As a youngster, before being variolated (intentionally infected with smallpox as a preventative measure), Edward Jenner was "prepared" by being starved, purged, and bled, and afterward he was locked in a stable with other ailing boys until the disease had run its course. All in all, it was an experience he would never forget—one that later inspired him to experiment and discover that immunization with cowpox prevented smallpox.

In 1801, after he pioneered vaccination, Jenner issued a pamphlet that ended with these words: "…the annihilation of the Small Pox, the most dreadful scourge of the human species, must be the final result of this practice." Unfortunately, almost 180 years went by before his prophecy came to pass.

In Tempting Juliana, James was too optimistic in hoping smallpox vaccinations would soon be made compulsory. England didn't pass such a law until 1853, and the World Health Organization (WHO) didn't launch its campaign to conquer smallpox until 1967. At that time, there were fifteen million cases of smallpox each year. The WHO's plan was to vaccinate everyone everywhere. Teams of vaccinators traveled the world to the remotest of communities.

The last documented case of smallpox occurred just eight years later, in 1975. After an anxious period of watching for new cases, in 1980 the WHO formally declared, "Smallpox is Dead!" Jenner's dream had come true: The most feared disease of all time had been eradicated.

The Foundling Hospital was established in 1739 by Captain Thomas Coram, a childless shipwright concerned about the plight of unwanted babies in London. In his time, seventy-four percent of the poor children born in London died before they turned five, and the death rate for children put in workhouses was more than ninety percent. In contrast, the Foundling Hospital's mortality rate was under thirty percent. If that sounds high, remember that smallpox, measles, tuberculosis (consumption), and other diseases were endemic during this period. Most people did not reach old age.

In 1740, artist William Hogarth, an early Governor of the Hospital, donated the first painting to the Hospital and encouraged other artists to follow his example—and thus England's first public art gallery was born. When the wealthy came to see the art or attend concerts given by another Governor, George Frideric Handel, they were encouraged to make charitable donations. Although there's no written record of anyone donating anything besides money, I like to think that the Governors would have been open to an idea like Juliana's.

By 1954, the year the Hospital closed, it had served more than 27,000 children. Today you can visit the Foundling Museum in London, which is on the site of the original Hospital and contains artifacts as well as the art collection, displayed in fully restored interiors.

Most of the homes in my books are inspired by real places you can see. Stafford House, James's home in St. James's Place, is based on Spencer House, one of the great architectural landmarks of London. Built in the eighteenth century by John, 1st Earl Spencer (an ancestor of Diana, Princess of Wales), it was immediately recognized as a building of major importance. Should you ever find yourself in London, I highly recommend a visit. Its exquisite rooms have all been restored, and you will see many of the antiquities Amanda admired in this book. Spencer House is open to the public every Sunday except during January and August.

The Chases' town house at 44 Berkeley Square has been described as "the finest terrace house of London." It was designed in 1742 by William Kent for Lady Isabella Finch. Unfortunately, you cannot visit, because the building is currently being used as a private club. But if you go to Berkeley Square, you can see it from the outside—look for the blue door.

Cainewood Castle, Griffin's home where Juliana and James married, is loosely modeled on Arundel Castle in West Sussex. It has been home to the Dukes of Norfolk and their family, the Fitzalan-Howards, since 1243, save for a short period during the Civil War. Although the family still resides there, portions of their magnificent home are open to visitors Sundays through Fridays from April to October.

To see pictures and learn more about the real places featured in Tempting Juliana, please visit my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com, where you can also enter a contest, sign up for my newsletter, and find modern versions of all the recipes in this book. If you try any of the recipes, I hope you'll e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com and tell me what you think!

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 Tempting Juliana—thank you for reading!

Till next time,

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks:

To my critique partner, Terri Castoro, for coming through for me (yet again).

To the fabulous editor of this book, Laura Cifelli, for her wonderful ideas to improve it.

To Katarina Grant, curatorial assistant at the Foundling Museum in London, for invaluable research into the history of donations to the Foundling Hospital.

To Brent Royal-Gordon, for designing my ever-growing website (and also for great brainstorming).

To Jack Royal-Gordon, for maintaining my ever-growing website.

To Nancy and Charles Williams, for many (many!) fabulous book signings at Highland festivals (I hope you enjoy your retirement!).

To Jack, Brent, Blake, and Devonie, for suffering weeks of fast food (almost uncomplainingly) while I finished this book.

To my official First Readers—Ken and Dawn Royal, Herb and Joan Royal, Taire Martyn, and Karen Nesbitt—for feedback on early drafts

To my awesome Street Team (way too many names to list, but you can see them all on the Street Team page on my website) for their enthusiasm and support.

And, as ever, to all of my readers, who are constantly sending me letters that bring smiles to my days and send me back to my computer to write more.

Thank you, everyone!

For June Jørgensen Schelde-Mollerup,
who has been part of my family
for more than (gulp!) twenty-three years.

I cannot believe you have three
children of your own now!

PROLOGUE

IRISH WHISKEY CAKE

Take butter with sugar and put in this eggs and flour and a bit 'o coffee to make a nice flavour. Put in your pan and bake in your oven. Make a syrup of coffee with much sugar and a wee dram 'o whiskey and pour this into your cake. Bring to table with sweet whiskey cream and a sprinkle of nuts.

My mother used to caution, "Who gossips with you will gossip of you." Nonetheless, she surely did love to gossip. She used to serve this cake when the womenfolk came for tea. She claimed it loosened ladies' tongues.
—Deirdre Delaney Raleigh, 1819

Kilburton, Ireland
November 1806

On a damp Tuesday shortly after he turned eighteen, life as Sean Delaney had known it ceased to exist.

First he received a letter, an event in itself. All of Sean's acquaintances lived in the village of Kilburton—nobody ever had reason to write him a letter. A very official letter it looked, too. As Sean watched the lad who had delivered it retreat down the lane, his mother came in from the sitting room where she'd been serving tea to some womenfolk from the parish.

"Was it not Mary McBride, then?" Ma asked. "She's late."

"It wasn't Mrs. McBride, no." Sean shut the door and turned to her, the single folded sheet clutched in a hand. "It's a letter. For me."

"For you?" Her pleasant, guileless face looked as surprised as he felt. "Well, open it, then, will you?"

He nodded and broke the seal.

"Who is it from?" she asked impatiently.

"A solicitor." Below the imposing engraved letterhead, he scanned down the page. "'On behalf of Mr. Patrick Delaney—'"

"Who's that?"

He shrugged. "One of Da's relations, I expect."

"Your father has no living relations." She frowned. "What is he wanting, then?"

"He's wanting…" He read further and gasped. "He's not wanting anything. He's dead. And he left ten thousand pounds. To me."

"Ten thousand pounds?"

To a vicar's wife like Ma, the number was all but incomprehensible—enough to support a villager and his family and a servant or two for fifty years. Staring at Sean, she slowly lowered herself to a plain oak chair. Muffled feminine voices tumbled from the sitting room—her guests were gossiping, no doubt. Uncharacteristically, she ignored them.

"Ten thousand pounds, Sean. Whatever will you do with so much money?"

"I don't know," he said.

But he did know. He'd known instantly. He just didn't want to tell her.

He didn't want to disappoint her, not yet.

"I'm after going for a walk." He grabbed a heavy wool cloak from the peg by the door. "I shan't be gone long," he promised softly before slipping outside.

It was raining, as usual this time of year. As usual all year, for that matter. Tucking the letter inside the cloak where it would stay dry, he hurried down the lane.

Such a vast amount of money, more than Ma had seen in her entire lifetime. She would want him to do good with it. Charitable works or some such. She was a vicar's wife, after all, and a very kindly one at that.

But Sean didn't want to do good. Oh, he'd pay the expected tithe. He was a vicar's son, perhaps not as devout as his father would wish, but no rebel either. The tithe would be an unprecedented boon for the parish, one Sean would be pleased to provide. He'd been raised with all of these folks—spent his entire life surrounded by them, cocooned in their comfortable familiarity—and it seemed right that they should share a tenth of his good fortune.

But after that, he was going to leave Ireland.

He was going to London.

He was going to make a life for himself, something better than he'd ever imagined growing up in wee Kilburton.

It wasn't going to be easy to leave kinfolk and friends, to strike out on his own. He knew that. His heart seemed both heavy and light as he turned away from the village, crossed the harvested fields, wandered the age-old riverbank. Touching the precious letter beneath his cloak, he alternately laughed, pondering his immense luck, and trembled, wondering what lay ahead.

Three hours passed—three tense, exhilarating hours—before he took a deep breath and started home. It had stopped raining. When he reentered the village, the sun was setting low on the horizon, its last rays fighting through the cloud cover as he trod the lane toward the vicarage. Just before he reached the squat house, two figures came out of it, dark shadows against the silvery glow.

"You have no choice." The Honorable Mr. William Hamilton's voice came low and angry through the gloom. An imposing man if not a tall one, he was the same height as the son he pulled toward their fancy carriage. "Not this time."

Wondering what was going on but not wanting to be seen, Sean hid himself behind a tree.

"You paid off that village girl without any repercussions." Young John Hamilton sounded sullen, furious. "And that maid—"

"Two. Two lowly maids." His father pushed him up the carriage's steps. "She's not some servant's get, you idiot," he muttered, following his son inside. "I'd lose face should you not—"

The door shut, and Sean heard nothing else. As the carriage rumbled off, he stepped from behind the tree and hurried into the house.

It was warm, welcoming, filled with the soft light of oil lamps and redolent with the scent of the whiskey cake his mother had baked earlier for her guests. A good home, simple but clean and cared for. Sean had a fine family, a sister three years his junior and parents who had always been there for both of them, giving of their hearts although they'd never had much to give materially.

He felt sad, knowing he'd soon be leaving all of this, and also excited about his new life. But mostly, he was mighty curious to learn what had made the Hamiltons leave their huge manor house to pay a call at the modest vicarage.

Hearing voices from the sitting room, he headed there. And stopped short when his sister turned to him with a grin. "I'm marrying John Hamilton."

Sean gaped at fifteen-year-old Deirdre. He couldn't have heard her right. "What did you just say?"

Her golden hair gleaming in the firelight, she lifted her chin. "Mr. Hamilton told John he'd have to marry me."

"But why?" His gaze shot from his father's bloodless face to his mother's eyes, swollen from weeping. There could be only one reason they looked like that, one reason John Hamilton might be forced to wed Deirdre. "Don't tell me you're…" As he looked back to his sister, the rest of the sentence stuck in his throat.

Her grin widened as she folded her hands over her deceivingly flat middle. "I'm with child, aye. And I'll be the wife of John Hamilton, the handsomest, richest unmarried man in all of Kilburton."

In all of the county, more like. The Hamiltons' lofty new manor house sat in the shadow of their ancestral home, centuries-old Kilburton Castle. John Hamilton's father was the younger brother of the Earl of Lincolnshire, sent years ago to oversee Kilburton, one of the earl's many lesser estates.

Growing up, Sean and Deirdre had been educated in a chilly one-room schoolhouse, while John had a parade of private English tutors. The boy had always been temperamental, and Sean had thought him haughty, unfeeling, and selfish. But the two had been born the same year, and since there were no other lads their age in Kilburton, Sean's mother had told him to play with John anyway. After all, she'd often said—all too often, in Sean's estimation—it was the Christian thing to do.

Being a biddable sort of son, Sean had done what he was told and played with the fellow more times than he could count. But Hamilton had always wanted to stay inside and fiddle with paste and paint, while Sean preferred outdoor pursuits like fishing and building forts. He'd never really liked John Hamilton.

Deirdre, on the other hand, a rather wild girl and the bane of her parents' existence, obviously liked John Hamilton just fine.

Fine enough to let John ruin her.

Still and all, Sean loved his sister. She was pretty and fun, the best of companions, always ready with a smile and a plan for mischief. Looking at her now, her eyes dancing, Sean clenched his fists.

He no longer disliked John Hamilton…he hated the rotter.

For life.

CHAPTER ONE

Ten years later
The British Museum, London
April 1817

"We want to see the Rosetta Stone," two feminine voices chorused.

For the third time in the last quarter hour.

"Just a few more minutes," Lady Corinna Chase promised her sisters, her gaze focused on her sketchbook.

"A few is three," Alexandra, the oldest, pointed out. "Or maybe five. But certainly not thirty. You said 'a few more minutes' half an hour ago."

"And half an hour before that," Juliana, the middle sister, added.

The squeak of wheels threatened Corinna's concentration. Alexandra was rolling a perambulator back and forth in hopes of soothing Harold, her infant son. Though it was all but unheard-of for ladies to cart their babies around town—most aristocratic mothers happily left their children in the care of wet nurses and nannies—Alexandra had insisted on buying one of the newfangled contraptions, because she rarely let little Harry out of her sight.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. "How can you gaze at statues for so long?"

"I'm not gazing. I'm drawing." Corinna sketched another line, following the curve of a muscled male thigh. "And in case you haven't noticed, the Elgin Marbles aren't all statues. This particular panel is part of a frieze from the illustrious Parthenon in Greece. Even more important, the figures are anatomically correct."

Which was why she was here, of course. Why she'd been willing to drag herself out of bed at an ungodly hour to sketch. Corinna wanted nothing more than to study human anatomy. Unfortunately, the anatomy classes at the Royal Academy of Arts were entirely forbidden to women.

Entirely.

Forbidden.

It was infuriating. Corinna's fondest wish was to be elected to the Royal Academy, an honor no woman had attained since 1768. Though she harbored no dreams of accomplishing this goal at her current age of twenty-two—for one thing, Academicians had to be at least twenty-four years old—getting nominated and eventually elected was a long, involved process, and she hoped to take her first step within a matter of weeks, by getting one of her paintings accepted for the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition.

That was something women did accomplish on a regular basis, although not usually with portraits. Traditionally, ladies painted only landscapes and still lifes—painting people was considered fast and unseemly. Regardless, Corinna's heart lay in painting portraits. She was drawn to the human form, compelled to render personalities in oil on canvas.

But how was a female supposed to accurately paint people if she wasn't allowed to attend anatomy classes?

"We cannot stay much longer," Juliana said. "I need to make sure everything's in place for Cornelia's wedding." Cornelia, Juliana's mother-in-law, was marrying Lord Cavanaugh at her home later that evening. "And I want to see the Rosetta Stone," she added for the fourth time.

"So go see it."

"And I want to see the gems and minerals," Alexandra said. "And the jeweled—"

"Go see it all. Go see everything in the museum." Corinna flipped a page, refocusing on the nude form of the gorgeous Greek god before her. "I'll be right here."

"That would take an hour or more." Squeak. Squeak. "We cannot leave you here in the Elgin Gallery alone."

"I'm not alone. There are people everywhere." Too many people, constantly jostling her and blocking her view.

"The Rosetta Stone is in the main building."

"It's perfectly proper for two married ladies to cross the museum grounds together." Unlike Corinna, who was known as a bit of a rebel, her sisters were always concerned with being proper. "I knew I should have brought Aunt Frances along instead. She's more patient than either of you."

"She's also nine months gone with child." Alexandra sighed. "We'll be back in an hour."

"Make that two or three," Corinna muttered as they left. Hearing the pram squeak-squeak toward the door, she smiled and licked her lips. She and the Greek god were alone at last.

Holy Hannah, he was magnificent.

Major changes in Sean Delaney's life always seemed to be heralded by a letter.

The first had been the letter informing him of his unexpected inheritance, of course, but more letters had followed. A year later, a letter had told him his parents had perished of smallpox. He'd received numerous letters each time he'd established a new company, each time he'd bought an ongoing concern, each time he'd purchased a piece of property. More recently, six short months ago, a letter had arrived from his sister, Deirdre, confessing the failure of her marriage and advising Sean she would soon arrive to move in with him.

Nevertheless, when his butler brought him a letter this fine spring morning in Hampstead, he broke the seal without a second thought. Opened it. Scanned the scrawled message quickly.

Then crumpled it into a ball and hurled it into his library's fancy white marble-manteled fireplace.

"Who was it from?" Deirdre asked from the plush blue velvet chair where she sat reading a book.

He turned to her, thinking she looked prettier than ever. He wouldn't have said the same when she'd first arrived. Following a decade of trying her best to make her ill-fated marriage work, Deirdre had looked haggard when she'd shown up on Sean's doorstep. Only twenty-five years old, she'd appeared middle-aged, run-down, and desperate.

After being forced to marry her, John Hamilton had treated her like dirt. Or less than dirt, considering one usually noticed dirt and did something about it. In contrast, Hamilton had ignored her completely while he'd concentrated on one painting after another, coming up for air only to indulge himself with a series of paramours, some of whom he carried on with right under Deirdre's nose.

Tragically, Deirdre had miscarried three months into their marriage, and the two hadn't shared a bed in all the years since. Deirdre remained childless, while Hamilton, now a highly acclaimed landscape artist, had bastards all over Great Britain.

Sean glanced at the paper ball in the empty fireplace, wishing it weren't such a warm, sunny day. Had there been a proper blaze burning on the hearth, the damn letter would have been ashes by now. "It was from Hamilton. Your husband." He all but choked on the final word.

"From John? What did he say?" She shook her head and sighed. "Never mind. I don't want to know. I'm done with him."

Sean wished she were done with him. The reason Deirdre looked so much better these days was she'd met another man and fallen head-over-heels in love. She wanted nothing more than to marry Daniel Raleigh, and Raleigh—a respectable merchant Sean sometimes did business with—wished to marry her. But despite many impassioned pleas, Hamilton had denied her the divorce she sought.

Unfortunately, it was impossible for a woman to sue for divorce. Only a man could do that, and Hamilton refused to cooperate. Apparently he liked being married. Probably because it saved him from being pressured to commit to any of his lovers.

"He wants me to meet with him at noon," Sean told her. "At the British Museum. He claims he has 'something important' to discuss."

Hope leapt into her eyes. "My divorce?"

"I doubt it." Hamilton was too selfish to set Deirdre free. "It sounded more like a favor. What makes him think I'd do him a favor? Me, of all people?"

She squared her shoulders. "It doesn't signify. I've no need of a divorce. Daniel wants me to come live in his home, and I have told him I will."

Raleigh had a fine house and could provide well for Deirdre. He was a steady man of good character. Sean liked him, and he treated Deirdre like a queen.

But all of that was beside the point. "Without the benefit of marriage?"

"I made a mistake, Sean. I'll be the first to admit that. But should I suffer for it forever? John's had a hold on me long enough. I'd prefer to marry Daniel than live with him unwed, but sadly that isn't an option. He's willing to take me anyway, and it's time I lived again."

"What would Ma say? And Da?" For the first time ever, Sean was almost happy they'd died. They'd both have been mortified. Though Deirdre had always been a wild one, this went beyond improper. It was all but unthinkable. "At some point, you have to grow up. You've got a chance for a fresh start here in London. If you want to be well thought of, you need to stop defying society's expectations."

"I'm not part of society, Sean."

"I'm not meaning in the sense of the upper crust, and well you know it. The public in general, Deirdre, the respectable people. Someday you'll have children. Don't you want them to be accepted?"

"You're one to speak! As though you've never shared a woman's bed even though you've yet to wed. You've had mistresses yourself, if you don't remember."

"It's different for men." She opened her mouth to protest, but he rushed on. "That may not be fair, but it's a fact. And I've never taken a woman's innocence, nor slept with one who expected marriage. Who expected anything more than some pretty baubles and fancy new clothes."

His mistresses—and he'd indeed kept a few of them—had been actresses and opera dancers all. He'd admit to having gone a wee bit wild himself after escaping Kilburton and his upbringing, but he'd been young, after all, and randy, and there were only so many hours a man could spend building his fortune. He'd often worked late and on a Sunday, but past a certain hour there was really nothing much he could accomplish and no one around with whom to accomplish it.

London had proved dazzling those first few years. Huge and vital and seductive. He'd enjoyed the theater, and yes, he'd found himself attracted to some women up on the stage. Since he wasn't a man who liked to share, he'd provided them housing, made them his mistresses in exchange for temporary fidelity. But it had been years—two years or more, he suddenly realized—since he'd had that sort of arrangement. He'd lost his taste for that life, for those shallow, unemotional relationships.

He'd grown up. And it was time Deirdre did, too.

Rising, he strode to the fireplace, snatched out the crumpled paper, and smoothed it on his rosewood desk. "I'll meet with Hamilton. We'll work this out. There's just enough time to get to the British Museum by noon—"

"No. Don't." His sister leapt from her chair to grab his arm. "You've other plans for today."

"Nothing that matters as much as this."

"I won't have you begging on my behalf. It's pointless and humiliating."

"While your living in sin won't be?" Sean shook his arm to dislodge her hand. "I'm going, Deirdre. You cannot stop me."

Gritting his teeth, he summoned his curricle and headed for the city…praying that, instead of a favor, "something important" would turn out to be the divorce that would solve his sister's problem.

CHAPTER TWO

"I have a problem," Hamilton announced without preamble when Sean stepped into the museum's lobby. "I wish your help with it. I wish to view the newly arrived Elgin Marbles."

"That presents no problem at all," Sean said dryly, gesturing toward the back of Montagu House. "We need only to walk through here and outside toward the temporary Elgin Gallery."

Never one to respond to humor, the artist slanted him a peeved glance as he fell into step beside him. "My uncle, Samuel Hamilton, the Earl of Lincolnshire, is dying."

"My condolences," Sean said automatically before wondering if the man even cared. Hamilton looked cheerful enough, considering his usual bad temper. In contrast to Sean's own black suit and white shirt, he was dressed in a colorful, flamboyant style. Though his cravat appeared brown, Sean suspected it was bright red or green. "And your problem is?"

"I'm Lincolnshire's heir, and he hasn't seen me for many years. Not since I was a babe in arms, in fact. He wishes to get to know the man who is about to inherit his title and estates."

"I don't find that surprising," Sean said as they stepped outdoors.

Hamilton's failure to see his uncle despite regular visits to London was no surprise, either. Deirdre's husband was nothing if not reclusive. Although the man's paintings commanded outrageous sums, few collectors had actually met him. Once a year he slipped into town, served as a judge on the Royal Academy committee that chose the pieces to be displayed in the annual Summer Exhibition, renewed his ties with colleagues, and slipped out again—without ever pandering to his patrons.

He claimed that keeping to himself—with the exception of female companionship, one should understand—was necessary in order to maintain his artistic vision. But Sean attributed this behavior to temperament: a combination of sheer orneriness and a twisted delight the man took in concealing himself from the public.

"And the problem with that is?" he repeated as they trod the path toward the new building, which Sean's experienced eye told him was nothing but a large, prefabricated shed. "Go see the man if that's what he wants."

"He doesn't want to just see me. He's demanded I stay with him through his final days. He claims that should I fail to arrive posthaste, I should expect to inherit the title and entailed estate and nothing else. He'll leave the rest of his holdings to charity."

"Sounds fair enough to me. How long is he expected to live?"

Before the door to the Elgin Gallery, Hamilton halted. "A week or two," he spat.

A week or two during which the selfish cur would be deprived of his hedonistic lifestyle. "So go stay with him. Sweet Jesus, Hamilton, it won't kill you." Disgusted, and knowing this wasn't a good time to raise the issue of his sister's divorce yet again, Sean turned on a heel to leave.

"No." Hamilton moved to block his way, stopping him with an outstretched hand against his shoulder. "I've a once-in-a-lifetime chance to paint the legendary waterfall on Lord Llewelyn's estate in the Tanat Valley. Lady Llewelyn has extended an invitation. It came in the same mail with the demand from Lincolnshire. I'll be leaving before nightfall."

Sean glared down at his brother-in-law's hand until the man dropped it. It was common knowledge that Lady Llewelyn was Hamilton's latest paramour. The nerve of the rotter, abandoning his dying uncle for a sexual liaison when he refused to bed his own lovely wife. "I suppose Lord Llewelyn will be conveniently absent."

"Abroad," Hamilton confirmed. "And neither he nor his ancestors have ever allowed any artist to paint the falls. Furthermore, it's spring, the season when their volume is greatest. This very month of April, in fact, is said to be when the monk and the lady are most likely to appear. If I can capture them in paint, it will prove the coup of a lifetime."

"The monk and the lady?"

"A monk in his long robes, the Guardian of the Falls, said to materialize in the pattern of rushing water. And the Lady of the Waterfall. She's said to peek out from behind the towering gush, her body concealed in flowing skirts, her face hidden by her long hair—"

"You believe this blarney?" Sean interrupted. "This utter nonsense, the stuff of fairy tales?"

"You don't? You're Irish, for God's sake. You have to believe in the fairies."

Sean snorted. Hamilton didn't want to see fairies appear in waterfalls. He wanted to see Lady Llewelyn's clothes disappear in his bed. "Your uncle needs you, Hamilton. Paint the falls another time."

"There won't be another time. Llewelyn refuses to grant access, and he hasn't left the country in years."

Why the hell was the man coming to him with this damned problem? Sean had a knack for making money, not plucking solutions out of thin air. "If that's the way you feel, you'll have to forgo Lincolnshire's unentailed holdings."

"Lincolnshire's unentailed holdings comprise the bulk of his substantial fortune."

"And doubtless you intend to keep every penny. There's nothing I can do for you, Hamilton. You'll have to postpone your journey to the Tanat Valley." And live without your ladylove for up to fourteen long days, Sean added silently. "Your uncle's expected to survive only a week or two. If Llewelyn's abroad, he'll be gone much longer than that."

"But there are a mere six days left in April, and even traveling without pause, it will take two of them for me to get to Wales. Maybe three. And there is something you can do for me." Hamilton fixed him with a cold gaze. "I want you to go to the old man, introduce yourself as John Hamilton, and live with him until his death."

Aghast, Sean gaped at him for a few moments, mainly because it took him that long to force closed his slack jaw. "I suggest you find someone else to do you this favor. Perhaps someone who actually likes you. Why the devil should I, of all people, do this—or anything—for the man who ruined my sister's life?"

"Why?" A sly glint came into Hamilton's lazy-lidded eyes. "I'll tell you why: because if you cooperate, I'll grant Deirdre her precious divorce. And because if you don't, I won't. Ever."

It took a while for Sean to reclaim his breath. Hamilton was offering him exactly what he wanted…if only he'd do something he found absolutely abhorrent.

Since pointing that out would likely strengthen the cur's resolve, Sean chose another tack. "You'll soon be an earl," he said coolly. "You're going to need a legitimate heir to carry on the line. With or without my cooperation, you'd best divorce Deirdre and remarry."

"Siring an heir will prove no problem." Hamilton waved a smooth, pale hand. "I shall simply make your sister move back in with me until she bears me a male child."

What could Sean possibly say to that? Devastating though it might be, he knew Deirdre would have to comply. The law was clear: A man had the right to compel his wife to live wherever he pleased. And forcing a woman to do her "wifely duty"…well, the term said it all.

Duty would never be considered rape.

"Only you can pull off this deception," Hamilton continued, pressing his advantage. "You're the one man on earth who not only looks somewhat like me but also knew my father, my mother, our estate in Ireland…in short, everything my uncle would expect you to know."

The man did have a point. Although Sean was taller, they both had dark hair and green eyes. And Lincolnshire hadn't seen Hamilton in twenty-seven years. No doubt Sean could pull it off.

Except he couldn't.

"Regardless that I know all those things, your uncle won't be fooled. He'll never believe I'm an artist. I'm color-blind, which you seem to have conveniently forgotten."

Hamilton laughed. "People don't question such details. The old man will believe whatever you tell him. He's ill and dying—and hell, even another artist will believe you're an artist. I'll bet you," he challenged, opening the flimsy door to the Elgin Gallery. "I'll bet you I can convince another artist that you're an artist, and if I can, your forfeit will be to carry out my plan and thereby secure your sister's divorce. If I fail, I'll grant Deirdre the divorce as my forfeit. Take it or leave it, Delaney."

Before Sean could protest any further, Hamilton pushed him toward a young woman busily sketching.

CHAPTER THREE

If only she could find a real man who looked like this, Corinna mused as she sketched another Greek god, life would be downright blissful.

Not that she was planning to wed anytime soon, much to her brother Griffin's chagrin. He wanted nothing more than to marry her off, to have her—his last unwed sister—out of his house and off of his hands. To make her someone else's responsibility.

To that end, he'd insisted on shoving her toward eligible men at all the balls this year. He'd also been dragging her to Almack's and every other social event on the calendar. The season had been underway but a few weeks, yet she felt as though she'd met more men this month than the rest of her life combined.

It was annoying, to say the least.

She did enjoy balls, and she also liked men, of course. She'd especially liked kissing the few who had managed to get her alone. Although artists were supposed to be passionate creatures, she'd sadly lacked passion in her life until recently. Her grandmother, father, mother, and eldest brother had died in succession, keeping her from socializing for four long years.

Now that she'd finally experienced some passion, she'd found men's lips to be softer and warmer than she'd expected, and the closeness had proved positively exhilarating. Enjoyable indeed. But right now her art was more important than finding love.

Unless she were to find one of these Greek gods…

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she used her pencil to shade the fascinating muscles on the god's toned bare chest. Then, looking up, she spotted two gentlemen heading in her direction. As though some higher power had read her mind and sent him to fulfill her fantasy, the taller one seemed to her a Greek god come to life.

Flipping to a new page, she started sketching the real man instead of the stone replica. Quickly, before he disappeared from view.

His angular, sculpted face was framed by crisp black curls that grew long at the back of his neck…long enough to make a woman's fingers itch to comb through them. His eyes were the greenest she'd ever seen. Unfortunately, he was rather more clothed than the marble gods, but having sketched quite a few of them, she fancied she could imagine what he looked like beneath his well-made but conservative trousers, waistcoat, and tailcoat. Her pencil outlined broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips—

She froze midsketch as the two men walked right up to her.

"Good afternoon," the shorter one said.

Like the taller man, he was dark-haired and green-eyed and good-looking. And he was much more fashionably dressed. But all in all, she decided, not nearly of the same Greek god caliber.

Still, she swallowed hard. She wasn't accustomed to handsome gentlemen introducing themselves. Good manners dictated they ask permission of a young lady's chaperone, who would then provide the introduction.

She might have kissed a few men, but none who hadn't gone through the proper channels to meet her first.

"Good afternoon," she returned guardedly. "Mr.…?"

"Delaney," he said smoothly. "Sean Delaney, at your service. And this," he added, indicating the taller man, "is my good friend Mr. John Hamilton. Having noticed you sketching, he wished to be introduced to a fellow artist. You've heard of him, I presume?"

Had she heard of him? Corinna's sketchbook and pencil fell to the floor as her jaw dropped open. Everyone had heard of John Hamilton, the renowned, reclusive painter of landscapes.

She turned to him, positively stunned. Her Greek god was John Hamilton—John Hamilton!—and he'd requested an introduction. To her, Corinna Chase, possibly the most unrenowned artist in all of London.

"Mr. Hamilton," she gushed, "I cannot tell you how much I admire—"

"Please stop," he interrupted, bending to scoop up her supplies. He straightened and, with a roll of his gorgeous emerald eyes toward Mr. Delaney, handed the items to her. "I'm sorry, but I'm not John Hamilton." His lilting accent was distracting. The deep, melodious Irish voice didn't quite mesh with the Greek physique. "I'm Sean Delaney. And I'm afraid my brother-in-law here—the real John Hamilton—has a horrible sense of humor."

"Now, Hamilton." The other man dolefully shook his head. "There's no need to hide your identity from this charming young lady."

"It's your identity in question, and you hide it from everyone." The Greek god drew a line in the air that traced the other man from head to toe. "You'll note he's the one dressed in artistic style," he pointed out to Corinna before brushing at his own, much plainer clothes. "I'm merely a common man of business."

"Please forgive Mr. Hamilton." Mr. Delaney—or perhaps he was Mr. Hamilton—raised a brow toward Corinna. "He's much too self-effacing."

"Blarney!" the Greek god shot back. "You're a dunce, Hamilton."

Corinna had observed a tennis match once, and she now felt like that little ball bouncing back and forth between the two men. She didn't know which one to believe. But since she didn't expect to see either of them ever again, she figured it didn't signify.

While they'd volleyed, she'd regained her senses enough to remember Mr. Hamilton was a member of the committee that chose artwork for the Summer Exhibition. That was what truly mattered.

She clutched her art supplies to her chest. "I'm an oil painter myself," she told both of them, praying one really was John Hamilton. "I'm here sketching the marbles to learn anatomy so I can improve my technique for portraits. It's my fondest hope that one of my canvases will be selected for this year's Summer Exhibition."

"I'm certain Mr. Hamilton will vote for it," the shorter man assured her gravely.

"I will not." The Greek god's fists were clenched, and his Irish lilt came through gritted teeth. "I mean, he won't. Or perhaps he will, but I'm not Hamilton."

"Pshaw." The other man waved a smooth, graceful hand. "He's—"

"Corinna!" She looked away to see her sisters hurrying near, the pram squeaking its way toward her. "I'm sorry we took so long," Alexandra said. "Are you finished yet?"

Corinna smiled in relief, certain Juliana would figure out which man was John Hamilton. The meddler in the family, Juliana had a skill for weaseling out secrets. "I'd be pleased for you to meet Mr. Hamilton," she said, turning back to the men.

They were gone.

Lifting her sweet baby boy from the pram, Alexandra frowned. "Mr. Hamilton?"

"The landscapist, John Hamilton. He was just here." Corinna scanned the crowded gallery, to no avail. "He looks like a Greek god. Or perhaps it's his friend who looks like the Greek god, or his brother-in-law—"

"Whatever are you babbling about? John Hamilton never appears in public." Looking sympathetic, Juliana touched her arm. "I think we should go. I must get home well before my mother-in-law's wedding, and in any case, you've clearly been sketching too long."

Back outdoors, Sean hauled Hamilton toward Montagu House, one hand clenched on the man's upper arm.

"It's a shame women cannot study anatomy," Hamilton remarked as though they were on a leisurely stroll, "because sketching statues isn't going to help her learn anything."

"Is that so?" Sean gritted out.

"I've yet to see a portrait painted by a woman that was any good, and I never expect to, so I seriously doubt I'll vote for that female's painting."

Sean had no wish to continue this conversation. In fact, he'd gladly pay a thousand pounds to avoid speaking with Hamilton ever again. But he felt sorry for the woman in question. "What if her picture is good? Will you still refuse to vote for it simply because it was painted by a lady?"

"Of course I wouldn't. Point of fact, I wouldn't be aware a female painted it, since I never seek signatures before I vote. Most of the Summer Exhibition judges take an artist's status into consideration, but I believe each work should stand on its own. Regardless of what the other Academicians think, I maintain that a painter's identity should never influence a judge's opinion."

It was the most reasonable statement Sean had ever heard leave Hamilton's lips. Surprisingly reasonable. Until the rotter added, "But I'm certain her paintings won't be any good, because she's never studied anatomy."

"She might surprise you," Sean shot back. "You shouldn't be so judgmental. You might vote for her painting and later on have to eat humble pie."

"I doubt it," Hamilton said blandly. "We failed to learn her name, so in the unlikely event I ever did vote for one of her works, I'd never know it, would I?"

"Corinna."

"Pardon?"

"Her name is Corinna. Not that I learned it in the course of your shoddy introduction. Another woman called her Corinna as I was dragging you off." Her lovely face swam into his memory. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

"You had no right to drag me off." Wrenching his arm from Sean's hand, Hamilton pulled open the door to Montagu House. "Who's beautiful?"

"Corinna," Sean repeated as he followed him inside.

Wide blue eyes and gleaming dark hair. Sean had never been a fanciful sort of man, and he damn well didn't believe in love at first sight or any of the other nonsense poets regularly spouted. But something about her had seemed to crawl under his skin and clutch him low in the gut. Something had made him bunch his fists to keep from reaching to touch her. Something had made him want to kiss her.

He remembered her biting her plump lower lip, and how he'd been tempted to bite it himself. "There's something about her…she's very sensual."

"Sensual? I didn't notice," Hamilton said, and while Sean was wondering how an artist could be that unobservant, he added, "I won the bet," in a smug tone.

"You did not. She didn't believe I was you."

"She didn't know what to believe. Which means I won. I succeeded in convincing her you may be an artist."

"Blarney."

Hamilton shrugged. "Whether you agree or not doesn't signify. You'll still pretend to be me for Lincolnshire's sake if you want to see your sister divorced."

"I believe you'll want to rethink that demand. When society discovers you deceived your uncle for your own gain, your reputation will be torn to threads. Your stellar art career will end in shame."

"Blarney," Hamilton mimicked in disdain. "No one will ever find out. Lincolnshire is incapacitated and housebound. Furthermore, he's a heartless blackguard, so who the hell would give a care whether he's hoaxed? He banished my family to the backwoods of Ireland when we should rightfully have been living the high life in London."

It was a litany Sean had heard practically since birth, not only from Hamilton himself but from both of the man's parents. They'd been none too happy to find themselves living among Irish rabble, but they'd been given no choice. Lincolnshire had ordered his younger brother to oversee his foreign interests, and the man had had no other means, short of lowering himself to common labor, to support his wife and child. He'd wanted to be a deacon or dean or archbishop, but Lincolnshire had refused to pull the necessary political strings. He'd been willing to serve in the military, but Lincolnshire had refused to buy him a commission.

Maybe Hamilton was right. Who was going to complain if such a heartless old man's nephew tricked him?

Sean stood in the museum's busy lobby, fighting his better judgment. Though he'd normally refuse to lie to a dying man—or to any decent man, for that matter—perhaps the mean old earl had it coming. But more than that, Sean loved Deirdre. He didn't want to see her forced back to Hamilton's bed or living in sin with Daniel Raleigh. And he knew that if he didn't agree to Hamilton's plan, the self-centered cur would never free his sister.

"This won't interrupt your routine," Hamilton promised. "You'll have to move to Lincolnshire's Berkeley Square town house for a couple of weeks, but you need only sleep there at night. You can tell the old man you must paint during the day and go off to do your usual work. It shan't affect Delaney and Company at all."

"What if he wants to see your paintings?"

"You mean your paintings," Hamilton said with a pointed smirk. He frowned a moment, then nodded. "I'll leave you some money to lease studio space near the square—"

"I don't want your money," Sean growled. He'd come a long way in the ten years since that first fateful letter arrived. Having shrewdly invested his surprise inheritance, he thought he might now be the wealthiest twenty-eight-year-old self-made man in all of Britain. "And I don't need to lease anything. I own half of Piccadilly Street."

Not to mention a good percentage of other property in and around London.

"Do you, now? Well, that's excellent. If you've a vacant garret nearby, that would be ideal. Something very private with north-facing windows. I've a few canvases in the apartments I've been renting. I shall fetch them posthaste and put them in there for you to show him." He nodded again, more enthusiastically. "Perhaps I'll lease the space from you permanently. Once I inherit the title, I'll be forced to spend some time at Lincolnshire House, so I'll need it when I return from Wales."

An awkward silence stretched between them while people walked in and out, asking the porter directions to find the Rosetta Stone or the Egyptian mummies.

"You'll do it, won't you?" Hamilton pressed. "Otherwise—"

"I'll do it," Sean snapped. He knew what otherwise entailed: doom for Deirdre.

To avoid that, he'd sell himself to the devil.

Which he very probably just had.

CHAPTER FOUR

ORANGE BRANDY

Take a quart of Brandy, the peels of eight Oranges thin pared, keep them in the Brandy forty-eight hours in a closed pitcher, then take three pints of Water, put into it three quarters of a pounde of loaf Sugar, boil it till half be consumed, and let it stand till cold, then mixe it with the Brandy.

This was served at my grandparents' wedding breakfast, and their marriage was blessed with love and health. We have had it at family weddings ever since.
—Eleanor, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1730

Lady Stafford and Lord Cavanaugh's wedding was a modest affair, just family and a few friends in the gorgeous Painted Room at Stafford House. The chamber was a mite tight even for the small number of guests; the equally impressive Palm Room downstairs would have been more comfortable. But the Painted Room was perfect for the occasion, because its theme was marriage.

A famous Roman fresco was re-created on the chimneypiece, and other wedding scenes were painted directly on the plaster walls. Panels depicted music, drinking, and dancing. Cupid and Venus cavorted overhead, nymphs danced on the ceiling, lovers courted on gilt-framed canvas, and a frieze of rose wreaths and garlands of flowers went all around the cornice.

The house wasn't actually Lady Stafford's anymore. Cornelia had been the Dowager Lady Stafford for several years now, which meant Stafford House belonged to her son, James Trevor, the current Earl of Stafford. Who also happened to be Juliana's husband.

While the minister droned on, Juliana leaned close to Corinna. "Your turn will come next."

"I'm not concerned with having a turn," Corinna whispered back. "My art is more important than love."

Her gaze shifted to Aunt Frances, hugely pregnant and wearing a sentimental, romantic smile. Love had recently saved Aunt Frances from the dreary life she'd been leading as a spinster in her mid-forties. And love had transformed Corinna's sisters' lives as well. Juliana and James had wed only last August, right after Frances and Lord Malmsey. Alexandra and Tristan had been married nearly two years and took joy in their infant son.

Although Corinna sometimes feared she'd fail to find true love for herself, she also worried she'd forever remain unrecognized for her talents. Of the two, she felt the art was more under her control. It was the thing that defined her, the thing that mattered most.

She was happy for Aunt Frances and her sisters. It was wonderful that they'd all found love, but to Corinna's mind, the three women had little else. They'd needed love to complete them, but she had her art.

She had her landscapes and her still lifes, and most of all, her portraits. Her art ought to be enough. If only she could get one of her works accepted into the Summer Exhibition, her future would be bright whether or not a man was in the picture.

No sooner had the minister announced that the Dowager Lady Stafford was now Lady Cavanaugh than Juliana began distributing glasses of orange brandy, a concoction some ancient ancestor had claimed was guaranteed to assure a lifetime of marital bliss. How her sisters believed such nonsense was something Corinna would never fathom. But she had to admit that Lord and Lady Cavanaugh looked very happy for now. Perched together on an amazing green silk sofa with gilt arms carved to look like winged lions, they both beamed as they accepted congratulations. Clearly Cornelia had found her Greek god, even if he was somewhat aged and silver-haired.

Her husband, James, in tow, Juliana returned. She handed Corinna the last glass with a satisfied sigh. "Oh, don't the two of them look perfect together? I knew they'd end up married."

Juliana always knew what was best for everyone, and she never hesitated to announce it. Last season she'd suggested her husband's mother and Lord Cavanaugh share a dance, and now here they were, man and wife.

"Her new title even begins with C," Juliana added proudly.

Corinna sipped the sweet spirits. "Why should that signify?"

Slipping an arm around Juliana's waist, James laughed. "My aunts," he reminded Corinna, "are Aurelia, Lady Avonleigh, and Bedelia, Lady Balmforth. But until today my mother—their sister—was Cornelia, Lady Stafford."

"Now she's Cornelia, Lady Cavanaugh, and the three sisters are Ladies A, B, and C," Juliana pointed out.

"Holy Hannah," Corinna said as James laughed again and walked off.

She'd never understand how Juliana's mind worked.

As though the conversation had summoned her, Lady A made her way over. "Wasn't the ceremony beautiful? My baby sister, married again." With a teary but happy little sniff, she tore her gaze from the new Lady C and focused on Corinna. "How are you doing these days, my dear?"

"Very well, thank you."

"And your art?"

"I've been painting madly. I hope to see one of my pictures accepted for the Summer Exhibition this year."

"Don't forget, I promised to help."

"Thank you," Corinna said, although she had no idea how the kind, plump lady could help. But one of the woman's daughters, who'd been artistic as well, had tragically ended her own life before the age of twenty when she'd jumped off the London Bridge, taking her unborn baby with her. And since Lady Avonleigh's daughter had hoped to be elected to the Royal Academy herself, the woman had announced last year that she wished to see Corinna succeed in her daughter's stead.

Unfortunately, wishing didn't accomplish much, and Lady A had no connections to the art world. But Corinna knew the sweet lady's heart was in the right place. "I appreciate your good intentions," she told her sincerely.

"I have a plan," Lady A announced.

Corinna couldn't have been more surprised if the new Lady C had asked for an annulment. "Do you?"

"Yes, indeed. I've made a rather large donation to the Royal Academy, earmarked to provide yearly grants for deserving students to study abroad. A noble cause, don't you think?"

"Very much so," Corinna said. The Royal Academy had sponsored student travel years ago, but such grants had been in abeyance since the wars had begun, making journeys to the Continent impossible. Following Napoleon's recent defeat at Waterloo, travel had once again resumed, and artists were now clamoring to go.

But Lady A's grants would all go to men, of course, since women were barred from the Royal Academy schools.

Corinna sighed. "I would love to go study in Italy."

"I'm sure you would, dear. My daughter always wanted to go, too." Lady A rested a sympathetic hand on her arm. "I've made a stipulation that the yearly awards be titled the Lady Georgiana Cartwright Scholarships, in her honor. I do hope that seeing a lady's name on the grant will encourage the Academy to consider admitting women in future. And in the meantime"—she smiled, her soft blue eyes going a little hazy as she gazed off into space—"it gives me pleasure to think of helping any art student achieve his dreams, no matter the recipient's gender."

"Tell her the rest," Juliana prompted.

"Ah, yes." Lady A nodded, coming back from wherever she'd drifted off. "Next month I shall hold an afternoon reception in my home, to which I shall invite the members of the Summer Exhibition Selection Committee. Thanks to my generous patronage, I'm certain they'll all feel obligated to attend. And, of course, I shall invite you too, Lady Corinna, giving you the opportunity to show them some of your work and, more important, charm them and influence their decision."

Corinna doubted her ability to charm. Her sisters accused her of being sarcastic much more often than they lauded her more feminine virtues. But as she was unknown in the art world—and that would be a mark against her in the judging—she was thrilled to have the opportunity to meet the committee. And flabbergasted that Lady A would go to such lengths to help her.

"Thank you so much," she gushed. "I shall make the most of this chance, I assure you."

"I must give credit where credit is due," Lady A said. "The whole scheme was your sister's idea."

"It was your money," Juliana hastened to point out. "And your decision where it should be allocated."

"I was pleased to do it. My dear daughter would have approved. I shall be even more pleased when your sister becomes the first female elected to the Royal Academy in forty-nine years, and honored to have had a hand in it." Taking a sip of her orange brandy, she looked back to Corinna. "Of course, your talent will be the determining factor, my dear. I've no doubt you'll eventually find yourself elected with or without my help."

Corinna wished she could be so sure.

"Have you need of assistance with the planning?" Juliana asked Lady A.

"I could use a hand with the invitations," the older woman admitted. "My penmanship isn't what it used to be."

"I'd be pleased to assist," Juliana assured her—no surprise, since Juliana loved to have her hand in everything. "Perhaps we can have a little invitation party here next week. Friday afternoon would work well. I'll invite Alexandra and our cousins. You remember Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth?"

"Of course," Lady A said. "It was a pleasure chatting with them during your many sewing parties." Last year, Juliana had offered to make baby clothes for the Foundling Hospital, and she'd needed a lot of assistance. "I would be grateful for your cousins' help. And now…" Lady A gestured to the new Lady C. "I must congratulate my sister before the wedding supper."

After she left, Juliana drew Corinna toward three of their dark-haired cousins. At twenty and twenty-one, Elizabeth and Claire Chase were both pretty as pictures. Their tall brother, Noah, the Earl of Greystone, was a year older and would have been pretty, too—but Corinna thought a small scar that slashed through his left eyebrow made him a look a little dangerous instead.

He had an equally dangerous smile, which he flashed as she and Juliana approached. "I'm going to find Rachael," he said, referring to his elder sister. "If you'll excuse me."

As he ambled away, Juliana looked to Elizabeth and Claire. "We're helping Lady Avonleigh with the reception she's planning to launch Corinna's art career. I'm hoping you'll both come to a little invitation-making party here next Friday. And I hope Rachael will come as well, of course. Where has she gone off to?"

"The terrace. She's just staring out over Green Park." Claire looked worried. "She hasn't been herself for a long while."

"I've noticed," Juliana said. All the time Corinna's brother, Griffin, had been busy trying to marry off his three sisters, Juliana had been trying to match him with Rachael. But Rachael had neglected to attend many events this season and last. "Rachael has always been so enthusiastic. What do you suppose has dampened her spirits?"

"She's not yet got over finding that letter," Elizabeth said.

Claire elbowed her younger sister in the ribs.

"What?" Juliana looked between them. "What letter?"

"Now you've done it," Claire accused, her unusual amethyst eyes glaring into her sister's green ones. "Rachael's kept mum on the subject deliberately, you know."

Elizabeth's hands flew up to slap her own cheeks. "Oh, fiddlesticks!"

"What letter?" Juliana repeated.

Although the Painted Room was filled with the babel of conversation, Claire and Elizabeth's silence was noticeable. "Whatever it is," Corinna said for them, "Rachael wants it kept a secret."

"Surely she didn't mean from us," Juliana said. "We're her cousins."

"No, you aren't," Elizabeth said, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

"What?" Juliana and Corinna burst out together.

Claire glared at her sister again, then sighed. "When Rachael cleared out our parents' suite at Greystone for Noah, she found a letter that revealed she had a different father than ours. It seems our mother was married before and carrying Rachael when she was widowed. Then she married our father before giving birth."

Juliana looked astonished. "Who was her real father, then?"

"She doesn't know." Claire shook her head sadly. "The letter didn't say, and there's no one to ask. We have no living grandparents, and Mama's only sister died when we were young. Rachael went through all of our mother's belongings, searching for clues to who her first husband might have been, but she found nothing."

"Is she still looking?" Corinna asked, concerned.

"She cannot think of anywhere else to look," Elizabeth said. "Griffin even helped her go through everything again last year, in case she missed something."

Now Juliana looked intrigued. "Griffin knows about this?"

"He's the only one besides us," Claire said. "Please don't tell Rachael you know now, too. She'd be mortified."

"Why?" Corinna asked. "Her parentage is certainly no fault of hers. Does she think so little of us that she believes it would change our feelings toward her?"

"I fear she's not thinking at all these days." Claire crossed her arms over her violet satin bodice and leveled another glare at her sister. "Much like Elizabeth."

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth squeaked.

Claire sighed. "I don't think Rachael even realizes you're not her cousins. She's so upset at not knowing who her father is that she hasn't thought past that. Or maybe she's blocked the truth from her mind, because she can't stand the thought of losing all the family she knows."

"She still has you two," Corinna said. "And Noah."

"But that's all. Please just let her work it out for herself in her own good time. I don't think she could take hearing anything more now."

"We promise not to tell a soul." Corinna turned to Juliana. "Don't we?"

"Of course we do." Juliana reached to touch both her cousins' arms reassuringly. "I'm sorry to hear Rachael is so upset over this discovery, but I assure you that no one—including her—will hear about it from either of us. We love Rachael, and we don't find it upsetting at all."

To the contrary, Corinna suspected Juliana was personally thrilled to hear this news. Rachael's main objection to marrying Griffin had always been that he was a cousin. That obstacle was now gone. Rachael had confided in Griffin, and Griffin had tried to help her and kept her secret. Add all of that together, and it seemed another of Juliana's constant projects was well on its way to success.

And if Juliana actually managed to pull it off, she was going to be smug beyond belief.

CHAPTER FIVE

Few people were strolling in Green Park this Thursday evening. The undulating landscape was shadowed by the setting sun, and the gardens were very tranquil.

But Rachael wasn't.

Gripping the terrace's rail, she stared out over grassland and trees, telling herself it was time to let go of these feelings. She was never going to learn who had fathered her, and she had to come to grips with that. She'd allowed Griffin to help her as he'd wanted, and they'd found nothing—just as she'd expected. That had been months ago, months spent in a melancholy haze.

The man who had raised her had cared for her, so it shouldn't matter that they hadn't shared a blood bond, should it? And how long could she remain angry with her mother for withholding the facts? The woman was dead, for God's sake. The anger was pointless, and she had to get on with her life.

"Rachael."

Turning to see her brother step out on the terrace, she forced a smile. "Noah. You arrived so late I had no chance to chat with you before the wedding." His priorities never had been with family or the earldom. "Did you get the new racehorse settled in at Greystone?"

"Horses," he corrected. "I bought two. And they're both doing well, yes. I'm hoping for a good showing at Ascot. While I was home I asked for an inventory to be taken—"

"An inventory of what?" Since when did Noah care about anything at Greystone Castle?

"Of everything. While dining there alone, I noticed that old portrait of the first earl over the fireplace and got to thinking about what might have accumulated in the hundred and fifty years since he was granted the title and lands. The servants aren't finished yet—I expect it will take them weeks to catalog everything they find. But one thing they discovered was an old trunk in the attic with Mama's wedding dress and a few other items. Nothing important—"

"I want to see it."

"I knew you would," he said with a wry smile. "That's why I'm telling you they found it. I had it brought down and put in my room so you can go through it after the season."

"I want to see it now. Can we go to Greystone tomorrow?"

"I've just returned from Greystone, and the Jockey Club meets tomorrow. Besides, I told you nothing in it is important. You can wait a few weeks."

"No, I can't, Noah." He didn't know what was important. The trunk might have something in it that would reveal her father's identity. "I'm going tomorrow."

"I'm not going with you, and you cannot travel that far alone or with Claire or Elizabeth. It wouldn't be safe."

"I know that." But she knew another man who might be willing to accompany her in his place. "When you go back inside, will you ask Griffin to step out here a moment?"

"Can you come for me at seven?" Rachael asked, a few loose tendrils of her hair blowing in the breeze that crossed the terrace.

"That anxious, are you?" Griffin's sisters were never ready to leave the house so early in the morning, but none of them were nearly as focused as Rachael. "That will be fine. Will one or both of your sisters come along, too?"

"I think not."

"Hmm. Aunt Frances is too far gone with child, so I guess I'll ask one of my sisters to drag herself out of bed and join us."

"Why?"

"As a chaperone, of course."

"We don't need a chaperone, Griffin."

He sipped orange brandy, watching her warily over the rim of the glass. "It's a long journey."

"Only half a day each direction. We won't be gone overnight. Other than you and my siblings, no one knows about my true parentage, and I want to keep it that way, at least for now. Besides," she added, "you're my cousin. Would I require a chaperone to travel half a day with Noah?"

"I'm not Noah," Griffin pointed out. "A cousin isn't the same as a brother." But he didn't point out that he wasn't, in the strictest sense, her cousin. Not by blood anyway, not since it had been established that John Chase hadn't been her father. He didn't want to upset her, and more to the point, he'd just as soon have her think of him as a cousin.

"You're practically my brother," she insisted.

Maybe having her think of him as a brother was even better. "Very well," he said. "I'll come for you at seven."

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, looking happier than he'd seen her since that disappointing day when they'd gone through her mother's belongings and found nothing.

As he watched her glide back into Stafford House, her luscious derrière swaying as she went, he gritted his teeth.

Griffin remembered Rachael as an awkward adolescent, a tomboyish playmate, all skinny arms and gangly legs. At fourteen, she'd had a silly dent in her chin, wild, curly dark hair, and sky blue eyes that seemed much too big for her face. But then he'd left home for Oxford and later joined the cavalry. And during the years he'd spent away, the tomboy had become a woman.

A very sultry one.

Those cerulean eyes were now alluring, those limbs long and graceful, that body anything but awkward. The dent in her chin no longer appeared silly—it looked provocative instead. Her hair was sleek and tamed, excepting those few chestnut tendrils that always seemed to come loose. Or maybe she left them loose deliberately. Either way, they caressed the sides of her face in a way that made him wish his hands were there in their place.

In short, he found Rachael Chase entirely too attractive. Which was why he was happy she thought of him as nothing more than a cousin.

Although cousins often wed, Rachael's aunt had married a cousin, then sadly given birth to a crippled, feebleminded child. A doctor had said the family relationship might be to blame, and as a result, Rachael was dead-set against marrying any cousin, no matter how distant. And that suited Griffin just fine, since he had no intention of marrying her.

He had no intention of marrying anyone, for that matter.

At least, not in the foreseeable future.

His sisters and Cainewood kept him occupied quite enough, thank you very much. The last thing he needed was an additional distraction, or yet another responsibility. For God's sake, he was only thirty, he thought as he downed the rest of the orange brandy and went back inside.

There were years and years left before he had to worry about taking on a wife.

CHAPTER SIX

The homes on the east and west sides of Berkeley Square were close to the street and built cheek by jowl against one another, but Lincolnshire House stood alone on the north end, behind a high imposing wall.

On Friday morning, the guard at the massive wooden gate scowled at the portmanteau Sean carried. "Peddlers aren't welcome."

Sean's hand clenched on the handle of the simple leather bag. "I'm the earl's nephew," he said, all but choking on the words.

A little gasp burst from the man's mouth. "Pardon me, Mr. Hamilton, I'm sorry, truly I am." Babbling, he swung open the gate. "Do come in, and please accept my sincerest apologies."

Sean was more than willing to do so, but he was struck dumb at sight of the house.

His own house in Hampstead was sizable and impressive. Originally built in the seventeenth century, it had been extended and remodeled some fifty years ago by the notable architect Robert Adam, for a chief justice who worked in the City but wanted to live in the suburbs. It sat in acres of gardens and ancient woodland, with a stunning view out over London. Deirdre had gasped the first time she saw it.

But it seemed a hovel in comparison to the Earl of Lincolnshire's enormous mansion in Berkeley Square.

A rather plain Palladian-style brick building, it was quite simply the largest house Sean had ever seen. Five gardeners labored industriously in the lavishly landscaped courtyard. After banging the knocker, he shifted uncomfortably on the front steps beneath the portico, wishing he'd never consented to what he was about to do.

Deirdre certainly hadn't agreed that it was worthwhile to secure her divorce. Last night's disbelieving cry—"You promised to do what?"—still rang in his head. "That's ridiculous!" she'd railed—and Irishwomen were nothing if not expert railers. "You fool! You knothead! I don't need you to play the martyr for me. I'll be happy together with Daniel whether we're married or not."

Well, maybe she would be happy, but Sean wouldn't. Not if the two hadn't exchanged vows. But although he'd been tempted to tell her Hamilton was threatening to make her move back in with him, he'd resisted that temptation. He didn't want to be the martyr; he didn't want her to feel indebted or burdened with guilt. Better she think her brother a knotheaded fool.

That was nothing new, anyway.

A butler opened the door. His dark suit was starched and pressed. His features looked as rigid as his clothing, his round face seemingly frozen.

"May I help you, sir?"

"I've come to see my uncle, the Earl of Lincolnshire."

"Your uncle? You must be Mr. Hamilton, then." As though he'd suddenly melted, the man's entire demeanor changed. "Come in, come in," he said, ushering Sean through the door. "I'm Quincy, and the earl is going to be so pleased to hear you've arrived. I shall inform Mr. Higginbotham, his house steward, that you are here so he can make certain your room is ready." He eyed the portmanteau. "That cannot be all you brought along."

"My manservant will bring in my trunks after he sees to my curricle."

"Good, good. I shall send an underfootman to assist him. The earl has been asking after you since he opened his eyes this morning. In truth, since last night when he received your note. He's abed, so I shall fetch a maid to show you upstairs posthaste."

The butler closed the door and promptly disappeared down a corridor. Sean waited pensively.

In contrast to the house's plain facade, its interior was absolutely sumptuous. The grand, pillared entrance led to a wide, sweeping curved staircase with broad steps made of purest white marble. Grecian-style couches lined the perimeter, plushly upholstered in light-colored velvet with darker trim. Gold and crystal glittered everywhere, and there was lots of Oriental pottery scattered about. Paintings hung everywhere, too—enormous gilt-framed paintings that Sean imagined were probably famous, though knowing nothing of art, he couldn't identify a single artist.

"Fancy, ain't it?"

Wondering if his mouth had been hanging open, he turned to see a little bird of a middle-aged woman wearing a dark dress with a starched white apron. "It's impressive."

"The most impressive house in London," she declared, leading him across the stone floor toward the steps. "Which is only fair, considering Lord Lincolnshire is the most wonderful man in all of England."

Wonderful? The earl was wonderful?

Hamilton's family had always described him as a heartless blackguard.

The staircase's newel post looked to be fashioned of solid crystal. Atop balusters of gilded ironwork, the handrail was crystal, too. As Sean climbed, he nodded at two more servants on their way down. "What exactly is wrong with his lordship?"

"Such a tragedy." The maid sighed. "He complained of chest pain that lasted a few hours. Before the doctor could arrive, he fell into a dead faint, and when he woke, his legs started swelling horribly. A dreadful sight, I tell you. And he's short of breath, the poor man. Dropsy, the doctor said."

"Dropsy." Sean knew little about the disease, but it sounded bad. "He can talk, though, yes?"

"Aye, that he can." At the top of the stairs, she turned down a corridor that had more paintings on the walls and more Oriental pottery on marble hall tables. She skirted around a woman polishing the already spotless inlaid floor. "And he cannot wait to see you."

Sean was waved through a door to find Lincolnshire in a huge state bed hung with dark damask trimmed with pale silk. His face hidden from Sean's sight by a sturdy nurse dressed in white, the earl sat propped against four or five pillows. The nurse finished plumping them and stepped away.

"John!" the man exclaimed as Sean came into view. He had light-colored eyes, thinning gray hair combed forward, and an altogether dignified, pleasant appearance.

And he didn't look as ill as Hamilton had indicated.

"I'm so pleased you agreed to keep me company in my final days," he added enthusiastically. "Come here, nephew. Let me have a look at you."

Feeling like the fraud he was, Sean walked closer. "Your letter implied you were quite ill, my lord."

"My lord? Please call me Uncle. And yes, I do fear I'm quite ill. Began with massive pain—a great, squeezing pressure in the vicinity of my heart. As though a man were sitting on my chest." He paused. And then, "No," he corrected himself, "as though the Prince Regent were sitting on my chest."

Lincolnshire smiled at his own joke; the Prince Regent was grossly overweight. Although Sean had never run in court circles, even he knew that. Scurrilous cartoons were often printed in the papers, and a recent one had featured the fat prince picking his teeth following an enormous meal.

"Doctors say I won't last two weeks," Lincolnshire added, sounding a bit out of breath. "I need all these pillows because I cannot breathe lying down. I have to stay upright even to sleep, so I can breathe. Sit down, sit down." Looking much more chipper than a man with a death sentence rightly should, he indicated a tufted velvet chair close by the bed. "It's dropsy, they tell me."

"What causes it?"

"That they haven't told me. Or perhaps they don't know. Sit, John, sit."

"You seem so cheerful," Sean commented as he lowered himself.

"I'm happy to see you. After all these years, John—"

"Sean," he interrupted.

"Eh?"

"Call me Sean, please." He couldn't stand being called by Hamilton's name, not to mention he was likely to forget to answer to it. "Sean is the same name as John in Ireland, you see, so I've been called Sean since I was a lad. I'm still called Sean by all my friends and family."

"You haven't any family left other than me, have you? Or only on your mother's side?" The old man cocked his head. "You've an Irish accent, too. How is that?"

Sean had forgotten Hamilton's parents were dead and he'd had no siblings. Sweet Jesus, whatever had made him think he could pull this off? Warning himself to tread more carefully, he ignored the first questions and answered the last. "Surely you know I was raised in Ireland."

"But you're an Englishman, after all. I made certain you always had English tutors. Paid the enormous bills myself."

Sean shrugged—casually, he hoped. "Everyone else around me was Irish. I expect I picked up a bit of an accent anyway."

"A bit?"

In all honesty, Sean had thought he'd lost most of it. Or at least he'd tried to. He was very careful to always say yes rather than aye, and my rather than me. Yes, that's my best suit, instead of Aye, that's me best suit.

He knew the Irish had a less than sterling reputation in London.

"Ah, well, I suppose it doesn't signify," Lincolnshire added kindly. "I'll call you Sean if that pleases you. I'm just glad to have you here. Been lonely since your aunt passed on."

Hamilton's aunt, Lincolnshire's wife. Guilt was a fist around Sean's heart. "You must miss her."

"I surely do. After all our children died, at least we still had each other. Rather disconcerting to find oneself alone."

"You seem to be surrounded by staff, sir. Uncle." An understatement of great proportions. The nurse still puttered in the shadows, and two more maids had come and gone in the past few minutes, delivering a glass of water, fussing with the curtains, seeing to the man's comfort.

"Ah, yes, that I am." The earl smiled a bit sheepishly, revealing straight but tea-stained teeth. "Mrs. Skeffington takes excellent care of me," he said, indicating the nurse, "but she does have some help. More than a hundred servants altogether, and I cannot bring myself to dismiss a single one. My family has employed all of them for years."

"All of them?"

"And their folk before them, generations back. My forebears housed many relations, you see. As did I, in the past." A sigh escaped his lips, a wheezy sort of sound. "While my family shrank, the families of the servants continued to grow. After so many years of loyal service, I cannot find it in myself to turn them out. It's no simple matter to find good positions these days, even with a letter of good character."

While keeping such a large staff bordered on absurd, Sean found the sentiment touching, which ratcheted his guilt up a level. No wonder the maid had described Lincolnshire as the most wonderful employer in all of England.

Sean's breakfast felt as though it were congealing in his gut. An iron collar seemed to be squeezing around his throat. How could he do this to such a nice man? Clearly Lincolnshire wasn't the blackguard Hamilton had described. And neither was he "incapacitated." Perhaps he was knocking on death's door, but for now, at least, the man was fully alert.

Lincolnshire leaned to pat Sean's hand. "I'm so glad you're here, John," he repeated gratefully.

"Sean," Sean choked out.

"Sean, yes. I shall have to grow accustomed to that." He smiled again, a fond smile that spiked Sean's guilt to new heights. "Lady Partridge is holding a ball tomorrow night. I've already sent my regrets, but I've a sudden hankering to see all my friends one last time. To show off my famous nephew. I'll have my secretary send her a note, if it wouldn't be too much trouble for you to accompany me."

Trouble?

Guilt transformed to a panic that trouble didn't even begin to describe.

Should Sean appear in society as Lincolnshire's nephew, the truth would be revealed when Hamilton later appeared as himself. And then where would they all be? Hamilton would lose his art career if not his inheritance. He'd kill Sean, or, at the very least, refuse Deirdre her divorce. Sean's sister would go on to live in sin, and he'd be proved worse than a knotheaded fool—a complete failure as a brother and a man.

"I'd prefer not to be 'shown off,'" he explained carefully. "I'm rather a mystery to the public. That secrecy adds to my cachet, and—"

"Your mysterious ways are legend. Very well, then." Lincolnshire looked resigned, and Sean was relieved—for approximately two seconds. "I won't tell anyone you're John Hamilton. I'll simply introduce you as my nephew Sean."

"Surely people know who your heir is…"

"I'll tell them you're my long-lost other nephew. For now. They'll learn the truth, of course, when you inherit. It will be our little secret." For a moment the earl's eyes danced with merry amusement, but he quickly sobered. "I'd…well…" The old man cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. "I'd given up living, Sean. I didn't want to see anyone. But now… having you here…it makes me want to live again. I've a short time left. With you by my side, I wish to say my good-byes." A sheen of tears glazed his eyes. "Please, nephew, do me this favor."

How could Sean deny such a fine, upstanding fellow? How could he possibly refuse? How could he disappoint the most wonderful man in all of England?

He gazed up at the exquisite painted ceiling, where the Goddess of Dawn chased the Goddess of Night. Hamilton had been so wrong about his uncle, in so very many ways. And being introduced as Lincolnshire's other nephew should carry no risk. Their ruse would never come to light. Sean had no connections with high society. Before Lincolnshire, he'd never met any member of the ton. No one should suspect he was anything but what Lincolnshire said, and after all of this was over, he'd never see any of them ever again.

"Very well," he said at last, lowering his gaze to meet the earl's eyes. "I'll accompany you. Just remember to call me Sean."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Griffin spent all of Friday morning seated across from Rachael in his blasted carriage, breathing her come-hither scent and watching her lick her lips so many times his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. It was that or leap across the space between them to kiss off that beckoning sheen. A temptation he'd managed to resist in all the months since he'd left the cavalry and returned to England.

A temptation he was determined to resist forever.

Instead, he talked of politics, books and plays, family and property and plans for the future…anything to keep his mind off that generous, glistening mouth. It was difficult to speak with his teeth clenched, so he was thankful Rachael kept up her end of the conversation. She'd always been easy to talk to, especially for a female.

At long last, in the early afternoon, the carriage rattled over the drawbridge and into the modest courtyard before the small castle that was Rachael's home at Greystone. Spring rain pelted his head when he shoved open the door and leapt to the circular drive. He breathed a sigh of relief and reached to help Rachael out.

She hadn't worn gloves, damn it. Her hand felt entirely too warm in his, especially when she left it there while they made their way down a short, covered passageway and entered through the unassuming oak door. Her fingers trembled, either from the cold or from nervousness at what they might find; he wasn't sure which.

He was thankful she dropped his hand when the butler, Smithson, approached. "Lady Rachael. Lord Cainewood." Tall and lean with gray hair and piercing gray eyes that seemed to match the old castle, Smithson was too mannerly to show dismay at their unexpected arrival. "What a pleasant surprise."

"We'll be here but a short while," Rachael assured him. "No need for any preparations."

He glanced at the tall-case clock that stood in the square, stone-floored entry. "I'll ask Cook to prepare a luncheon. Will you be wanting anything more?"

"No, thank you. I wish only to fetch something of my mother's, and Lord Cainewood was kind enough to accompany me." She headed toward the oak staircase that marched up the wall opposite the entrance. "Please don't trouble yourself or anyone else."

Griffin followed her up the steps, past two of her mother's watercolor paintings and along the corridor that led to what used to be her parents' bedroom. The chamber's walls were covered in pale green paper with gold tracery, the bedding green velvet of a deeper hue, the furniture light and slender, of the style popularized by Sheraton.

"Wasn't this room decorated in red?" he asked. "And the furnishings of dark oak?"

"I changed it all for Noah." Having come of age last year, her brother had finally taken responsibility for the earldom—a responsibility Rachael had borne herself since their parents died when she was just fifteen. "To make it his, not Papa and Mama's."

How thoughtful. How Rachael. "But some of your mother's things are in here now?"

"In that chest." She gestured toward the one heavy, dark piece of furniture, a large carved trunk set in a corner. "Noah had it brought down from the attic." Her voice sounded thin. "He said nothing in it is important."

"He could be wrong," he said, hoping that was the case. "Let's have a look."

"Yes, let's." She crossed to the trunk and removed an embroidered covering and a lamp someone had set on top. Then she knelt and took a deep breath before reverently opening the lid. A musty scent wafted out, starch and aged leather mixed with hints of her mother's gardenia perfume. "Oh, God, Griffin."

Griffin knelt beside her. "Pretty," he murmured, lifting a straw hat from atop the contents.

"It's years out of style. I remember her wearing it when I was a child." Rachael removed a few more dated items of clothing, then shook out a white gown. "This must be the wedding dress Noah mentioned. I remember seeing it in their wedding portrait."

Though clearly out of fashion, the gown was lacy and beautiful. Georgiana, Rachael's mother, had been slender like her daughter, all willowy, graceful curves, and she obviously hadn't been pregnant long when she married John Chase. The dress looked like it would fit Rachael perfectly. "Will you wear it for your own wedding someday, too, now that you've found it?"

"I'd love to, but…" Her eyes grew misty as she gazed into the trunk. "Damn. I'm not going to cry."

Rachael could cuss as colorfully as a cavalryman, but that didn't bother Griffin. He considered it part of her charm. It reminded him she'd spent years as the Earl of Greystone in all but name, and he admired her for that.

"But what?" he prompted.

"She wore it for her wedding to him. Lord Greystone. Not my father."

He reached out to take her chin and turn her to face him. "Lord Greystone was your father in every way that counted. I'm sure he would have wanted you to wear it. He would have been honored, as a matter of fact."

She nodded and swallowed hard. "I'm not sure I'll ever marry, anyway."

"Of course you will. Any man would be lucky to have you. I'm surprised Noah hasn't found you a match."

"Noah?" Her eyes cleared, and she laughed, turning back to the trunk. "Who would run his household should I wed? He won't be matching me anytime soon."

Though but eighteen months her junior, Noah had always seemed far less mature. But Griffin couldn't imagine any man wanting the responsibility of three sisters. Much better to find them good husbands and enjoy their company from time to time without worrying over the lot of them.

A few old books lay beneath the clothes, but they were all signed, To Georgiana with love from Mama, and dated with her early birthdays, giving no clues to her first husband. There were no diaries or anything else of a personal nature. A stack of letters tied with a ribbon held no pertinent information, either. They were all written in the years following Rachael's birth.

When the trunk was otherwise empty, Rachael found a tiny box in the bottom and pulled it out. It held a narrow, plain gold band.

"Her wedding ring?" Griffin guessed.

"She was buried wearing her wedding ring. Unless…" She glanced up at him, wonder in her eyes. "This must be from her marriage to my father." She looked inside, turning the band to catch the light. "No inscription. No clues." Sighing, she slipped it onto the fourth finger of her right hand. "It fits."

"I'm not surprised." Griffin's knees creaked when he stood and stretched. "That's it, then, is it?"

"Everything in here was old, things she didn't use anymore, things it made sense to have put away." Leaving the ring on her finger, she began putting everything else back. "I guess she didn't have a lot to keep. Mama led a quiet life."

He nodded. "My parents often left us with our governesses, but I remember your mother was always home with you."

"She never went up to London. She said the air there was bad for her lungs." Another dismal sigh escaped her lips as she replaced the last few items and shut the trunk. "Noah was right. There was nothing important here. I'm sorry I wasted your time."

"It wasn't a waste, Rachael." He watched her spread the embroidered cloth, the narrow gold ring glinting as she moved. "Did your mother have no other jewels?"

The lamp in her hand, she froze. "Yes, of course she did. I've had them all along. She may have been quiet, but she liked pretty things. She willed all her jewels to me. Claire and Elizabeth each chose a few pieces, but the rest are in my room."

He took the lamp from her and set it down decisively, then reached a hand to help her up. "We should have looked at them last time. Maybe something will be engraved—"

"Nothing is. I would have noticed."

Yes, she probably would have. Rachael was nothing if not observant. "Let's have a look, though, shall we?"

Rachael's chamber was deep rose and rich green and dark blue, a combination as classic and sophisticated as Rachael herself. Another of her mother's watercolors hung over her washstand. Fetching a mahogany box off her dressing table, she brought it with her to sit on the bed and patted the spot beside her in invitation, apparently comfortable having an unmarried man in her room.

Griffin wished he could say the same. It felt highly improper to be in here.

He sat, though, when she opened the box. Filled to the brim, it sparkled with gold and lustrous pearls, diamonds and colorful gems. Griffin didn't know much about jewelry, but he recognized a fortune when he saw it.

His eyes must have widened, because Rachael laughed at the look on his face. "This family is descended from jewelers," she reminded him. "My great-great-grandmother, or some such."

"I think you need a few more greats," he said, remembering now. "Her father's shop burned in the Great Fire, didn't it? Way back in the 1660s?"

"Something like that. Some cousins own another shop in London. It was opened by one of her sons, I think. In any case, there are many more jewels, including some very old ones, in the safe in Claire's workshop." Her sister Claire had taken up the old family hobby. "These were Mama's personal items. Some family heirlooms given to her by my father—Lord Greystone, I mean—and some newer things. But nothing I could identify as coming from her first husband."

Griffin sifted through the treasure trove, rings and bracelets glittering as they slipped through his fingers. He recognized a diamond necklace as one Rachael had worn to a ball at Cainewood two summers earlier. A pair of ruby earrings that looked like the ones in her mother's formal portrait. A brooch he had often seen pinned on Georgiana's dress.

A locket made him momentarily hopeful, but it held a swatch of hair, not a miniature or a note. No dates or names were engraved on anything.

Then another brooch caught his eye. "The Prince of Wales's Feathers," he murmured, pulling it from the pile.

Three silver plumes rose from a gold coronet of alternate crosses and fleurs-de-lis, studded with rubies and emeralds. Along the bottom, a gold ribbon bore a motto.

"What does it say?" Rachael asked.

"'Ich Dien.' I serve." He looked at her, his heart pounding. "Your father…I mean, John Chase, Lord Greystone…was he ever in the cavalry?"

"Of course not. His younger brother served in the army, but Grandfather would never have allowed his heir to risk his life."

"I thought not. This may be our clue."

She blinked. "It's a national symbol of Wales, isn't it? I assumed it was a souvenir from a visit."

"It's a military badge. From the Tenth Hussars. My regiment."

Hope leapt into her sky blue eyes. "Do you think it was given to my mother by a member?"

"An officer, from the looks of this piece. Gold and gemstones. An enlisted man would wear a much less expensive version." The metal felt cool in his fingers as he turned it over. Nothing was engraved on the back.

"No more clues," she said with a sigh.

"This alone may be enough. Would you mind if I keep it a while?"

"Of course not. But how can it help you find my father?"

He slipped it into his pocket. "He died in 1792, sometime in the months after you were conceived but before you were born—that much we know. We weren't at war then. Louis the Sixteenth had yet to be tried and executed, and Napoleon didn't come to power until 'ninety-nine. There shouldn't have been many deaths that year; the Tenth would have been at home; in peacetime, there are few casualties. I'll go to regimental headquarters and ask to see the records."

It would take two days to get there, a day to search the records, and another two days to ride home. Five days during which Corinna wouldn't meet any suitable men. But much as he wanted his sister married and off his hands, he didn't mind.

Rachael's happiness was important, too.

Although another woman might have made a token protest, Rachael wasn't that sort. "Thank you," she said instead, two simple, grateful words. "Do you expect you can find something that could tell us who he was?"

He shrugged, not wanting to get her hopes up. "I can try. I'll bring you back to London now, and I'd like to take Corinna to Lady Partridge's ball tomorrow night. I'll leave for regimental headquarters first thing Sunday morning. With luck, I'll have an answer for you by Thursday."

"An officer," she breathed. "Someone important."

A bark of a laugh burst out of him. "It doesn't take importance to buy a commission. Only money."

Her eyes shone. "You were important. You led campaigns in the Peninsular War. Your patrol brought news of the Prussian retreat at Wavre, thus influencing the Duke of Wellington to fight at Waterloo."

"How do you know all that?"

"Your sisters. They're proud of you. You'd have been at Waterloo had your brother not died."

"Well, he did," he said flatly, keeping the bitterness out of his voice.

He'd never wanted to be a marquess. And he'd felt damned ineffective since becoming one. But here, now, was a chance to use his military connections to advantage. To help someone.

To help Rachael.

And that thought made him entirely too pleased.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"You're not going to stay up till all hours again, are you?"

In a creative haze, Corinna turned from her easel and blinked at her brother in the drawing room's doorway. It was close to midnight, and she hadn't realized he'd returned home. "I'm starting a new painting."

"You didn't answer my question. I've had a long day, and I'm off to bed. Will you also be retiring soon?"

"I don't know." Irritated, she set down her palette. "It depends upon how this goes."

Griffin walked closer. "Doesn't look like much."
"Yet." All she'd done was layer the pale gray ground that she used as the undertint for her paintings, with a rough white oval in the upper middle.

"What is it going to be?"

"I'm not sure," she hedged.

But she knew what she wanted it to be: a portrait. That was why she'd laid the white oval where she planned to paint the face. Flesh tones would appear brighter over white than gray, and she wanted the face to be luminous.

And she wanted it to be a good portrait. That was why she'd sketched the Elgin Marbles.

"I want you to get a good night's sleep," Griffin pressed. "I've several men I want you to meet at Lady Partridge's ball tomorrow evening."

Not that again. Your turn will come next, she remembered Juliana saying. All she wanted was to concentrate on her art, but everyone wanted to marry her off.

Like paint swiped with turpentine, her creative haze had dissipated. "Well, then, I'll certainly go to bed," she said sarcastically, thinking she hadn't decided whom she wanted to paint anyway.

"I'm glad to hear it," Griffin said, evidently missing her sarcasm. "By the way, I need to leave Sunday morning, and I probably won't be back until Thursday. I won't be able to take you to Almack's on Wednesday night."

"What a pity." Day after day of painting without interruptions, while he was busy dealing with some problem at Cainewood or whatever. Though she vaguely wondered what he was going to do, she didn't want to prolong this discussion. "That's too bad, Griffin," she said, hiding a smile. "Good night."

Looking forward to the week ahead, she hummed as she cleaned up and put everything away. Then she went upstairs to her room, lit a candle from the fireplace, and ducked into her dressing room to grab a nightgown.

And there she stopped short.

The paintings taunted her. Hidden paintings, dozens of them stacked leaning against the walls. Portrait after portrait, none of them quite right.

She'd spent a decade and more learning to paint still lifes and landscapes. Practicing, persevering, perfecting. Eventually she'd begun putting people into her scenes, figures strolling or laboring or simply lounging in the background. But that hadn't proved enough, hadn't satisfied her dreams.

She'd always wanted to paint real portraits, detailed studies of people. She all but burned to paint portraits, and last year she'd put all other sorts of painting behind her.

She walked closer and flipped canvases, bringing the candle near to scrutinize the year's many efforts. Her maid. Alexandra and Juliana. Alexandra and baby Harry. Juliana alone, her shoulders bare, her skirts hiked up to expose one scandalous, naked knee.

Juliana, the dear, had obligingly posed for Corinna in the buff. Rigidly, self-consciously nude. Unfortunately, Corinna had been unable to paint her sister nude, as the sight of such a work of art would have driven Griffin out of his mind.

And none of the paintings were good enough.

Sighing, she leaned them back against the wall. She knew she had it in her to produce a fine portrait. She'd long since mastered all the things she could easily study—the face, the hair, the clothing, the hands—and she portrayed her subjects' expressions with unfailing insight.

But when it came to the body, she found herself frustrated every time. The people looked stiff and unnatural, not altogether surprising, given they'd looked stiff and unnatural when they'd posed. Corinna's maid and sisters could never seem to sit still for long, and sketching them had never proved as helpful as she'd wished.

Not to mention her maid and sisters were all female. Men were formed differently, and since half the world's population was male, Corinna intended to paint them, too. But barring her brother—who so far had been uncooperative—where on earth was a gently bred lady supposed to find a male model?

Well, perhaps sketching the Elgin Marbles had done the trick, she reminded herself, lifting her chin. At least they had held still for hours.

Squaring her shoulders, she returned to her room and summoned her maid to help ready her for bed. But then she found she couldn't relax. She rarely rose before noon, because she retired late as a habit. Although painting by candlelight rather than sunlight could sometimes prove challenging, the night hours were quiet, almost mystical, the very best time for creativity.

It was too early to fall asleep.

She pulled out a small book tucked under her bed, the second volume of Celia in Search of a Husband by Medora Gordon Byron. Smiling, she cradled it in her hands. A Minerva Press novel, a torrid romance, bound as usual in cheap marble-patterned paper.

Other than painting, reading Minerva Press novels was Corinna's favorite, most secret escape.

She bought them in secret, too. Most fortunately, a bookseller's shop sat next door to the colorman's shop where she purchased her art supplies. Her maid or a footman generally accompanied her on these excursions, since no one in the family had the patience to wait for hours while she chose the perfect oils and tints. Which was a good thing, since that meant they never saw her go into the bookshop afterward, either.

The last thing she wanted was her family discovering she reveled in such unrefined literature. Her sisters would be properly scandalized—or else they would tease her mercilessly. And Griffin would doubtless be pleased; he'd say it proved she pined for love and a husband.

She could do without any of those reactions.

To make doubly sure there was no risk of discovery, after reading a Minerva Press novel she always donated it to the circulating library. That way other women could enjoy them. She had no need to ever reread them herself, since she was afflicted—yes, afflicted—with the capability of remembering everything she'd ever read.

Word for word.

The printed pages simply appeared in her mind, and random sentences popped into her head at the oddest, most inconvenient moments. It was annoying beyond end. Almost annoying enough to make her stop reading.

But only almost. She set the candle on her bedside table and opened Celia in Search of a Husband with a happy sigh.

Celia was rather amusing. Though the woman proclaimed loudly and often that she wanted a husband, she discarded men left and right as though they were so many used handkerchiefs. On page 183, Celia sighed "mentally," according to the author.

Corinna often sighed silently, too.

Am I rigid? Celia wondered. What woman of real feeling would trust her peace to the keeping of a libertine? It may prove the vanity of love to believe that we could fix the heart hitherto unprincipled, but a trusting woman must meet, in the creature of her choice, either the idol of her hopes or certain disappointment in her connubial happiness—for here is no medium.

Exactly, Corinna thought with a sigh. A mental sigh, of course. One couldn't fix an unprincipled man, no matter how much she loved him, and what were the chances of her meeting her idol? Certain disappointment was much more likely, which was why she, a woman of real feeling, was much better off putting her faith in her art.

CHAPTER NINE

Lady Partridge lived in a small mansion at the edge of Mayfair. On Saturday night, the line of carriages stretched for blocks. Sean figured he could have inspected two properties and negotiated three deals by the time he and his "uncle" made their way to the front.

Two footmen reached in for Lincolnshire, who had spent most of the wait dozing. As they helped him hobble out, he glanced at Sean. "You look a bit sober, eh?"

"I beg your pardon, sir? I should think so." Sean watched the footmen settle the earl in an amazing contraption. A typical dining room chair with a caned back and an upholstered seat, it had two huge wheels attached to its sides and a smaller wheel centered behind. "I'm not an inveterate drinker, I can assure you."

Indeed, to the contrary—and to Deirdre's unending amusement—Sean seemed the only Irishman alive who couldn't hold his liquor.

"Downed a toddy myself before leaving," the earl said as one of the servants lifted his feet while the other unfolded a small, upholstered shelf for them to rest upon. "A swallow of spirits never hurt a fellow, should you ask me. But I plan to stick around long enough to get to know you, yet you look to be dressed for a funeral. Not mine, I hope."

"Certainly not yours, sir." Sean shook out a blanket and settled it on the earl's lap to hide his swollen legs. Though Lincolnshire was a rather slight fellow in general, his lower extremities would fit a man thrice his size. Earlier this evening, when Sean had seen them uncovered, he'd winced. "I fear, however, that I haven't spent much time at balls." He'd never been to a ball, as a matter of fact, so he'd had to guess at the proper garb. "Is something wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Not wrong, no. Just drab for such a festive occasion." Lincolnshire himself was decked out in peacock blue and gold. "A little color wouldn't be amiss."

"Ah, I see," Sean said as he moved around to push the chair. "But I've a decided preference for black and white."

In truth, he always wore black and white. He'd learned early that to do otherwise meant risking mismatches often found humorous. Since he had nothing but black and white in his wardrobe, he was relieved to find his choice suitable if not stylish.

As he wheeled the man toward the door, a tall proper butler opened it. Sounds of music drifted out. "Your name, sir?"

"Lincolnshire," Lincolnshire barked. "And my nephew, Mr. Hamilton."

"My lord Lincolnshire, do please come in." Judging from the butler's tone, if Lincolnshire had been a dog, the man would have petted him. "Lady Partridge left instructions to be notified the very moment you arrived. This way, if you will," he added, motioning Sean along.

But Sean couldn't push the chair in the direction indicated. In fact, he couldn't push it anywhere at all. It seemed Lord Lincolnshire had barked his name a little too loudly, because people began streaming into the Partridge foyer, all but trapping the two of them in place.

"Lord Lincolnshire!" An aging matron took the old man's hands. "It's positively delightful to see you!"

"I'm delighted as well, Lady Fotherington. May I introduce my long-lost nephew, Mr. Sean Hamilton? He's like a son to me."

Sean tensed, waiting to be called a fraud, but the woman focused on him only briefly. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," she said politely, displaying no interest in him at all.

Apparently his secret was safe. He didn't know any members of the ton, he reminded himself, glancing around at the growing gathering. And none of these people knew him.

There was no cause for worry.

"Lord Lincolnshire, how are you feeling?" the woman asked.

"As well as can be expected. And how is your son?" Lincolnshire squeezed her hands. "Well as well, I hope?"

"Oh, he's very well indeed, thanks in no small part to your assistance."

"It was but a trifle, my lady, I assure you."

A young gentleman laid a hand on Lincolnshire's shoulder. "Is there aught I can do for you, my lord? After all, there's so much you've done for me."

An older, taller man sighed. "Who will bring toys this Christmas for the children at the Foundling Hospital?"

"Who indeed?" Tears tracked down a middle-aged lady's cheeks. "We're going to miss you, Lord Lincolnshire. Mightily."

One after another, people arrived, crowding the foyer to pay their respects to the dying Earl of Lincolnshire. Men sighed and women cried, young and old alike sharing their memories, expressing their affection, declaring their sorrow.

And over and over, most touching of all, proclaiming their utter desire to see him leave the world a man content.

"We would do anything for you, my lord."

"Anything."

"Anything to make your last days easier."

"Anything to please you."

"Anything at all…"

Corinna was dancing with a thoroughly boring man—the latest in a string that proved Griffin hadn't the slightest idea what she was hoping for in a husband—when she noticed her old neighbor Lord Lincolnshire enter the ballroom.

Well, try to enter, she mentally amended. He was making excruciatingly slow progress, surrounded as he was by adoring people, all of whom seemed to be clamoring to capture his attention at once.

Propped up in a cane-backed wheelchair, he looked happier than she'd imagined a dying man could possibly be. The sight warmed her inside. If anyone in the world deserved happiness, it was Lord Lincolnshire. Watching him glance up and back, she smiled when she saw him aim an elated grin at whoever was pushing the chair. Her gaze followed his, focusing on the man behind him.

And her heart stuttered.

That crisp, overlong black hair. Those emerald eyes. That angular, sculpted face.

Her Greek god.

She'd never finished the drawing of him she'd begun in the Elgin Gallery. He'd left too soon. She'd actually tried painting him today—she'd decided she wanted him in her portrait—but she'd found herself unable to recall enough detail. Eventually she'd concluded she'd have to choose another subject and glumly painted over her efforts before dressing for tonight's ball.

Her canvas once more had a plain white oval where there should be a face. And now her fingers itched for a pencil.

Who was her Greek god? She hadn't expected to ever see him again. He'd certainly never appeared at a society event before this. What was he doing here? How had he come to be with Lord Lincolnshire, pushing the dear old earl in a wheelchair?

"Whom are you staring at?" her partner asked.

She'd forgotten the dratted man. Indeed, she was suddenly thankful her mother had forced dance lessons upon her those countless times when she'd protested she'd prefer to paint. All of that practice had allowed her to continue dancing by rote when she hadn't been paying attention. "I was watching Lord Lincolnshire. I'm so glad he managed to attend tonight. Might you know that gentleman with him? I'm wondering if he could be the artist John Hamilton."

"I haven't seen him before, but I seriously doubt he's John Hamilton. John Hamilton never appears in public." The music came to an end, and the man bowed. "Thank you for the dance, Lady Corinna."

"My pleasure," she assured him, smiling distractedly.

Thinking Juliana knew everyone, after curtsying Corinna looked around and found her sister conversing with her mother-in-law, the new Lady Cavanaugh.

"Might either of you know that man accompanying Lord Lincolnshire?" she asked, barging right in.

Juliana glanced over and shook her head. "A handsome devil, though, isn't he?"

A vast understatement. Corinna wanted to rip his clothes off and see the godlike body underneath. "I met him the other day at the British Museum. When you and Alexandra went off, remember? Another man introduced him as John Hamilton."

"John Hamilton, the artist? You said you'd met him, but—"

"Yes, the artist. But then everything became very confusing, because this man claimed he wasn't John Hamilton, but the other man was instead. And why would John Hamilton be with Lord Lincolnshire?"

"Lord Lincolnshire collects art," Juliana reminded her. "Ming vases and paintings."

"More to the point," Lady Cavanaugh said, "John Hamilton is Lord Lincolnshire's nephew. And his heir. Everyone knows that."

Corinna hadn't. But if John Hamilton was Lord Lincolnshire's nephew, that explained why the two men were together. Suddenly everything made perfect sense. His protests in the museum notwithstanding, her Greek god had to be the elusive John Hamilton. Being a recluse, he must have claimed otherwise in order to retain his anonymity.

But Corinna knew the truth now.

Rising excitement fluttered in her chest. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She'd actually met John Hamilton.

The John Hamilton, a member of the Summer Exhibition Selection Committee.

A man who could help her dreams come true.

She had only to renew their acquaintance in order to set her future plans in motion. "Come along," she told her sister, grabbing her hand. She motioned to Lady Cavanaugh. "I'll introduce you both."

CHAPTER TEN

Lord Lincolnshire held up a hand, interrupting an effusive outpouring of affection from yet another of Lady Partridge's guests. "Nephew."

"Yes? Do you need something, Uncle?" Concerned, Sean moved around the front of the wheelchair, wedging himself between two hovering matrons. "Are your limbs paining you? Would you care for some laudanum?" He reached into his pocket for the vial the nurse had pressed into his hands.

"No laudanum. I'd as soon not dull my senses." The earl smoothed the lap robe that covered his legs, looking amused. "That pretty young lady is calling you."

"What pretty young lady?"

"That one." Lincolnshire motioned with his head. "The lovely Lady Corinna."

Corinna. Though London was surely home to more than one woman with the name, when Sean looked to where Lincolnshire had indicated, he already knew what he would see.

Shining dark hair, beckoning blue eyes. That air of sensuality that made his fists bunch at his sides to keep from reaching to touch.

Bloody hell, he had met another member of the ton.

"Mr. Hamilton!" she gushed as she approached, making him realize she'd already called out, "Mr. Hamilton," several times. Sweet Jesus, he'd known he would forget to answer to his brother-in-law's name. "What a pleasure it is to see you again!"

"Again?" Lincolnshire asked.

"I met your nephew in the British Museum," she explained enthusiastically. "But when I went to introduce him to my sisters, he was gone." She turned to two other women who had followed her. "Here he is at last, the talented and reclusive John Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton, this is my sister, Lady Stafford, and her mother-in-law, Lady Cavanaugh."

Both women curtsied. Lady Cavanaugh looked kind and motherly. Lady Stafford was pretty like her sister, but not nearly as voluptuous. The petite and sprightly type.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not Mr. Hamilton." Sean turned to Lord Lincolnshire. "Tell them, Uncle."

The earl's eyes danced; clearly he was enjoying this bit of subterfuge. "Of course you're Mr. Hamilton." His papery lips curved into a smile as he focused on the three women, making Sean imagine he must have been a bit of a flirt back in the day. "But he's Sean Hamilton," he told the ladies. "Sean, not John. My other nephew."

Never in his life had Sean heard anyone sound less convincing.

Lady Cavanaugh leaned down to give Lincolnshire's shoulder a sympathetic pat. "I know you're not feeling yourself these days, my lord, but you've only one nephew."

"I may have lost the use of my legs, but I assure you, dear lady, I haven't lost my mind along with them." An unapologetic grin spreading on his face, he turned to Sean. "I'm afraid our ruse didn't work."

"I knew it!" Corinna exclaimed loudly enough to wake the dead. Heads snapped around as other guests looked to see what was up. "You are John Hamilton!"

Sean didn't know whether he wanted to kiss her or strangle her. Both, he decided as whispers ricocheted around the room.

"John Hamilton?"

"The John Hamilton?"

The whispers became a buzz. "John Hamilton!"

"It's John Hamilton!"

Moving behind Lincolnshire to prevent the earl from seeing him, Sean shook his head wildly in an attempt to wordlessly inform Corinna she was wrong. But she only frowned in confusion, and he was too late in any case. A matron was already waddling near, pulling an obviously shy, marriage-aged daughter by the hand.

"Lord Lincolnshire, may I beg an introduction to your illustrious nephew?"

Another lady seemed to appear from nowhere. "Is this your heir, Lord Lincolnshire?"

A third lady shoved in front of her. "Mr. Hamilton, my Matilda is a diamond of the first water."

Lincolnshire puffed up like a peacock, albeit a seated one. "Our secret is out." Pride was evident in his tone. "I'm pleased to have you all meet the next Lord Lincolnshire. My nephew, Mr. John Hamilton."

Sean cringed as matchmaking mamas came out of the woodwork, their eligible daughters in tow. Corinna disappeared, or maybe she was pushed away by the expanding crowd. He spent the next few minutes at Lincolnshire's side, pondering how to escape this coil while he made small talk with an unceasing parade of all-but-identical insipid misses.

"Sean."

Feeling a tug on his tailcoat, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Uncle, you must be exhausted. Shall we leave? I'll take you home."

"Balderdash. I haven't felt so energetic in weeks. I wish to see you dance with one of these lovelies."

The not-so-lovely mamas started shoving their charges Sean's way.

"I couldn't choose," he protested amiably. But he wasn't feeling amiable at all. What he felt instead was a rising pressure in his chest.

The last thing he wanted to do was dance.

His mother had dragged him to many a village ceili. A vicar's family should be social, he heard her sweet voice in his memory. But he'd never been a man who enjoyed dancing. Even more to the point, Irish dance parties featured jigs and reels. No ceili band ever played a waltz.

And Lady Partridge seemed partial to waltzes. Or perhaps the musicians she'd hired preferred playing them. Either way, the last dance had been a waltz, a waltz was playing now, and Sean would lay odds a waltz would come next.

He aimed a smile at Hamilton's uncle. "Besides, I should stay with you."

"I think not." One of the earl's grizzled brows went up. "I've a mind to see you settled before I die."

Settled? Posing as the man's nephew was bad enough—Sean would go only so far in an effort to placate the old fellow. And a wedding went rather beyond that boundary.

Miles beyond that boundary.

And then he remembered.

"I'm quite settled already. I'm married, if you've forgotten." The real Hamilton was married, after all. Had he not been married—to Deirdre—Sean wouldn't have been in this mess in the first place. "I've been married for ten long years."

Audible sighs could be heard from all the females.

"Ah, yes," Lincolnshire mused. "I'd forgotten about that. And I've never seen your wife in all that time."

The old man hadn't seen Hamilton in all that time, either, but Sean wouldn't be the one to remind him. "Deirdre is a wonderful lady."

The earl's forehead furrowed. "I seem to recall rumor has it you two don't rub along."

"To the contrary," Sean assured him. "The two of us rub along grandly."

Someone snorted, and a few other bystanders murmured, evidently recalling the same rumors. Or, more likely, rumors of the artist bedding countless women. Well, Sean supposed, it wasn't all that surprising to find Hamilton's reputation preceded him. Some of the man's bastards probably lived right here in London.

"Where is your wife?" Lincolnshire asked.

"In the countryside," Sean told him, not actually stretching the truth. Though Hampstead lay but four miles northwest of Charing Cross, many Londoners did consider it "way out in the countryside." Which was precisely why he'd bought his house there. While he needed to be close to the City, he had no wish to live in it. Having been brought up amid wide-open spaces, he preferred not to be hemmed in.

"In the countryside." Lincolnshire sighed, a protracted sound that was flush with disappointment. His gaze turned wistful, the soft, yearning gaze of a puppy dog. "I do understand. But since I can no longer dance myself, I was so hoping to see you in my stead."

The current waltz ended, and sudden silence pervaded the ballroom.

"Dance for him," a woman coaxed.

Her daughter smiled. "Make him happy."

The music—another waltz, naturally—restarted. "It's just a dance," someone else said.

The crowd seemed to press closer. "Lord Lincolnshire wants to see you dance."

"Humor him, will you?"

Although attempting a waltz was sure to prove humorous indeed, Sean felt his resolve disintegrating under the assault. The damn earl was making puppy-dog eyes. What the devil was a man supposed to do?

One of the identical insipid misses gazed up at him beseechingly. "Don't you want to make Lord Lincolnshire happy?"

"Oh, very well," he gritted out. "One dance."

Then he turned on a heel and headed straight for Corinna.

As he elbowed his way through the crowd, Corinna's startled gaze met his, and it seemed as though a fist grabbed him in the gut. Half of him wanted to wring her neck for interfering; the other half wanted to drag her into his arms.

He settled for snatching her hand and pulling her toward the dance floor.

He threaded them between other couples to the center, enduring bumps from various dancers along the way. It seemed a whirling obstacle course. But at least in the middle he wouldn't be on display.

He turned her to face him. "I hope you can lead."

She looked a little dazed, standing still with everyone moving around her. "I beg your pardon?"

"Thanks to you, I've been commanded to dance. And I've never waltzed in my life."

"Oh." She smiled, a rather sheepish smile that made the fist inside him twist. "I confess I've been accused of leading before. I fear it's one of my bad habits."

"It's glad I am to hear it."

Mimicking the other dancers, he wrapped an arm about her waist and grasped her gloved right hand. She began to move, keeping her body tense so that he moved with her.

Not very gracefully, but they moved.

"May I sketch you sometime?" she asked.

"Sketch me?" he echoed, amazed to find them actually swirling among the other couples. He stumbled, but managed to keep upright. "I think not."

"Never?"

"Ever," he reiterated, treading on her toes.

A wee "Eek!" escaped her tempting lips, but then she gave him another smile. An understanding one this time. Not that it had any less of an effect on him.

It was a wonder she didn't react to the naked desire he suspected was evident on his face, but it was probably best that she was oblivious to it.

"Very well," she said on a sigh. "I suppose you're too busy with your own art to sit for someone else."

She was exasperating. "You're ruining my life."

"How so?" she asked. "I've done you a favor, Mr. Hamilton. Society is all aflutter to finally meet Lord Lincolnshire's famous, mysterious nephew. They'll pay even more for your paintings."

He leaned improperly close, catching a whiff of a light, floral scent with something odd layered beneath it. Paint, maybe. "I'm not an artist," he hissed in her ear. "I'm Sean Delaney, not John Hamilton."

When she drew back, making them lurch, the look she gave him was uncomfortably close to a smirk. "I haven't heard you say that in front of Lord Lincolnshire."

"For his sake." Revealing the truth would doubtless destroy the kind old earl, not to mention infuriate Hamilton and jeopardize Deirdre's divorce. "I wish not to embarrass the poor man by disagreeing with him in the company of his friends."

"I understand you prefer the privacy that anonymity affords you, Mr. Hamilton. But as the real Mr. Delaney said in the museum, you are much too self-effacing. You'll grow accustomed to being famous, and it's long past time you met your adoring admirers."

He considered stepping on her feet on purpose. "They wouldn't adore me if they knew the truth."

"Of course they would. You're a fortunate man, Mr. Hamilton. They all love Lord Lincolnshire and will transfer that affection to you. In fact, they already have. I was squeezed right out of the earl's circle by all the ladies who want to marry you."

So she hadn't heard he was married. Or rather, that Hamilton was married. Well, he wasn't going to inform her. That would only serve to reinforce her conviction that he was Hamilton.

"Lincolnshire is well loved," he muttered instead in disgust. Had the earl been the blackguard Hamilton had described, he wouldn't have been welcome at this ball. And Corinna would never have introduced Sean as his famous nephew. "Everyone seems absolutely devastated that he's dying."

"Of course we are," she said, pulling his hand back to keep him from ramming into someone. "Throughout his life, Lord Lincolnshire has given generously to charity and done countless good deeds for various members of the ton and their children."

"Everyone says they'll do anything for him."

"Anything but the one thing we cannot, which is to save his life," she said mournfully.

"Then why didn't you believe him?" When he stumbled again, her hand gripped his shoulder harder. "He told you I was Sean, not John, but you disagreed with him. Loudly."

The look she gave him said he was a complete idiot. "The dear man does enjoy his games. And Sean is the same name as John in Ireland anyway, isn't it? You sound like you come from Ireland."

That he couldn't deny. Not without appearing to be the idiot she already considered him. Luckily for him, the musicians stopped playing. The dance had come to an end. Corinna curtsied, thanked him politely, and walked off.

He'd survived his first waltz. But as her sweet, paint-tinged scent wafted away, he found himself wishing it had lasted longer.

And wasn't that absurd? He was lucky he had come out alive.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Shortly after noon on Monday, Sean paced outside the gate in front of Lincolnshire House, planning his day as he waited for his curricle to be brought around.

Thanks to a long breakfast with Lincolnshire, he was getting a very late start. He needed to stop by his main offices and make sure everything had gone well in his absence. Two contracts should be waiting for him to sign, he had three pending transactions to review, and he hoped to open negotiations for a factory he wished to sell. In addition, he expected barrels of wine he'd imported to arrive, he had a hotel to inspect in the center of London, and he wanted to talk to Deirdre—which meant a drive out to Hampstead and back.

Across the street, Berkeley Square hummed with activity. From his vantage point at the north end, he watched people traipse in and out of the fenced, grassy park in the middle. In the row of houses along the west side, a blue door opened, catching his eye. Two footmen emerged, burdened with boxes and an easel. As they headed across the street toward the park, a young woman came out and followed, her lithe figure clad in a pale blue gown with a white apron tied over it. Her dark hair, worn unfashionably loose, shone in the midday sun.

As his curricle pulled up, he blinked, suddenly recognizing Corinna.

"Wait here," he told the stableman before dashing out into the square.

By the time he reached her, the servants had positioned her easel beneath a giant plane tree and were setting a canvas upon it—one covered with blotches of gray and white. She riffled through a box filled with little pots of paint, her gaze focused, her plump bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"Good day to you, Lady Corinna."

Startled, she looked up, narrowing her eyes. Impossibly gorgeous blue eyes.

To Sean, most everyone's eyes—including his own—appeared brown. Green, hazel, brown…they all looked brown. Only shades of blue looked truly colorful, and Corinna's eyes seemed the most brilliant blue he'd had the pleasure to see.

A man could lose himself in those eyes.

"Have you decided to let me sketch you?" she asked.

"No," he said, not lost after all. "I was waiting there for my curricle"—he gestured toward Lincolnshire House—"when I noticed you entering the square. I came over to tell you I'm not Hamilton. I'm not Lincolnshire's nephew."

She lifted a dull knife. "So you keep saying." Using it to scoop brown—or maybe red or green—paint onto a palette, she slanted him a glance. "Yet you're living in Lincolnshire House."

"I am. I can explain. Hamilton is my brother-in-law, and—"

"You said that in the museum."

"Because it's true."

She seemed to stare at his mouth for a moment before she wiped the knife on her splotched apron and used it to add a smidge of a lighter color. "I don't believe you," she said, apparently as blunt as she was beautiful. "I understand that you've enjoyed your anonymity in the past, but your secret is out now. You're going to have to get used to the fact that everyone knows you're John Hamilton."

She was staring at his mouth again, almost as though she wanted to kiss him. He certainly wanted to kiss her. Or throttle her. "But I'm not John Hamilton."

"And I'm not here in Berkeley Square." With a saucy smile, she picked up a brush and turned to her canvas. "I expect you should get to your own painting, Mr. Hamilton. I wish you a successful day."

Clearly he was dismissed. He strode back to his curricle, bunching his fists—as much to keep from throttling her as to keep from touching her this time. If he didn't manage to convince her of the truth soon, his hands were going to be permanently clenched.

With Griffin gone, Corinna had been looking forward to a few peaceful days to work on her portrait. But she wandered the drawing room Tuesday, still pondering whom to paint.

She'd decided her picture would be set outdoors. She was an accomplished landscape artist, after all, and it was important that her backdrop be as impressive as her central subject. She wanted the play of light and shadow, the varied greens of grass and trees, the bright hues of blooming flowers. She'd started painting all of that yesterday in the square, and she was happy enough with how it was coming along. But she couldn't make up her mind whom she wanted in the foreground and what, exactly, he or she should be doing.

She didn't care for formal portraits where the sitter just stared at the viewer. She preferred to see subjects in context. Conversation portraits, they were called. Quite popular in the previous century, they often featured whole families or groups of friends posed casually, as though caught in some everyday action. Although it wasn't common to do the same with a single subject, she wanted to give it a try. She hoped it would make her painting a little different—and therefore more noteworthy.

If the painting turned out well, it would not only be the first work she submitted to the Summer Exhibition, but also the first portrait she put on public view. She wanted to choose someone who would be memorable. Someone whose personality would shine from the canvas. Someone she knew well enough to portray in such a manner that the viewer would feel he or she was a close, personal friend.

That was why she'd painted family members over and over.

She stopped and scanned all the many old Chase family portraits on the wall, settling on one dated 1670. The gentleman wore a long surcoat and a lace-trimmed cravat, the lady a full, heavy brocade gown with an old-fashioned stomacher fronting the bodice. A small engraved metal plate on the frame read:

JASON AND CAITHREN
8TH MARQUESS AND MARCHIONESS OF CAINEWOOD

She'd never known this couple, of course. They'd both died long before she was born. But unlike the ancient, more sober portraits, which invariably featured stern, unsmiling subjects, this husband and wife looked happy. They looked like they'd been in love.

And they looked very much like Corinna's present family.

Juliana resembled Caithren, sharing her ancestor's warm hazel eyes and straight, streaky blond tresses. Griffin had inherited Jason's dark hair and square jaw, and both men had deep green eyes.

But they weren't as startling a green as the eyes that belonged to the man Corinna really wanted to paint. She couldn't keep her mind off him. The way he kept lying to her was infuriating, but now whenever she picked up a Minerva Press novel she pictured him as the hero. No matter if the author described the hero as having fair hair and blue eyes; in her head his hair was dark, his eyes that startling green. When the dark-haired, green-eyed hero touched the heroine, a pleasurable shiver ran through her. And whenever the hero and heroine kissed, she imagined Mr. Hamilton kissing her, and her lips tingled.

But give that he'd refused to let her sketch him, painting him was out of the question. She was as likely to paint him as she was to kiss him.

Neither was going to happen.

And no, she decided, she didn't want to update the family portrait collection by continuing to paint new pictures of people who looked eerily similar to the ones already on the walls. She'd been doing that for nearly a year, and none of her efforts had turned out good enough to hang on the walls anyway.

Sighing, she collected her art supplies and summoned two footmen to accompany her into the square. Until she decided on a subject, she'd continue working on her setting. Carrying her box of paints, she followed the servants out the door and across the street.

Or at least she tried to cross the street. Rounding the curve from Lincolnshire House, a curricle drew to a halt in her path. The driver looked down from his high perch.

"I'm not Hamilton," he said coldly.

She shrugged, thoroughly vexed. Apparently he hated her. And since he wasn't going to let her sketch him—let alone paint him—she wished he'd just leave her alone. If he'd cease popping into her life, perhaps she'd be able to concentrate on finding someone else to kiss.

To paint, she mentally amended. She didn't want to kiss him; she only wanted to paint him.

Holy Hannah, she was a liar.

And was there anything worse than lying to oneself?

"Fine," she snapped. "You're not Hamilton. Now will you please drive on so that I can paint?"

A hoot of laughter burst from his throat. Or maybe it was a snort of frustration. Whichever, he flicked his reins and drove off, leaving her to think about painting him and kissing him…and very little else.

At the rate she was making progress, she'd be lucky to finish a new portrait before next year's Summer Exhibition.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Nephew?"

"Hmm?"

"I wish to see your studio today."

Sean looked up from reading the Morning Chronicle at the breakfast table, thinking it was way too late for breakfast. By this hour on a normal morning, he'd generally have risen, eaten, and driven all the way into town to his offices. On a normal morning, he'd have already gone through the day's mail, sat in on several meetings, dispatched employees to see to his interests. On a normal morning, he'd be elbow-deep in business by now, expanding his empire, increasing his fortune. On a normal morning…

This wasn't a normal morning.

No morning had been normal since he'd agreed to this damned scheme. Lincolnshire had trouble falling asleep and, in consequence, stayed abed late. And then he wanted his "dear nephew Sean" to keep him company at breakfast. He ate very little and very slowly, and in consequence it all took very long.

Sean folded and set aside the newspaper. "My studio is private," he said carefully.

"From me?" The earl looked hurt. "I'm your uncle. You're my heir."

"I have work to do—"

"I know. Work that makes me mighty proud, work that rivals the very best." He gestured to all the old masters on his dining room walls. "I want to see where you work. I shall sit and watch quietly; I promise. It's not as though I could move around much even if I wanted to," he added with his usual good humor.

But Sean's smile was regretful, not amused. "I'm sorry, but I wouldn't be able to concentrate—"

"You won't even know I'm there."

He did want to make the old man happy. But he couldn't—he just couldn't—allow Lincolnshire to see Hamilton's studio.

At least, not in its current state.

No more than an hour after leaving the British Museum, Hamilton had fetched a few paintings and stuck them in an empty garret in one of Sean's buildings. He'd even included a half-finished canvas and propped it on an easel, so it would appear as though Sean were in the middle of a project.

But after that, he'd run off to Wales. Immediately and without a backward glance, with only a promise that he'd return in two weeks. Other than the pictures and a few well-used sketchbooks, he'd provided nothing.

No paint. No brushes. The earl would expect to see more than art, wouldn't he? He'd expect to see art supplies.

Still and all, Sean had no wish to disappoint Hamilton's uncle. Lincolnshire's condition was worsening by the day, and he was a nice fellow who deserved a happy ending. There was nothing for it; Sean had no choice.

He was forced to twist the truth once again.

"Unfortunately," he explained, "I find it impossible to paint with anyone watching over my shoulder. And I'm in the middle of something I fear I'm quite anxious to finish today. Will tomorrow be soon enough? I should be done then, and I'll be happy to bring you to the studio. Not to watch me paint, mind you, but to see the space. And to view the latest Hamilton canvases."

He hated lying. This whole exercise was mentally exhausting. For the umpteenth time, he silently cursed himself for allowing Hamilton to talk him into it.

"Very well," Lincolnshire finally conceded. "I shall look forward to visiting tomorrow."

Sean thanked him and finished breakfast, then went off to work. Or rather, to purchase art supplies.

Normally he wouldn't have a clue where to buy anything related to art. But he'd noticed Hamilton's sketchbooks all had REEVES & SONS stamped on them. Recalling a tenant by that name in one of his buildings in the center of the City, he was able to drive straight there.

It took him a good while to choose the supplies, particularly the colors. Completely at a loss, he finally consulted one of the Reeveses—father or son, he knew not—who selected the proper pigments for him. After hearing the man rattle on about tone harmony, warmer and cooler variants, transparent as opposed to opaque, and the benefits versus the drawbacks of a broad palette compared to a more limited one—this particular "palette" apparently referring to a list of colors rather than a thing one put the colors on—Sean felt as though his head might explode.

When at long last he came out of the shop—a "colorman's shop," he'd learned it was called—he also feared more than half his day had slipped away.

He was in a hurry. So much so that, on his way back to his curricle, he glanced twice at a woman in the bookshop next door before realizing she was Corinna.

A footman in Chase livery stood outside the shop, looking bored. Corinna stood on the other side of the window, her nose buried in a book. A bell on the door jangled when Sean opened it, but the noise failed to rouse her. Ignoring the bookseller's muted, "Good afternoon," Sean walked past the front desk and right up to her. Still reading, she didn't acknowledge his arrival.

"I'm not Hamilton," he said.

She jumped. Then slammed the book shut as her gaze flew to his face. "I don't believe you."

"So you keep saying. But I don't paint."

Her blue, blue eyes focused on the bulky package in his hands. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, it had REEVES & SONS stamped on it in smudged black ink.

A tiny smile tugged at her lips. "Then what did you buy at the colorman's shop?"

The sarcasm in her tone was unmistakable. Answering truthfully would only dig him in deeper. But he was tired of lying. He'd been trying to correct a lie. He didn't want to claim he'd purchased anything other than oil, pigments, and brushes.

So instead he said, "What are you reading?"

Her reaction was astonishing. She blushed and stuttered and quickly shoved the book onto the nearest shelf. When he looked to see the title, she grabbed his upper arm and maneuvered him down a row of bookcases. And around a corner and down a second row. She didn't stop until she'd backed him into a dead end.

He smiled down at her. She looked very becoming with flushed cheeks. And though she'd finally released him, he'd rather liked having her touching him.

He'd liked that to an alarming degree.

A small part of him wondered what she'd been reading. A very small part of him. The rest of him was busy contemplating the fact that the two of them were quite alone here, tucked amongst the quiet bookshop's tall shelves. There didn't seem to be any other customers, the bookseller was well out of view, and the footman who'd accompanied Corinna was apparently still outside daydreaming.

Sean set the package on a high, empty shelf.

The shop smelled like paper and dust, but Corinna smelled of flowers and paint. Her breathing seemed loud in the pervasive silence. Loud and a wee bit ragged. Watching him, she sank her teeth into her bottom lip—that plump, tempting lip—and swayed toward him, perhaps involuntarily.

Without thought, he leaned in to kiss her.

She tasted as sweet as she smelled, her mouth yielding against his. He brushed it once, twice, then settled into place, taking possession. She gasped, parting her lips just enough to let him in.

He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself—he didn't want to help himself. He'd been imagining this kiss since that first day in the British Museum. He wrapped his arms around her and slipped his tongue into her mouth, half expecting her to bite it in protest.

But she didn't.

She kissed him back.

First she angled her head to make their lips match more closely. Next she sighed into his mouth. Tentatively, she touched the tip of her tongue to his. Then, seeming to go boneless in his arms, she simply sank into the experience.

She felt…wonderful. Soft and warm and curving in all the right places. Sean wasn't a man to think in poetic terms, but the word that sprang to mind was divine. She molded her body to his and wound her arms around his neck, threading her fingers into the hair at his nape. By degrees she grew bolder, the kiss deepening, an exciting, arousing dance of lips and tongues. He sensed she was learning as she went along, but she seemed a very apt pupil. And an extremely talented one as well.

When she finally pulled away, he was left rather witless.

Her cheeks were even more flushed than before; her breath was now ragged enough to make her breasts heave beneath her thin dress; her eyes looked as hazy as he felt. "Why?" she asked in a voice so throaty it kicked his lust up a notch. "Why did you do that?"

He wasn't sure why. "I suppose because I wanted to."

"But you hate me!"

"Obviously, I don't. Although I will admit to finding you somewhat exasperating." He measured her in return. "Why did you let me do that?"

Her hazy eyes widened. "Are you jesting? What female—most especially what female artist—wouldn't let John Hamilton kiss her?"

For once he didn't protest that he wasn't John Hamilton. He was too stunned. "So it was a trophy kiss?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You kiss artists? You thought to add me to your collection? A particularly shiny prize?"

She splayed a hand on her heaving cleavage. "I've never kissed another artist."

She had not, he noted, claimed she'd never kissed another man. Evidently she'd been kissed before. But while she'd been an enthusiastic participant, she hadn't seemed schooled, making him suspect that she'd never been kissed before in the French manner.

He found himself pleased by that notion. A man liked to be first. However, he was very much aware that he had no business kissing her at all, in the French manner or otherwise.

He wasn't John Hamilton. He wasn't Lincolnshire's nephew. He wasn't an English peer, or a soon-to-be English peer, or remotely related to any English peer at all.

He wasn't even English.

He was an upstart Irish commoner with lots of money but apparently no sense. Aristocratic young misses like Corinna were off-limits to men like him.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I'm not."

She was very blunt, he thought, not for the first time. And very beautiful.

He'd thought that before, too.

"I won't kiss you again," he vowed.

"I hope you will." Her lips curved, making him want to kiss them again, vow be damned. "I enjoyed kissing you very much," she added artlessly.

In the sense of being free of guile, of course. Of stating something simply and sincerely. She certainly wasn't artless in the literal definition.

"You shouldn't have enjoyed kissing me," he informed her, "because I'm not John Hamilton."

"Not that again." Reaching up to the shelf, she shoved his package toward him. "Don't forget your art supplies," she called over her shoulder as she walked away. "You're going to need them the next time you paint."

He was still standing there when the bell jangled and the door shut behind her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Corinna stood before her easel in Berkeley Square the next day, painting.

Oh, very well, daydreaming.

Or—since she was determined to stop lying to herself—reliving yesterday's kiss.

For at least the hundredth time.

She'd been kissed before, of course, but never like that. She'd never tangled tongues with a man. She could have sworn her legs had turned to water. Not only her lips, but her entire body had seemed to tingle. She was surprised her pounding heart hadn't cracked a rib.

She couldn't say she hadn't been aware that such kisses were possible—she'd certainly read of them in Minerva Press novels. In fact, standing right there in the bookshop, she'd read in Children of the Abbey where Lord Mortimer had clutched Amanda close and straining her to his beating heart, he imprinted a kiss on her tremulous lips.

And the sort of kiss she'd shared with Mr. Hamilton was exactly what she had imagined.

It had seemed an excellent novel, and she'd had every intention of buying it. Until he'd kissed her—until he'd imprinted a kiss on her lips—leaving her head spinning and her mind blanker than a fresh canvas. And she'd forgotten all about buying the book.

Truthfully, though she relished reading of such kisses, she hadn't expected to experience one until after she married. After all, the most proper ladies considered even a chaste kiss to be scandalous before a man proposed. But she'd never been proper, and she couldn't be sorry she hadn't waited.

Kissing Mr. Hamilton had been glorious. Magnificent. Awe-inspiring.

The most memorable, most erotic moment of her entire life.

And in all the hours since, when she wasn't daydreaming about the kiss, when she wasn't reliving it over and over in all its shocking, knee-weakening glory, she'd been engrossed in trying to figure out if that sort of kiss would have proved so incredible with any man, or only with Mr. Hamilton.

She suspected only with Mr. Hamilton. And despite what she'd said in the heat of the moment, that wasn't just because he was John Hamilton, either. It was mostly because something about him called to her; something about him just—

"Lady Corinna." A familiar voice interrupted her musings.

It sounded weaker and more breathless than she'd like. Lord Lincolnshire wasn't doing well. Her heart sinking, Corinna looked over to see him sitting in his wheelchair outside the fence that enclosed the park.

Setting her palette down on a bench, she walked over to greet him, feeling a bit better as she got closer. He looked flushed and swollen…but happy. Happier than she'd seen him in ages.

Mr. Hamilton stood behind him, his hands on the back of the chair drawing her gaze. Only yesterday those hands had held her, had pressed her tight to his hard body. They looked tanned and large and square, appealingly masculine.

"My nephew is taking me to his studio," Lord Lincolnshire informed her brightly, snapping her attention back to him. "I'm going to see his newest paintings."

"We really must be on our way," Mr. Hamilton said without meeting Corinna's eyes. "I have much to do today after this."

Lord Lincolnshire smiled up at her. "Would you like to come along?"

"No," Mr. Hamilton shot out at the same time Corinna exclaimed, "Oh, yes!"

"Thank you for the invitation," she added. "I'd be delighted to come along."

"No," Mr. Hamilton repeated more forcefully, finally looking at her. "My workspace is private. There's a reason I'm known as a recluse."

"Come now, nephew," Lord Lincolnshire chided. "You're about to be an earl. Your days as a recluse have come to an end."

"Uncle—"

"Mr. Hamilton," Corinna interrupted, having never been one to hold her tongue. "Your uncle would like me to accompany you. Will you disappoint such a kindly man?"

Mr. Hamilton opened his mouth, most likely to argue, but then apparently had second thoughts, because he closed it. Into a very straight line. And he glared at her.

Obviously, she'd won.

Remembering that stern mouth imprinting a kiss on her lips, she smiled. "I'll be but a moment. I'll meet you gentlemen at the gate."

After quickly returning to her easel and instructing the footman to take it home, she removed her apron, smoothed her pink dress, and joined the Hamilton men outside the fence.

It was a short walk to Piccadilly Street, where the studio was located. Mr. Hamilton remained grim and silent the entire way. Lord Lincolnshire chattered breathlessly. Though Corinna maintained her half of the conversation, her mind was on other things.

She was impatient to see the studio, to see new Hamilton paintings before anyone else. To see exactly where Mr. Hamilton worked, and what sorts of supplies he used, and maybe, if she was lucky, a canvas or two that wasn't finished yet, so she could study his technique.

But mostly she was excited that after she'd visited his private space—his secret, reclusive hideaway—he'd no longer be able to keep claiming he wasn't John Hamilton. Because honestly, enough was enough.

She was growing rather weary of this act of his. It was becoming more than childish. She was going to let him kiss her again—she could hardly wait for him to kiss her again—but she wanted him to own up to the truth first.

The studio was in a very nice building. Shops filled the ground floor, and the two floors above were divided into large flats. Unfortunately, the studio was in a windowed garret above those, and it was no small feat helping Lord Lincolnshire up the many stairs.

Even though Mr. Hamilton took most of his uncle's weight, they went very slowly, and Corinna found the man much heavier than she expected. He was also shorter than she'd thought, quite a bit shorter than his nephew. Having known Lord Lincolnshire her entire life, she supposed she still thought of him as tall compared to the child she'd once been, but she wasn't a child anymore.

Especially after that tongue-tangling, spine-tingling kiss.

The minute they got inside, Lord Lincolnshire shuffled to a threadbare sofa and plopped down, out of breath. Corinna would have sat, too, but he was sprawled right in its center. And the studio had no other sofa or any chairs.

In fact, it hadn't much of anything.

Six pictures rested on the floor, leaning against the bare walls. An easel held one more work of art in progress. Clearly it would be a lovely scene once it was finished, a beautiful meadow bordered by trees more realistic than any others she'd ever seen rendered in paint. Tiny, individual leaves seemed to be rustling in the wind, casting shadows on the grass below. She looked forward to studying it, to figuring out how Mr. Hamilton had managed such incredible detail.

A small table sat beside it, with a few sketchbooks piled on top. But no pencils.

Odd, that.

Mr. Hamilton's supplies were on the table, too. All of them. There was no cupboard, no shelves in the room, no place for anything to be hiding. She walked over to have a look and found a selection of various pigments, a big bottle of linseed oil, a pristine palette, and two—only two!—seemingly brand-new brushes. Neither of them was nearly fine enough to paint the tiny leaves she'd seen on the trees.

And that was it. There was nothing else. No extra jars to hold leftover mixed paint. No turpentine, no varnish.

No rags, no blank canvases, no knives.

No little spots of paint on the wooden floor.

Since Corinna painted in her family's drawing room, she always spread a large tarpaulin to prevent spotting, but the floor here was bare and clean. And no folded tarp was in sight.

"Where do you make your paints?" she asked.

Mr. Hamilton shifted uneasily. "Right here. Where else?"

"What do you use, then? What surface do you grind them against?"

"I make them directly on the palette," he said, slanting a glance to his uncle.

She frowned. "Isn't that too porous? I've always used glass. And a glass muller."

"A muller?" Lord Lincolnshire asked.

"It's sort of like a flat pestle," she explained. "One has to grind the pigment into the oil in order to completely combine them."

He looked to his nephew. Mr. Hamilton lifted a shoulder. "With enough elbow grease, one has no need of a muller."

There were, she acknowledged, different methods. "I suppose a palette knife would do if one worked the mediums well," she conceded.

Lord Lincolnshire nodded approvingly. "He's very talented, you know."

"Extremely talented," she agreed. But there were no palette knives. And she still wondered how he could grind against a surface as permeable as wood. She wandered to the painting on the easel, admiring its incredibly detailed trees. "Which pigment do you use as the base for your greens?" she asked.

"The green one."

"Hmm?" He had no green pigment. She turned and glanced back to the table to verify. Black, white, yellows, blues, reds, and earth tones. Other pigments were available for purchase, of course, but these were the basics, the same ones she used herself. With these colors, one could mix any other color one might want. Greens were created from blues and yellows.

When she'd asked which pigment was his base, she'd meant which blue. Ultramarine, Prussian, cerulean? "I'm partial to cobalt," she said, "even though it's the most expensive."

"I can afford it," he said haughtily. "I'm partial to cobalt green, too."

Cobalt was blue. Transparent, neutral blue. The truest of all the blues, which was why she preferred it.

She thought a moment. And then she smoothed her pink skirts, moving closer to Mr. Hamilton so Lord Lincolnshire wouldn't overhear. Walking right up to him, she rose to her toes and placed her mouth close by his ear, giving him an eyeful of her scooped neckline.

"Do you like my new green dress?" she whispered.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"You look grand indeed in that dress," Sean murmured, trying not to ogle the enticing pale mounds peeking from beneath it. He'd noticed Corinna's dresses usually weren't as low-cut as most of those worn by other ladies of her class. Evidently she was too practical to paint while wearing fashionable, tiny-bodiced dresses. But the way she was leaning toward him afforded him a view that made him swallow hard anyway.

"But do you like the hue?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. The, um, green color is very flattering."

"Thank you," she said, and stepped back.

And, miraculously, she stopped asking questions.

"May I see your paintings, Sean?" Lincolnshire asked.

"Of course, Uncle," Sean said, and brought them over, one by one.

The earl examined each picture minutely, making thoughtful and considered comments. John Hamilton might have argued or agreed, but Sean was only confused. He was an entrepreneur, not an actor. Devising responses proved mentally exhausting. But he was thankful that at least Corinna had ceased making everything more difficult, had stopped asking question after question that he couldn't answer.

In fact, he suddenly realized while Lincolnshire was rhapsodizing over yet another painting, she wasn't saying anything at all. She was just standing by the table with his supplies, watching him. She seemed dumbstruck.

And all Sean had done was tell her he liked her dress. Whoever would have guessed a simple compliment could have such an effect? Contrary to the wise old saying, apparently flattery could get a man anywhere. He'd have to remember that going forward.

After Lincolnshire finished perusing all the pictures, Corinna remained quiet while they assisted him back down the steps, a slow and painful process even with her help. She didn't say much as they wheeled the chair home, and her farewell at Lincolnshire's door was uncharacteristically reserved and polite.

Mystified by the change in her, Sean saw the poor, exhausted earl upstairs and into bed. With that accomplished, he stepped out into the corridor, closed the door, and slumped against it, shutting his eyes and willing the tension to drain from his body.

Mother Mary, that had possibly been the longest afternoon of his life.

This won't interrupt your routine, Hamilton had promised. It shan't affect Delaney and Company at all.

The rotter had been lying through his teeth.

Sean was seriously considering ending the whole thing now. Not only because he was constantly neglecting his interests—which was no small consideration—but also because deceiving the kindly old man was adding to his guilt by the moment.

Well, he was free for the time being, he told himself, opening his eyes and straightening his shoulders. Maybe he could finally attend to some business. He traipsed downstairs, asked a footman to see that his curricle was brought around, and headed out of the house.

Then stopped dead on the doorstep.

"You're not Hamilton," Corinna said.

"Sweet Jesus." Sean blinked. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting to talk to you. You're color-blind. Which means you cannot be Hamilton—or any oil painter at all. At least not a good one."

Once the shock subsided, he cracked a smile. "I take exception to that. I expect I could paint a tolerably good brown scene. Assuming I had an artistic bone in my body, that is." A stableman arrived with his curricle, but he ignored it. "What was the telltale sign, then?"

"My dress is pink, not green."

"Ah." It looked pale brown. And so much for flattery getting him everywhere. "After you figured that out, you didn't say anything. What made you keep the truth from Lincolnshire?"

"Are you jesting? The last thing I'd want to do is disappoint that man. He's wonderful."

"That he is."

"And he'd be crushed to learn you're not his nephew." She pursed her lips. Those plump, tempting lips he'd vowed not to kiss again. "Who are you?"

"Sean Delaney. Hamilton's brother-in-law. I've been telling you that all along."

"If you're not an artist, what do you do?"

"I own property. I buy and sell buildings. Among other things." He shifted uneasily. "I'd like to explain. Not about that, but about how I ended up here. Will you walk with me in the square?"

She seemed to consider that for a moment. "Will you buy me an ice from Gunter's?"

"You're hungry?"

"Not particularly. But Gunter's Tea Shop is probably the only establishment in London where a lady can be seen alone with a man without ruining her reputation."

"Agreed, then," he said when he stopped laughing.

She was a clever one.

Leaving the curricle in front of Lincolnshire House, they made their way across the square to Gunter's, where he ordered a lemon ice for himself and a strawberry ice for Corinna. They took them back into the square.

"This is such a relief," he said as they walked.

"The other man in the museum was really Hamilton, then. Given how he acted at the time, I'm guessing this was his plan. Why did you go along with it?"

"I didn't want to—"

"But you did it anyway."

"For my sister." Sean sighed. "Hamilton's wife."

By the time he explained, both their dishes were empty. They sat on a bench beneath a large London plane tree. Corinna slowly licked her spoon.

It was an amazingly erotic sight.

"I don't blame you," she declared. "I'd have done the same to save my sister from being unhappy all her days."

"I feel like a bastard tricking Lincolnshire, though. I'm going to tell him the truth."

"You cannot!" She turned to him, her lips slick with melted ice. "You'll ruin your sister's chance to get her divorce. And you'll ruin Lord Lincolnshire's final few days. The earl is the most wonderful man in the world, and he's tragically lost everyone he loves, and he's so thrilled to have his nephew in his life. How can you even think of depriving such a generous old man of his last chance at happiness?"

"It's sorry I am for that. But I cannot continue perpetrating this hoax." Sean thought of telling her what it was costing him personally, but that wasn't really the point. "It isn't right to deceive him—"

"It's kind, and what's so wrong about that? How is it hurting him? He'd be much more hurt to learn his real nephew is so very selfish, and there'd be nothing he could do about it anyway. The law is the law. John Hamilton is his nearest blood relative, his legal heir. He'll inherit no matter what Lord Lincolnshire would prefer."

"He'd inherit the title and any entailed property. But Lincolnshire could will everything else to anyone he wanted."

"Yes, he could, Mr. Delaney. But—"

"Sean."

"I beg your pardon?"

"My name is Sean. And I'm thinking we should have leave to call each other by our given names."

He already called her Corinna in his head. He'd thought of her as Corinna ever since he'd heard her name called out in the British Museum. And not being accustomed to the company of the peerage, he was likely to forget to add the Lady.

"I don't know," she said slowly. "That seems rather…intimate."

"You're the only one who knows my secret," he pointed out. "That's a rather intimate thing, don't you think? And we've kissed."

A dreamy look crossed her face. A look that doubled the speed of his pulse.

"Not that that's happening again," he quickly added, thinking maybe they'd be better off not using first names after all.

"All right," she said. "Now where were we…Sean?" She paused, looking dreamy again. "Oh, yes. You'd said that should Lord Lincolnshire learn the truth, he'd be able to will everything but his title to anyone he wanted. But at what cost? He'd be unhappy and disillusioned the rest of his days, and once he's gone, will it really matter whether Mr. Hamilton does or doesn't inherit? Lord Lincolnshire deserves happiness," she concluded with conviction. "That's the deciding factor."

She had a point. A lot of points, actually. But Lincolnshire's happiness wasn't the only consideration. "He's going to find out regardless. I'm not an artist, and I seem to keep proving that, over and over. The earl may be physically deteriorating, but his mind is sharp as a knife. It's only a matter of time before he realizes I cannot possibly be an accomplished landscapist, which means I cannot possibly be his nephew. How will he feel then? Wouldn't it be better for me to admit the truth than for him to discover it himself?"

"I'm an artist. I can cover for you. I can help you keep up the masquerade."

"You're not around enough to do that."

"I can be around enough. I'll visit Lord Lincolnshire every day. I'll keep close. You won't mind that, will you?"

Sure, he wouldn't mind. He liked torturing himself, lived to spend hours in her presence, bunching his fists to keep from touching her.

She licked her spoon again, an act so innocently sensuous, it took everything he had not to kiss her on the spot.

He grabbed the spoon instead. "I won't mind," he muttered, only adding to his legion of lies.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

TEA BUNS

Mix a lot of Flower with some Sugar and a little Salt in a bowl, then put in Egges, Butter, halfe a cup of Milk and a measure of Yeast to make a thick dough. Allow to rise, then flatten and make rounde buns and allow to rise again before you bake.

A most genteel addition to afternoon tea, these buns encourage serenity.
—Georgiana, Countess of Greystone, 1806

Yesterday's discovery that John Hamilton was really Sean Delaney—well, that and constantly reliving the kiss—had kept Corinna too distracted to take notice of the calendar. But today she'd realized it was May. The second of May, to be precise. Lady A's reception was on the fourteenth, and Summer Exhibition submissions were due on the nineteenth.

It usually took her at least two weeks to complete a painting. And for this one, she had yet to choose a subject.

Griffin had been gone a day longer than he'd said he would, yet with all the peace and quiet, she still wasn't making progress. The thought of that had kept her mind buzzing the entire afternoon at Juliana's home. Family and friends had assembled there, in Stafford House's beautiful Palm Room, to pen the invitations to the reception Lady A was planning to introduce Corinna to the art world.

All of Corinna's female relations had come, as well as ladies related to her relations. Alexandra and Juliana, and their three cousins, Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth. A hugely pregnant Aunt Frances. Lady Avonleigh, of course, and her two sisters, Lady Balmforth and Lady Cavanaugh, who was also Juliana's mother-in-law.

It was touching. Corinna had never considered herself the sentimental type, but the thought of all of them them helping her made her throat feel tight.

"It was so kind of you all to come," Lady A said now as she rose to fetch her pelisse. "I was dreading writing these invitations, but with all the help, we finished in no time."

Juliana piled the leftover tea buns she'd served into a basket. "Have you need of any more assistance, Lady Avonleigh? With anything else at all?"

"Just encourage everyone to attend, please, all of you. Royal Academicians in particular, but anyone else influential as well. You all know the wording for the invitations now, so feel free to write out more should you think of anyone else who might be able to further Corinna's career. Above all, we must make certain the committee members all attend." Buttoning the pelisse, she turned to Corinna. "I'm sure John Hamilton will accept, as he's your personal acquaintance—"

"I wouldn't call him that," Corinna interrupted, suddenly nervous.

"You've danced together, my dear."

"He's a very busy man." Sean couldn't attend the reception—the Academy members would surely expose him as a fraud. "And you know he doesn't like to appear in public."

"Now that he's inheriting Lord Lincolnshire's title, I'm certain that will change. Don't fret, my dear; he shall attend." Lady A leaned closer and kissed Corinna's cheek, enveloping her in a cloud of gardenia and camphor scent. "Should you run into the man, you might encourage him to see that the other committee members accept as well."

Lady A certainly seemed more confident than Corinna felt. "I don't know.…"

Shrugging into her own light pelisse, Rachael paused. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Corinna fibbed. "Perfectly fine."

She couldn't help wondering if she'd done the right thing encouraging Sean to continue deceiving Lord Lincolnshire. In fact, it seemed she could think about little else. Besides the kiss. And the reception. And her looming deadline to finish her portrait.

But she was fine. Perfectly fine.

And she was lying to herself again.

Rachael patted her shoulder. "Don't get yourself in a dither. I know this reception is important to you, but we shall all contrive to make certain it's a wild success."

Lady A's sisters reached for their reticules as Alexandra lifted baby Harry out of his pram. "Yes, we will," they all confirmed in unison.

Aunt Frances pushed slowly to her feet. "Yes, we will," she echoed, sounding a little bit breathless.

Apparently noticing that, Juliana laid a hand on her arm. "Are you feeling poorly, Aunt Frances?"

"No, just fat and ugly and short of breath. My friend Lady Mabel swears this city isn't good for the lungs once a lady reaches a certain age, but then again, she has asthma." Frances laughed. "I'm only with child."

Elizabeth grabbed her cloak, but as it was a warm day she didn't put it on. "Our mother always said that about the London air, too. But I don't remember her ever having any trouble breathing."

"That's because she refused to come to London," Claire said, and turned to Juliana. "I hope you put those extra tea buns in the basket for us. Mama used to make them, but we haven't had them in years."

"I figured as much." Juliana handed her the basket. Leaving Corinna and Alexandra behind, she started walking the rest of her guests toward the door. "Your mother copied the recipe into our family cookbook. She said the tea buns encourage serenity."

"Is that why you made them?" Rachael asked. "Do you think Corinna feels a need for serenity?"

Before Corinna could go after them and speak for herself, Juliana answered. "Of course she feels a need for serenity. Her entire future hangs in the balance!"

Corinna heard everyone laugh before they said their good-byes. Then she heard the door shut, and Juliana returned to the Palm Room.

Going to a sideboard that had gilt legs carved to look like palm trees, Juliana poured three glasses of sherry before joining her sisters on one of the many sofas covered in palm tree-themed satin fabric. "Here," she said, handing Corinna a glass. "I expect you'll find this encourages serenity much more than tea buns."

Corinna sipped gratefully. "I didn't expect to be nervous about this reception."

"That's natural," Alexandra said, shifting Harry in order to take a sip.

"And you're nervous about something else, too." Juliana crossed her legs. "I can tell. Out with it, Corinna."

They knew her too well; there was no sense pretending. She sighed. "I have a secret."

Her sisters exchanged meaningful glances. "Well?" Alexandra asked.

"Lord Lincolnshire's nephew isn't John Hamilton," Corinna confessed in a rush. "I mean, John Hamilton is his nephew, but the man you met at Lady Partridge's ball isn't. He's his brother-in-law. He wanted to tell Lord Lincolnshire the truth, but I convinced him not to, and now I'm not sure that was right."

"Whoa." Juliana's sip of sherry was more like a gulp. "Explain that again. Slowly, and with more detail."

Corinna did so, telling the whole long complicated story. Then she held her breath before asking, "Was I wrong? Should he tell Lord Lincolnshire the truth?"

Juliana shook her head. "Absolutely not."

"I agree." Alexandra patted her son's back. "Lord Lincolnshire deserves a happy ending."

Corinna blew the breath out. "You're right. I love Lord Lincolnshire."

"So do we," Alexandra assured her.

"I'm going to visit him more often. I promised Mr. Delaney I would, to help him keep up the pretense that he's an artist."

"You'll get to see more of Mr. Delaney that way too, hmm?" Juliana's eyes danced. "That shouldn't be a hardship."

Alexandra looked to Corinna. "She's meddling again, isn't she?"

"Doesn't she always?"

"I can tell you're attracted to the man," Juliana said defensively. "And I cannot say I blame you. He's a handsome devil—"

"You're a married woman!" Corinna interrupted.

"A very happy one," her sister agreed. "But a lady doesn't go blind when she takes her marriage vows. Or deaf, either. That accent—"

"You make him sound like a pretty box. You know nothing about the man inside." Neither did she, for that matter.

"I know he's being very nice to Lord Lincolnshire. And that his sister is married to John Hamilton, which means he's connected to the right people."

"He's not a peer, Juliana. He owns property."

"Doesn't every gentleman own property?"

"I mean he buys and sells buildings for a living. Among other things." She wondered what. "And he's Irish." With that Irish accent. She'd gone back to the bookstore to buy Children of the Abbey this morning, and she'd already read up to page 43, where Amanda thought, the harmony of his voice imparted a charm that seldom failed of being irresistible.

"Does his being Irish bother you?" Juliana asked.

"Of course not." Just thinking of that melodic Irish voice made her imagine hot kisses, which hardly bothered her. Well, maybe it did, but not in the way her sister meant. "But it might bother Griffin."

"Griffin would be a hypocrite if it did," Juliana scoffed. "His own name comes from an Irish ancestor."

"That's right," Alexandra put in. "Our fifth or sixth or seventh great-grandfather, wasn't he? Aidan Griffin, Baron Kilcullen from Ballygriffin, Ireland. Born 1568, died 1648 at Cainewood."

"How do you remember such things?" Corinna asked.

"Family is important to me." She smiled at little Harry, who was named after her husband's uncle. "Besides, you remember every word you've ever read."

"That's different. I can't help it. And I don't even like it. My brain is always filled with all those stupid lines." She sighed. "In any case, I'm not interested in Mr. Delaney that way." Maybe for a few kisses, but that was a far cry from what Juliana had in mind. "I have only seventeen days left to finish my portrait. And spend some time with Lord Lincolnshire while I still can."

Juliana nodded so thoughtfully that Corinna could almost see the scheming going on in her head. She hadn't given up. But apparently she'd decided to back off for now. "I think that's very kind of you," she said. "You should bring Lord Lincolnshire a sweet to brighten his last days."

"Corinna doesn't bake," Alexandra reminded her.

Corinna couldn't bake. The women of their family were famed for their sweets, and she was the only Chase female in history with no talent in the kitchen. She couldn't measure anything properly; she couldn't mix without creating lumps. If she so much as approached the oven, biscuits burned and cakes collapsed.

"I didn't say she should make it," Juliana pointed out. "I only said she should bring it. I'll make something for her to bring."

"Thank you," Corinna said sweetly. It wasn't so bad being a bungler in the kitchen, really. In truth, she'd much rather paint.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"I wonder why Corinna's so nervous," Rachael said to her sisters during the drive home in their carriage. "There's the reception, of course, but she seems to be worrying about more than that."

Corinna had been very far from calm and collected. As a person who wasn't quite herself these days, Rachael recognized the signs. Griffin was supposed to have returned yesterday, and she was on pins and needles waiting to hear what he might have discovered.

"I don't know what's bothering Corinna." Elizabeth shrugged. "But I've been thinking."

"That's a novelty," Claire teased.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue. "I meant I've been thinking about something else. I've been thinking about how Mama never wheezed like Lady Mabel."

"I told you, that's because she refused to come to London." Claire fiddled with a new amethyst ring she'd made, twirling it on her finger. "She knew better than to aggravate her condition."

"But Mama was very quiet," Elizabeth pointed out. "I'm wondering if she actually suffered from asthma at all. Maybe she just didn't want to socialize, so she made that up as an excuse."

Claire stopped twirling. "You think Mama lied?"

"I didn't say she lied. I said she might have used it as an excuse."

"She would never have—"

"Mama wasn't perfect," Rachael interrupted. An understatement, considering the woman had hidden the truth from her all of her life. "It's possible Elizabeth could be right." Thinking back, she couldn't remember her mother ever having difficulty breathing. "Mama never attended large social gatherings. She always preferred to stay home with her needlework and her watercolors and her children."

"She went to Cainewood," Claire argued. "Often."

"But only to visit with family. Never for a ball or any other major occasion."

"I don't believe it," Claire said, looking pouty.

"Well, it doesn't signify anyway, does it?" Rachael sighed. "We'll never really know."

They all rode in thoughtful silence until the carriage came to a stop before their town house in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Elizabeth climbed out first, then emitted a little yelp.

"What are you doing here?" she cried.

Rachael followed Claire out to find Griffin standing in the courtyard.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he said with the crooked smile she always found disconcertingly attractive. But when his gaze swung to meet hers, his expression grew more serious. "I've been waiting for you. I have news."

"What news?" Claire demanded.

"I'll explain later," Rachael told her sisters. She didn't want an audience when she heard what Griffin had learned. "Go inside. Griffin and I will talk in the square."

Grumbling all the way, her sisters entered the house while Rachael and Griffin crossed the street and went through the gate to the private park in the center of the square. It was a nice day, sunny but not hot, and Lincoln's Inn Fields was filled with people enjoying the fine weather.

Choosing a bench beneath a large tree, where the shade would hide them from view of the houses all around, she sat and smoothed her pelisse's thin lavender skirts. "You took longer than I expected."

Angled toward her, he pulled her father's jeweled badge from his pocket and placed it in her palm, folding her fingers around it. "Rachael…I know who he was."

"Was," she repeated. "He's dead, then."

In a cousinly, concerned way, he took one of her hands in both of his. "You knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." But apparently part of her had hoped that wasn't true, because a pang of disappointment seemed to spear her in the vicinity of her heart.

"There's more," he said, squeezing her fingers. "Not all of it good."

She nodded and pulled her hand free, staring down at the badge she held. She couldn't think straight with him touching her. "Start at the beginning. Please."

He took a deep breath. "I searched all the records for the time in question and found a member of the Tenth who took leave to wed a woman the month before you were conceived. An officer, a lieutenant. His name was Thomas Grimbald."

"Grimbald," she echoed, testing the word on her tongue. She should have been Rachael Grimbald, but that sounded so very wrong. "Are you sure he was the right man?"

Griffin nodded. "He married a woman who was thereafter known as Lady Georgiana Grimbald."

Startled, she looked up at him. "He was titled, then?"

"No. She must have been a peer's daughter."

"But my mother was a commoner. She was born plain Georgiana Woodby, not a lady. She always said she was uncommonly lucky to have wed an earl. You found the wrong man."

"I also thought so at first. That's why I was gone the extra day. I combed the records going back years, in case your mother married long before conceiving you. But very few men from the Tenth wed in the correct time frame, and no one else married a woman named Georgiana."

"You're sure it was her, then?"

"There's no other explanation. Your mother acted the lady through and through, didn't she? And wouldn't she have thought herself, a woman ripe with another man's child, uncommonly lucky to have wed at all? It cannot be a coincidence that Grimbald's wife had the same given name. He had to have been your father."

"Maybe." The name sounded wrong, but she still couldn't seem to think straight. She focused on a wooden stand in the distance, where lemonade was sold in the square. "This Grimbald…did the records say how he died?"

"They did."

She waited, but no more information seemed to be forthcoming. She waited some more. When she finally looked back to Griffin, his green eyes were flooded with sympathy.

She didn't want sympathy; she wanted the truth.

"What?" she asked, but still he didn't answer. She clenched her hand around the badge. "Out with it, damn it! I've already learned that my mother lied to me all of my life, came from a different family than she claimed, and my name should be Rachael Grimbald." Grimbald, for heaven's sake! It wasn't a cold day, and she was wearing a pelisse in any case, but she wrapped her arms around herself as though she might ward off a chill. "What could you possibly have to tell me that would be more upsetting than all of that?"

Griffin blew out a breath. "He was executed, Rachael. For treason."

She opened her mouth to respond, but suddenly all the air seemed to have been sucked right out of her. The birds in the tree overhead sounded entirely too cheerful. The people strolling by, chatting and drinking lemonade, sounded too cheerful, too.

"Treason?" she finally managed to say, her voice thin and not cheerful at all. "What did he do?"

"That I don't know; the records of the court-martial must be elsewhere. But he joined the Tenth in 1782—transferred from a disbanded regiment—and there was a notation of his family's address at that time. In Yorkshire. I've hired a man to see whether they still live there. I'll let you know when I find out. Then take you to meet them."

Treason. She hugged herself tighter, the edges of the hard metal badge digging into her clenched fist. "I'm not sure I want to. Meet them, I mean. Not if their son committed treason."

"You don't have to, of course. It will be up to you. They're your family, but I'm willing to wager they don't know of your existence. Perhaps that's why your mother used another name. So they couldn't find you."

"That makes sense." As much sense as anything else she'd heard this afternoon. "Treason," she murmured. "My father was executed for treason."

"I'm sorry." He began to reach for her, then apparently thought better of it and crossed his arms instead. "It doesn't change who you are, Rachael, or make you any less good than you are."

"No," she said, "it doesn't."

But she must not have sounded convincing.

"'Fathers shall not be put to death for their children,'" he quoted solemnly, "'nor children put to death for their fathers; each is to die for his own sins.'"

That dredged up a tiny smile. "Griffin Chase, referencing a Bible passage? Now I've heard everything."

In all the years she'd known him—which was her whole life—he'd never been a man given to prayer.

"Thank you for the information," she said, rising and smoothing her pelisse. "I do appreciate your taking the time to find it. I'm sorry it proved so difficult." She started back home with a sigh, taking a little comfort when he fell into step beside her. "My sisters are going to be very interested to hear all of this."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

GINGERBREAD CAKES

Take four pints of Flower with Ginger and Nutmeg and rub Butter into it. Add to it Brandy and Treacle and mix it altogether. Let it lay till it grows stiffe then pinch pieces and make into little balls. Flatten cakes on a tin and add a Sweetmeat if you please and bake.

These spicy little cakes are known to raise the spirits. Not ghosts, that is, but spirits of the emotional variety. Excellent to bring when paying visits to the ill.
—Anne, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1775

Upon arriving at Lincolnshire House the next afternoon, Corinna was shown to a drawing room, where Sean sat holding a book that he'd apparently been reading to Lord Lincolnshire.

He rose immediately. "I waited for you all yesterday. Where were you?"

He'd waited all day? "I was helping Lady Avonleigh make invitations for a reception. And I was painting. And earlier I went back to the colorman's shop." Well, really to the bookstore to buy Children of the Abbey. "What were you doing here all day? Didn't you need to…ah"—she slanted a glance to Lord Lincolnshire—"paint?"

"I have a lot of work to do, yes. But my uncle is my priority," he said pointedly.

"Of course." The strain in his voice sparked her guilt. And her poor mind was all topsy-turvy like Pamela's had been in the book Pamela or Virtue and Reward.

She'd promised to visit more often, and she imagined Sean did have some work to do—though she didn't know what—but she couldn't spend all day with the earl in his stead, could she? If she wanted to submit a portrait for the Summer Exhibition, she had to work, too.

"Good afternoon, Lord Lincolnshire," she said, walking toward the older man. "I brought you some gingerbread cakes. They're supposed to raise one's spirits."

"Says who?" Sean asked, taking the basket.

"Says my family's heirloom cookbook. Each lady in the family adds a recipe every year, and they all have legends attached. Not that I believe such nonsense," she hastened to add. "My sister Juliana baked these. I'm hopeless in the kitchen."

"I wasn't aware any ladies in Mayfair ever entered a kitchen."

"All the Chase ladies do," Lord Lincolnshire said, pausing for a breath. "They're famous for their sweets."

"All except me," Corinna said.

Sean handed Lord Lincolnshire a sweet and took one for himself. "Please, have a seat."

Corinna looked around the room, which she'd never been in before. The butler, Quincy, had called it the "yellow drawing room" when he'd shown her in here. The walls were covered with yellow silk printed with pink roses, green leaves, and some blue flowers she couldn't name. All the sofas, chairs, and footstools were upholstered in yellow brocade. Part of Lord Lincolnshire's extensive Ming vase collection was in here, and there were several excellent paintings on the walls, including two Rembrandts.

She wanted to study them, but Sean had asked her to sit, and he still seemed a bit peeved. Since she wanted another kiss from him, she decided to study them from a chair.

After she chose the seat with the best view, Sean reseated himself too. "This gingerbread is delicious," he said.

"I'll tell Juliana." She turned to Lord Lincolnshire. He was covered to the waist with a heavy blanket, making her wonder what might be concealed underneath. His hands looked a little puffy, and he'd taken only a tiny bite of the cake. "How are you feeling today, my lord?"

"Better than one might expect, thanks to my nephew." He smiled at Sean, apparently waiting to catch his breath before continuing. "I've been thinking, nephew"—pause—"that I'd like to meet your wife."

Sean exchanged a panicked look with Corinna. "I left my wife in the countryside, Uncle, as I told you. She prefers the quiet life."

Lord Lincolnshire looked disappointed but seemed to accept the state of affairs, since his response was, "Very well." But then he added, "As I was saying when Lady Corinna arrived—"

"Shall I continue reading?" Sean interrupted.

"Not now, nephew. We have a lovely…young lady visiting. And as I…was saying—"

"Would you care for another sweet, Uncle?"

"I haven't finished this one." Pause. "I've been—"

"Have you need of another pillow?"

"No." The poor man was already leaning against at least five of them. "I've—"

"Are you certain—"

"Will you let the man speak?" Corinna cut in. In the awkward silence that followed, she tore her gaze from one of the Rembrandts and turned to the earl. "What did you want to say, Lord Lincolnshire?"

"I wanted to say…that I've been thinking I'd like Sean…to paint a portrait of me. One last portrait…before I depart this fine world."

Sean glared at her. Apparently he'd realized this was coming. But how was she supposed to have known?

"I don't think he can do that, Lord Lincolnshire," she said carefully. "Mr. Hamilton paints only landscapes."

"Surely he can paint…one portrait."

Sean shook his head. "I've never painted a portrait."

Truer words were never spoken, Corinna thought.

"You're a skilled artist, nephew. One of the very best…in the land." Lord Lincolnshire gasped and waited a moment—a moment during which Corinna wracked her brain for a way to help Sean, as she'd promised. "Surely—"

"May I paint you, Lord Lincolnshire?" she interrupted. "Please? I'd be honored if you'd allow me. I've been dying to paint a portrait to submit to the Royal Academy for the Summer Exhibition. If it turns out well, perhaps it will be selected. A subject of your stature could absolutely make my career."

"Me?" Lord Lincolnshire wheezed. "In the Summer Exhibition?"

"Possibly," she reiterated. "None of my portraits have turned out stellar so far, since I haven't had any anatomy lessons. But lately I've been sketching the Elgin Marbles for practice, and I shall try my best—"

"I'm certain," Lord Lincolnshire interrupted, "it will turn out brilliant." He smiled at her as though she'd brought the sun. "But my days are…numbered. Tomorrow being Sunday, I'm hoping…my dear nephew…will take me to church. May we begin Monday?"

"I think we should start now." Her painting was due to the Royal Academy a scant sixteen days hence, and she hoped to show it at Lady A's reception five days before that. "If you've some paper, I can begin sketching you immediately."

"Excellent." Lord Lincolnshire lifted a silver bell from a table beside him. "I shall have a footman…fetch paper…posthaste."

While he rang the bell, Corinna glanced rather triumphantly to Sean.

His expression took her aback. A page from Children of the Abbey flashed into her mind, where Amanda had looked at Lord Mortimer and thought seducing sweetness dwelt in his smile.

A matching sweetness seemed to melt in Corinna's middle, making her remember she wanted another kiss.

In fact, she'd planned to let Sean kiss her again just as soon as he stopped pretending he wasn't John Hamilton, hadn't she? But instead, he'd convinced her he'd been telling the truth. That was equivalent, wasn't it? Either way, the truth had come out Thursday, and today was Saturday, which meant they'd had two whole days of truthfulness between them…and still she hadn't been kissed.

Actually, she suddenly realized, he hadn't even tried. Whatever could that mean? He couldn't have meant it when he said he'd never kiss her again, could he?

Holy Hannah, she hoped not.

A footman handed her a pencil and some paper. She blinked and looked back to Lord Lincolnshire. "What would you like to be doing?"

"Doing?"

"In your portrait. I don't care for portraits where the subject simply stands there and stares at the viewer. I'd prefer for you to be doing something."

"Well, I cannot…simply stand there…in any case." With a faint but good-natured smile, Lord Lincolnshire gestured to his covered legs. "I shall…have to be sitting." His expression turned contemplative. "I've always…enjoyed a good book. Perhaps I can be…reading a book."

While she'd been hoping for something a bit more active, she decided that would have to do. If the man had always loved to read, it was suitable, after all. Thinking Sean had pleased the earl by reading aloud, she glanced back to him.

He was still smiling at her with seducing sweetness.

Oh, very well, maybe it wasn't seducing sweetness; maybe it was only gratitude that she'd saved him from having to paint Lord Lincolnshire. But either way, he was smiling. He was happy with her.

She'd get him to kiss her one way or another.

She returned his smile. "Would you care to read while I sketch, Mr. Hamilton?"

He nodded and opened the book.

Letting his melodic voice wash over her, she settled back and put pencil to paper. And even though Sean wasn't reading a romantic novel, she kept smiling as she listened and sketched.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Thank you," Sean said simply as he walked Corinna toward the door later. "You saved my skin by offering to paint him."

"I told you that you could count on me. May I look in here?" she asked, indicating another drawing room. Lincolnshire House seemed to have a surplus of drawing rooms. "I'd like to see if there are any more Rembrandts."

"I can't think why not." He walked in with her. "What color is this room?"

"Mostly green. The walls are lined with bright green silk damask, and the draperies are green silk trimmed with black velvet. The furniture is all covered in golden and dark red brocade. It's beautiful. I'm sorry you cannot see it."

"I can see it," he told her. "It just looks different to me. The color I can see best is blue. All the rooms in my house are blue, except for Deirdre's."

"Where is your house?"

"In Hampstead. Who painted that landscape you're staring at?"

"John Hamilton." She laughed, a joyful, unselfconscious sound. "All the paintings in this room are Hamiltons. It seems Lord Lincolnshire truly is quite proud of his nephew."

"Figures," Sean muttered in disgust. "It's good to know that, though. I imagine I'd make a holy show of myself if he took me in here and I didn't recognize my own paintings."

"A holy show?"

"A great fool of myself," he translated. "A massive embarrassment." Apparently he hadn't ridden himself of the Irish as much as he'd thought. "Thank you again. I really do appreciate your help."

"I'm glad to hear that," she said. Moving to a fine Kent fireplace, she leaned against the mantel flirtatiously. Well, not precisely flirtatiously, because she wasn't a flirtatious woman. Sean found her much more straightforward than that. But seductively.

And effectively.

"I think you owe me a kiss," she added in a soft, alluring tone.

He laughed. What else could he do? "I'm not John Hamilton, remember? I'm no longer a trophy. Why should you want to kiss me again?"

"Maybe I liked it the first time," she said blithely.

Except she didn't look blithe. She still looked seductive. Bloody hell.

It was her eyes, Sean decided. Those blue, blue eyes. They made a man grateful for being color-blind. And her voice. Something in her voice appealed to him. So low and sweet. He was amused to hear sarcastic words come out of her mouth, and when she wasn't being sarcastic and he wasn't being amused, well, then…

Well, then he wanted to kiss her.

"I told my sisters your secret," she said, interrupting his tangled thoughts.

"What?" He was appalled. Any thought of kissing her fled his mind.

"I had to share it with someone," she said. "I had to. I feared I'd done wrong encouraging you to keep it up, and—"

"What did they say?"

"They heartily approved. They assured me I'd done exactly the right thing. I'm not at all sorry I told them."

"Don't tell anyone else."

"But—"

"Don't."

She hesitated, then nodded. "I won't."

"I want your promise."

"I promise. And a Chase promise is never given lightly," she added solemnly.

And seductively.

It was that voice, those eyes.

Bloody hell.

"All right, then." It seemed disaster had been averted. But that didn't stop him from sighing. He just wished he could decide what he was sighing about. "You'll be back Monday to start the actual painting? Early, I hope?"

"First thing in the morning."

"Excellent." Maybe he'd be able to escape and get something done. "I—"

"Of course, morning for me starts at noon."

"Noon?"

"At the earliest. I like to paint through the wee hours, so I sleep late." She straightened away from the fireplace and walked closer. Right up to him. So close he could see her blue irises were rimmed in a darker, midnight shade. So close he could smell her floral fragrance and the faint scent of paint underneath it.

Thoughts of kissing her flooded back.

"Do you know what else my sisters said?" she asked. Seductively.

"How could I? But I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Juliana said it doesn't signify that you're not a peer, because you're connected to the right people. And she was impressed that you own property."

"She doesn't know how much I own," he pointed out. "And neither do you."

"Houses in Hampstead are very expensive," she said dismissively. "And Alexandra reminded me that our brother, Griffin, is named for an ancestor. Aidan Griffin, Baron Kilcullen from Ballygriffin, Ireland."

"And the significance of all that is…?"

"They think it's all right for you to kiss me." She stepped even closer. "Are you certain you don't want to? I might get up earlier in the morning for a kiss."

What was a man supposed to do when a woman made such an offer? A woman who looked like an angel and tasted like sin? A woman who'd just brushed off every reason he'd considered her off-limits?

Besides, he really did need to attend to his work.

"How much earlier?" he asked.

"Ten o'clock."

"Eight."

"Nine."

He yanked her against his body and fastened his lips on hers.

For a brief moment he cursed his own weakness, but then he lost himself in the immense pleasure of kissing such a warm, willing woman. She pressed closer. Sweet Jesus, he could feel every curve of her through his clothes. Her hands drifted up and fisted in his hair. He felt his heart beating against hers and the seductive heat of her mouth. He'd never wanted anyone with such a fever, with such a hunger. She wasn't for him, but she'd crawled into him, and now she held him in her grip.

When she stepped back, she had a dazed smile on her face that he was certain reflected his own.

"I'll see you Monday at nine," she said softly, and quit the room.

He heard her footsteps cross the stone floor in the entrance hall, heard the door open, heard Quincy bid her a polite farewell. By the time the door closed, he'd gathered his wits.

Somewhat.

Another man would head straight to the bottle and down a stiff drink for fortification. He'd never taken up the habit, but if anything could drive him to it, it was this damned charade.

Well, maybe he could leave now, get a little work done.

He went back to the other drawing room, where Lincolnshire was dozing in the chair. He touched the man gently on the shoulder and smiled when his eyes fluttered open. "Would you like me to see you to bed, Uncle? I think you could use the rest. And I could use a few hours to paint."

"Very well," Lincolnshire said. "But I really do…wish to meet your wife."

Sean mentally winced. He'd thought they'd dispensed with this subject. "It's truly sorry I am, but as I told you, she's in the countryside."

"You can summon her…can't you? She'll be the next countess…and the mother of my eventual heirs. I wish to…get to know her." The earl paused for a much-needed breath. And another. "Please, Sean."

The dear man's eyes shone with hope. How could Sean refuse him?

He couldn't.

Bloody hell.

"No." In her beautiful floral-painted bedroom, the only room in Sean's house that wasn't blue—in fact, he wasn't sure what color it was—Deirdre tossed a pile of shifts into the trunk she was filling. "I've told you twice already, no."

It felt like days since Sean had been home. Hell, it had been days since he'd been home. He'd neglected his work yet again to come talk to his sister, and this wasn't the welcome he'd hoped for. "Why are you packing your things, then?"

"I'm moving to Daniel's house tomorrow. I'm bored out of my mind here alone in Hampstead. I'm going to live in the middle of London, where a body sees another face once in a while."

Oh, no, she wasn't. "You'll live in London, all right, but with Lincolnshire." He was allowing his empire to go to hell in order to obtain her precious divorce, and she couldn't even wait and see this thing through? "I want you to arrive early Monday evening. That will make it believable that you had to come in from the countryside. You owe me, Deirdre. I'm doing a favor for you. Now you'll do this favor for me."

"I didn't ask for any favors. I don't want any favors." She pulled three dresses out of her clothespress. Brown, brown, and brown. "I still cannot believe you allowed John to talk you into this ridiculous scheme."

"Well, I did." And didn't he regret it even more than she? "And now Lincolnshire is insisting he meet Hamilton's wife. Which is you, in case you don't remember."

"Oh, I remember," Deirdre said dryly. "But I don't care." The dresses clenched in her hands, she turned to him. "What is the man going to do, after all, should you fail to bring him a wife to meet?"

"He'll be disappointed."

"I've news for you, Sean: We're all disappointed sometimes. Lincolnshire will survive."

"He won't survive, no. Either way. And he deserves happiness in his final days. He's a nice man, Deirdre."

"John never thought so."

"John is an idiot."

"You've a point there." She folded the dresses, then sighed and went back for more. "But I don't want to play your wife."

Sean echoed her own words. "I've news for you, Deirdre: We all have to do things we'd rather not sometimes."

"Sometimes, maybe. But not this time."

"If I don't produce a wife," he argued, "Lincolnshire may retaliate by withholding his fortune from your husband."

"John deserves that. Nothing would make me happier."

"Think again, little sister. If Hamilton isn't satisfied with the job I do placating his uncle—if he loses his inheritance as a result—I'd lay odds he won't grant you your divorce."

She shrugged. "I don't care. I told you not to do this in the first place. I'll be happy living with Daniel whether I'm married to him or not."

Sean kept silent a moment, deliberating. And then, "You won't be living with Daniel Raleigh," he said quietly.

"I will. Is something wrong with your ears, Sean? I told you, I'm moving to Daniel's house tomorrow."

"No, you're not. You're moving to Lincolnshire House on Monday."

"Something is wrong with your ears."

He hadn't wanted to tell her the whole truth, hadn't wanted her to know the worst. Hadn't wanted her to feel guilty or indebted.

But he didn't see where he had a choice.

"Whether he inherits Lincolnshire's fortune or not, Hamilton will soon be an earl. He's going to require an heir. In lieu of divorcing you, he intends to force you to move back in with him until you bear him a male child."

That stopped her halfway from her clothespress to the bed. She swiveled to him, a blue dress and a brown one clutched tight to her middle. "He wouldn't. You're making this up to get me to do what you want."

"I'm not making anything up." He walked closer and put a hand on her shoulder, easing her toward the bed and down to sit. "He told me this, Deirdre. When I refused to do his bidding, he told me to force me to agree. And the law is clear. If he demands you back in his bed, you'll have no choice but to comply." He sighed and sat beside her. "You're already packed. Come play Mrs. Hamilton at Lincolnshire House, will you? With any luck, it will be for the last time."

Her fingers uncurled; her arms dropped to her sides. The dresses slid from her lap to the floor. "You win," she said.

But he didn't feel like a winner.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Early Monday evening at Lincolnshire House, Corinna was cleaning her palette and gazing at her work in progress when she felt the hair stir on her neck. Felt it swept aside. Felt warm lips pressed to her nape. A little thrill rippling through her, she bowed her head to allow better access, sighing at the tender caress.

It ended too quickly, and she turned to see Sean.

"I had a good day," he said. "A productive day. Thank you."

His eyes were so green, so sincere. It was amazing how comfortable she felt meeting them, how easily she'd slid into this intimacy.

He'd met her at the door at nine o'clock this morning, walked her into this salon, and greeted her with a kiss that had left her weak at the knees and light in the head. "Was that worth getting up for?" he'd asked.

She'd nodded, robbed of words for once. And he'd laughed, then left to do whatever it was he did while she spent the whole day painting.

She felt light-headed again now, just locking eyes with him. She hoped he would kiss her again—on her lips, not her nape—but instead he shifted his gaze past her. "I'm impressed."

Addled as she was, for a moment she thought he was impressed with the salon. It was a most unlikely room to use for painting, by far the most grandiose room in London's most grandiose house.

The salon was mostly blue, so she knew Sean could see just how gorgeous it was. Designed for lavish entertainments, it was decorated in the Italian style. Splendid blue and gold furniture matched ornate blue and gold curtaining that hung from gilt rods. The coved ceiling was painted in the palazzo manner, and the walls were broken up by alternating silk panels and mirrors in highly ornamental frames, the latter reflecting the room's sparkling gold and crystal chandeliers.

All day Corinna had feared she'd splatter paint and ruin something. But of all the rooms in the house, it had the largest north-facing windows, so Lord Lincolnshire had insisted it was the best place to sit for his portrait.

Then her head cleared, and she realized Sean wasn't impressed with the salon. He was looking at her painting.

"I'm glad you like it," she said, turning to see it herself. She resumed wiping her palette. "But I've only just started, really."

"You started this morning, before I left. You've been working all day."

"Time flies when I'm involved in a painting. But I think I wore out poor Lord Lincolnshire. Two footmen helped him up to bed two hours ago." She set the palette on the mosaic table she'd covered for her use. "Do you think it would be all right for me to leave everything here overnight?"

"I'm sure it will be fine. The man's unlikely to hold an entertainment anytime soon." He walked closer to the painting, peering at it. "You've laid in the basics of him already. And the background is magnificent. So detailed. How did you do that so quickly?"

"Oh, that was already done." She began cleaning her brushes. "I've been working on it for days in the square. I just hadn't decided who to put into it."

He paused for a significant beat before he turned to her. "So you wanted to paint Lincolnshire. You didn't offer only to save my skin."

"You've caught me out." Swirling three brushes in turpentine, she grinned. "I think I'm finally going to complete a good portrait. One fine enough to put on display. I've always wanted to, but…"

"But what?"

"Women don't usually, you know? Paint portraits, I mean. It's not considered very ladylike. We're supposed to paint only scenes and still lifes." Setting the brushes aside, she sighed. "I'm tired of painting apples and bottles and trees."

"You paint very good trees," he pointed out, gesturing toward her picture.

"I've had lots of practice," she said dryly.

"You have goals," he said. "I admire that."

"Everyone has goals. Of some sort."

"But your goals go beyond those expected of your gender. You'll have to overcome great odds to achieve them, yet you're not letting that stop you. I applaud you for that."

"Thank you," Corinna said softly. She'd never had a man say he admired her, let alone imply he expected she'd reach her goals. Griffin was supportive, of course, but that was his job. He was her brother. And while she had no doubt he wished the best for her—while she was sure he wanted her happy—she'd never felt he truly believed she'd see the success she hoped to achieve.

Griffin believed her art was a hobby, something to keep her occupied until she married.

Sean, on the other hand, seemed to believe in her. And as Amanda had thought in Children of the Abbey, in return her heart felt he was one of the most amiable, most pleasing of men.

Oh, God, she really had to stop this.

What she had with Sean was just kisses. No matter what her sisters said, she knew he wasn't the sort of man her brother wanted for her. And she wasn't looking for marriage now, anyway. Her art was more important.

"Thank you," she repeated. "I'm finished here and expected home for dinner. I'll be back tomorrow morning."

"At nine?"

"For another kiss, I'll be here at nine."

He laughed. "You aren't anything like I expected a marquess's daughter would be, do you know that?"

"I'm an artist," she said.

And he laughed again. "I'll walk you to the door."

They headed out of the salon. Unusually for this mansion full of servants, the entrance hall was empty. Quincy wasn't there, and there were no footmen, no maids scurrying from one side of the house to the other.

"My sister will be here soon," Sean said quietly. "She's going to live here until this is all over."

"Will she?" Corinna asked, surprised.

"Lincolnshire's insisting upon seeing my wife. And she's Hamilton's actual wife, so…"

"So at least that one thing won't be a lie?"

"Exactly." Reaching the front door, he opened it. "But I'm afraid something will slip now that Deirdre's getting involved."

"You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

He shrugged, making it obvious he was.

She clutched his arm. "Please don't reveal the secret. It might be easier, but it won't be best. I don't like keeping secrets either, you know. I feel terribly guilty keeping my brother in the dark."

"Don't tell him," he warned under his breath. "You promised."

"I remember. And that's why I haven't told him until now. But my sisters think we're doing the right thing, and I'm certain he would, too—"

"He wouldn't. He'd expose me forthwith; I'm sure of it."

"You don't know Griffin—"

"He's a marquess, isn't he? That's all I need to know. I'm everything the ton despises." Standing there in the open doorway, he raised a hand and began ticking off all the marks against him. "I'm Irish—"

"I told you, we're part Irish, too."

"What, a quarter?"

"Probably a tenth," she admitted, thinking it was probably even less than that.

He ticked off more fingers. "I'm untitled, I'm in trade, I'm richer than any three members of society combined—"

"Really?" She hadn't known he had that much money. "Where did you get your fortune?"

He looked like he was sorry he'd let that slip. And like he was scrambling to decide what to tell her. But just then the wooden gate opened outside, and a woman walked into the courtyard.

Without hesitation and looking quite sure of herself, the woman crossed to the portico and mounted the steps. She was blond, green-eyed, and very pretty. Or at least, she looked like she'd be very pretty if she weren't scowling.

"Corinna, this is my sis—" Sean started, but stopped when the woman gestured discreetly.

He turned to see Quincy approaching the door.

"My wife has arrived," he said loudly instead.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Five minutes later, after Corinna departed following her introduction to his "wife," Sean found himself standing in Lincolnshire's bedroom with his sister beside him.

"Uncle," he said, "this is Mrs. Hamilton. Deirdre, the Earl of Lincolnshire."

Deirdre curtsied. "It's pleased I am to meet you, Lord Lincolnshire."

"I'm so very pleased you've come." Struggling to sit higher against all of his pillows, Lincolnshire blinked and yawned. "Please excuse me. I sat all…day for a portrait, and I fear that…left me exhausted."

To Sean's relief, Deirdre didn't seem fazed by the man's shortness of breath. Nor did she seem repulsed by his ever-swelling body. "I understand that you're ill, my lord."

"I'm dying," Lincolnshire said in his plainspoken way.

"That, too. And it's sorry I am to hear it."

"No fault of…yours." The old man cocked his head. "You're Irish."

She exchanged a wary glance with Sean. "Born and raised in Kilburton, sir. Your nephew married me while he was living in Ireland."

Lincolnshire nodded. "Kilburton is a pretty place."

"And how would you know that?" Deirdre raised a brow. "I don't recall your ever visiting."

Sean winced. Deirdre never had been one to think before opening her mouth. But Lincolnshire only laughed—a laugh that ended in a wheeze. "Haven't been there…since before you were born," he told her, and then added to Sean, "I like her."

Releasing a breath, Sean smiled and moved closer to his sister, wrapping an arm about her shoulders. "I like her, too."

"You should, considering…she's your wife. Whyever did you leave her in the countryside? She's…lovely." The old man grinned. "Give her a kiss."

The look sister and brother exchanged this time wasn't wary. It was panicked.

"Go on," Lincolnshire demanded.

Sean turned to Deirdre and pecked her on the cheek.

"That will never do," the earl declared in apparent disgust. "Word is you two…don't get along. Rumor has it you live apart."

Was that why the old man had insisted Deirdre be fetched? Was he intent on seeing a reconciliation? "You've said that before," Sean reminded him. "Wherever did you hear it?"

"Everywhere. I'm dying, not deaf. And I won't countenance…such a relationship in Lincolnshire House." He paused, all but gasping for air, but when Deirdre went to open her mouth, he waved a hand to stop her. "All the Lincolnshire earls have been happily…married, and I mean to see…that tradition continue."

"You shouldn't listen to rumors," Sean protested. "I love Deirdre."

Maybe not that way, but he did love her.

"Then…kiss her…like a man," the old earl wheezed.

There was nothing for it.

Reluctantly, Sean faced Deirdre once again. Sucking in a breath, he leaned down and laid his lips on hers, lightly, for the briefest instant.

It was all he could manage.

When he pulled back, Deirdre looked rather pale.

Lincolnshire shook his head. "Before I expire…I want to see better than that."

Saints preserve us, Sean thought.

"And I've a favor…to ask of you."

"Anything, Uncle," Sean said. "Anything at all." So long as it didn't involve kissing his sister.

A weak smile twitched on the man's lips. "Were I you…I'd wait to hear it first." He paused for a breath, and then another. "I wish you to…keep this house—"

"I will. You have my word." Arrogant Hamilton wouldn't be selling the most impressive house in all of London. "You won't mind living here, will you, Deirdre?"

She glanced around in patent disbelief, taking in the towering damask-hung bed, the scenes painted on the ceiling, the gold-stamped leather wallcoverings. "What sort of knothead would mind living here?"

That prompted another smile. But Lincolnshire wasn't finished. "And all of my staff…in perpetuity."

Tempted as he was to agree to that too, Sean couldn't add to his mountain of lies. "He has more than a hundred servants," he informed Deirdre.

Her eyes widened. No knothead herself, she was well aware Hamilton wouldn't keep nearly that number. He was a man who valued his privacy.

"Oh, Lord Lincolnshire, my husband doesn't like spending much time in London. The scenes he paints are all in the countryside. We won't be needing so many servants when he isn't here."

"For me, my dear. I cannot stand to think…these loyal people…my people…will be forced to fend for themselves."

Exchanging a glance with his sister, Sean shook his head.

"I need to know…this house will remain in your hands. And my staff…will retain their employment."

"I'll keep the house," Sean promised, "as I've said, although it's overly large for just Mrs. Hamilton and myself." Indeed, it was overly large for anyone unrelated to royalty. "But as to the other—"

"Sean," Lincolnshire cut in gently. Beseechingly. "Did you not say…you would do anything for me?"

In the long silence that stretched between them, Sean's mind raced. He was more likely to bed Deirdre than Hamilton was to retain the old earl's enormous staff. "What if I could find new, better employment for them all instead?"

A wee snort emerged from the man's throat. "Better than working…for me?"

"Very well, I misspoke. I agree there's no kinder, more thoughtful employer. But more prestigious positions exist, certainly. And…"

"And I won't…be here."

Sean nodded.

But evidently the earl remained unconvinced. "How can you find them all…employment? You're an artist, not…a man of business."

"I know people. Trust me."

"I do," Lincolnshire said meaningfully, making Sean writhe inside with guilt. "But I want…I need to know they're settled. That…they'll be happy."

"You will. I'll find them all employment."

"Better positions?"

"Better positions than they have now."

"Before I'm gone?"

"Before you're gone, Uncle. This I promise."

One promise he could keep. One promise he would keep.

The man nodded, apparently satisfied. "Now, as to you two."

Deirdre's eyes widened again. "What now?"

"I want to see you dance…at the Billingsgate ball…on Saturday."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

APPLE PUFFS

Pare the fruit and bake them. When cold, mixe the pulp of the Apple with Sugar and lemon-peel shred fine, taking as little of the Apple-juice as you can. Orange marmalade is a great improvement. Put in paste with a little Sugar inside and on top. Bake in a quick oven a quarter hour until browne.

The homely apple is always dependable. Serve at family gatherings to assure harmony.
—Helena, Countess of Greystone, 1776

"A lovely first vintage." Lamplight glinted off deep ruby as Alexandra held up her glass on Tuesday night, toasting her brother during their family dinner at his Berkeley Square town house. "You did it, Griffin."

Her husband smiled. "A toast to England's newest wine producer."

"I don't know that wine producer is an apt description." Griffin grinned at his brother-in-law. Tristan had helped him save Cainewood's fledgling vineyards. "The term implies producing enough to sell a quantity. We're likely to consume this year's entire production ourselves. Within a week. Perhaps tonight."

Alexandra laughed. "You'll make more next year, and still more the year after that. Eventually there may be enough to sell."

"Charles would be proud," Juliana said softly.

Charles, their eldest brother, had planted the vines when he was the marquess. But he hadn't lived to see them bear fruit. Two years ago, when Charles died of consumption, Griffin had been forced to leave the cavalry. To come home to take Charles's place. To accept Charles's title. He'd also found himself saddled with their three unmarried sisters, a diverse collection of mainly unprofitable properties, and a field full of dying grapevines.

Today the vines were thriving, the family holdings had been reduced to those that were manageable, and two of his sisters were happily wed. Not bad, Griffin thought, relishing a sip of the heady wine.

One by one, all of his problems were being resolved. Now he had only to find a husband for Corinna and puzzle out the mystery of Rachael's parenthood. He was making good progress on the latter. Having heard from his man today, he looked forward to giving Rachael the news when he saw her at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday.

Corinna, however, was another matter altogether.

Paint, paint, paint…all she ever wanted to do was paint. Clearly she had little interest in finding a husband. He'd introduced her to countless fine gentlemen, and though on the surface she appeared cooperative, she always danced and smiled and moved on, never giving any of them a second thought.

All he wanted was her happiness. And women were happier married, weren't they? But lately it seemed Corinna paid attention to just one man. He'd be decent husband material, Griffin supposed—a little old, but wealthy, single, and kind…

If only he were expected to last out the week.

"Corinna has been spending a lot of time with Lord Lincolnshire," he commented as Juliana served the apple puffs Alexandra had made and brought to the family dinner.

"I'm painting Lord Lincolnshire's portrait. I hope to submit it for the Summer Exhibition."

Juliana put a puff on a plate and moved to hand it to her husband, James. "How is the old earl doing?" she asked.

"Well enough, considering the circumstances. He seems to be holding his own." Corinna paused for a sip of her wine. "He's very happy to have his nephew to keep him company."

James looked puzzled. "His nephew?"

"Yes, his nephew," Corinna said pointedly.

"Hmm?" James frowned, but then his face cleared. "Oh, you mean Mr. Delaney."

Confused, Griffin tilted his head. "Who is Mr. Delaney?"

Juliana paused with the plate in her hand, apparently torn between setting it before James or bopping him on the head with it. "That was a secret."

"Oh." He winced. "You didn't tell me."

Glaring at Juliana, Corinna blindly jabbed a fork in her own apple puff. "Why on earth did you tell him?"

"We don't keep secrets," Juliana explained apologetically. "We promised before our wedding."

"Well, when you tell a secret, you could at least tell that it is a secret."

"I'm sorry," Juliana squeaked.

"What the devil is this about?" Griffin demanded. "Who is Mr. Delaney?"

Corinna sighed. "The man you met at Lady Partridge's ball—the man introduced to you as John Hamilton—is actually Mr. Hamilton's brother-in-law, Sean Delaney. Mr. Hamilton asked him—"

"Blackmailed him," Alexandra interrupted.

"Well, yes. He blackmailed him into posing as himself. As John Hamilton, I mean. Lord Lincolnshire's nephew. But now he's having second thoughts, even though it's the right thing, and—"

"I beg your pardon?" Griffin cut in.

None of this made sense. The name, Sean Delaney, seemed familiar. Yet the man introduced as John Hamilton at Lady Partridge's ball hadn't seemed familiar at all. In fact, Griffin was certain he'd never set eyes on that man before in his life.

More confused than ever, he swung toward his old friend Tristan. "Did you know about this, too?"

"Not all of it." Looking down, Tristan speared a bite. "And only for a short while."

"A short while," Griffin growled.

Alexandra released a melancholy sigh. "The apple puffs don't seem to be working."

"Come again?" Tristan asked.

"They're supposed to assure harmonious family gatherings."

Her husband and Juliana's both looked amused. Griffin wasn't. "Would someone please explain—"

"Excuse me a moment," Juliana interrupted. "And don't you dare discuss anything in my absence. I'll be right back."

While she was visiting the water closet, or wherever else she might have rushed off to—Juliana was female, which meant it was much too dangerous to inquire—Griffin shoveled apple puff into his mouth and tried to puzzle out what was going on.

He failed. Miserably.

"Explain," he demanded when she returned. "And don't leave anything out."

Between them, with much mind-boggling back-and-forthness, his three sisters explained.

And explained.

And explained.

A quarter hour later, when they finally finished, Corinna paused for a breath. "You won't give away Mr. Delaney's secret, will you? Not only would it imperil his sister's divorce, but it would also make Lord Lincolnshire's final days unhappy ones."

"I don't know," Griffin grated out. While his sisters' reasoning wasn't unsound—assuming one took into consideration their female brand of logic—none of it really sat quite right with him. "I don't like tricking that kindly old man."

"You're not tricking him," Juliana said with that same typical—illogical—logic. "You're only allowing it to happen."

"Which isn't very honorable."

Alexandra shook her head. "Seeing to Lord Lincolnshire's happiness is the epitome of honor."

"It's lying," Griffin disagreed.

Now Corinna shook her head. "It's only failing to reveal the truth."

Semantics. It was all semantics. And it was wrong.

Griffin was opening his mouth to say so when a footman stepped into the dining room. "A caller, my lord. A Mr. Sean Delaney."

"What a coincidence," Griffin said. "Show him in."

No sooner had the servant left than Corinna snorted. "It's not a coincidence."

"I sent a message to Lincolnshire House," Juliana explained. "I told Mr. Delaney that you're aware of his true identity and there's something we need to discuss."

"So that's what you were doing when you went off." Tristan nodded contemplatively. "I wondered."

James spread his hands. "I thought she was visiting the water closet."

"We should have guessed," Griffin muttered. "She always has been the family meddler."

When Mr. Delaney walked in, Corinna motioned to a footman to fetch him a chair, then scooted over so the servant could fit it in beside her own.

A tall man, Delaney looked like he spent all his free hours in Gentleman Jackson's boxing salon. Griffin wouldn't care to challenge him to a match. And he was even more certain they weren't acquainted. "Had we already met?" he asked him. "Before Lady Partridge's ball?"

Delaney gave a little bow before he sat. "Not that I recall, my lord."

The man had a distinct Irish accent, and Griffin hadn't ever met very many Irishmen. "Yet your name seems familiar."

"Is it?" Although he took the glass of wine Corinna handed him, Delaney didn't drink from it as he seemed to consider. "I think I may have bought a piece of property from you. Last year, through your solicitor, which explains why we never met."

"Ah, yes." Now Griffin remembered seeing the name on the contract. "A tumbledown boardinghouse near Lincoln's Inn Fields, if I recall aright. Cannot imagine why my father and brother held on to it for so long. I was pleased to get rid of it."

"I take it you haven't been by there of late." A corner of Delaney's mouth twitched as though he wanted to grin. "That tumbledown boardinghouse is now a sound four-story building with sixteen tenants. Shops and offices on the ground floor, residential above." He looked to Corinna. "I received your note. What is it you feel we need to discuss?"

"It was my note," Juliana said. "And you've been summoned in order to persuade both you and my brother that your posing as John Hamilton is the very best thing."

Which she proceeded to do, of course, with the help of her sisters.

Though Griffin didn't know Delaney, he judged him a man with a quick mind and sound business sense. Together they put up a good fight. In the end, however, they both reluctantly agreed to preserve Lincolnshire's happiness for his final few days.

It was inevitable, Griffin supposed.

Three Chase females against two hapless men was nowhere near a fair match.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Very handsome gentleman," Juliana commented as Corinna came off the Billingsgates' dance floor Saturday night. "Who is he? Did you kiss him?"

"I cannot remember his name. Lord Stonehurst, or maybe Lord Brickhaven. Something to do with building materials." Corinna watched the man walk away, expecting Griffin to bring another one by at any moment. "And no, I didn't kiss him," she added under her breath. "I just met him, for heaven's sake."

"Tonight?" Juliana's smile was a tad too innocent. "Then I expect you'll make him wait a week?"

"At least," Corinna confirmed, tilting her chin up into the air. She'd once told her sister she never let gentlemen kiss her right after meeting them; she made them wait at least a week. But the truth was that since her first kiss with Sean, she hadn't wanted to kiss anyone else.

Unfortunately, she'd received no kisses in the last three days. Lord Lincolnshire was so anxious to see his portrait finished before he passed on that he'd been ready and waiting when she arrived each morning at nine, making it impossible to sneak a kiss. And although the earl tired easily and went up to bed every afternoon, Sean never returned before it was time for Corinna to go home.

Lord Lincolnshire had taken his rest extra early today, because he was bringing Sean and Deirdre here tonight. He'd told Corinna he wanted to see his nephew "dance with his lovely wife." Corinna was very much looking forward to their arrival, not least because she hoped to get Sean alone for a kiss or two.

The lack of kisses certainly hadn't made her want to kiss another man instead. It seemed she belonged to Sean in a sense, or he to her. Or both. It was a very mild relationship, and a very innocent one, but it was also wonderful, thrilling, and just illicit enough to make her feel like a true, free-spirited artist. Yet it was disconcerting, too. She felt like Pamela had when she'd bemoaned, I shall never be able to think of anybody in the world but him!

And she couldn't marry him. Or could she? She was no longer sure. She still knew very little about him, really. But yesterday she'd casually asked Griffin what he thought of Sean—well, she'd called him Mr. Delaney, of course—and he'd said he was impressed with the man's business sense and was hoping to buttonhole him sometime soon to ask him for advice regarding property management.

In other words, he hadn't sounded at all disapproving.

Thinking of her brother made her realize he seemed to have abandoned the Billingsgate ballroom. For now, at least, he wasn't shoving another man at her. She relaxed a little bit. "Do you know where Griffin went off to?"

"I don't. Who is that woman?" Juliana indicated the direction with a flick of her dark blond head. "The one who just came in with Lord Lincolnshire and Mr. Del—um…Mr. Hamilton."

They were here! And fortunately no one was nearby to hear Juliana's slip of the tongue. Discretion was important. "That's Deirdre," Corinna whispered. "His sister. We were introduced earlier this week, but I haven't found a chance to actually talk to her. She never seems to be around in the daytimes when I'm at Lincolnshire House painting."

"Let's talk to her now," Juliana said.

Corinna wasn't sure how wise that would be, considering Sean feared his sister might give them away. But she had no choice. In her usual decisive manner, Juliana was already heading Lord Lincolnshire's way.

"Lady Corinna!" he wheezed when they arrived, grinning up at her from his wheelchair. He looked to Juliana. "And Lady Stafford. Please…allow me to introduce Mrs. Hamilton, the next…Countess of Lincolnshire."

Behind him, Sean shifted uncomfortably. But Deirdre was Mrs. Hamilton, after all. And she would be the next Countess of Lincolnshire—at least until she managed to secure the divorce she was seeking.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Juliana told Deirdre.

"It's my pleasure to meet you. I've been hearing so much about your family, especially your sister."

Corinna flushed, wondering what Sean might have told Deirdre. But then she realized it was probably Lord Lincolnshire who'd done the talking. She was painting him, after all, and he was rather pleased by that.

"Mr. Hamilton!" Lady Ainsworth, a tall woman who looked even taller wearing a golden turban, bustled over. "What a delight to see you again! What are you painting these days, if I might ask?"

"A landscape," Sean said.

"A landscape!" Lady Ainsworth's loud laugh had more people coming to join them. Evidently Sean's celebrity had yet to wear off. "Have you ever painted anything that wasn't a landscape, Mr. Hamilton?"

"I suppose I haven't."

"You suppose?" Lady Ainsworth's laugh was really quite annoying. "What is it a landscape of?" she asked.

"It's a meadow scene," Corinna said.

Lady Hartshorn turned to her. She was a short, round woman who had very wide eyes at the moment. "You've seen it?"

"I have." Corinna smiled, thinking Lady Hartshorn looked rather envious. "The trees are exquisite, their shadows most intriguing."

"Speaking of intriguing shadows," a gentleman said, looking to Sean, "I've been wondering about Allegory of Shadow."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Allegory of Shadow. Your most famous painting?"

"Oh, yes." Sean's own laugh sounded rather forced. "Of course. I was still thinking about my new painting, I fear. Once I finish a piece, I quite put it out of my mind."

"May I ask what inspired you? What made you decide to focus so on the shadows?"

"The, ah…the trees. I've always found trees very inspiring. Lush trees of the English countryside that grow from wee acorns to cast large shadows—"

"But Mr. Hamilton," Lady Ainsworth interrupted, her turban bobbing as though it were as indignant as she. "I don't recall seeing any trees in Allegory of Shadow. Its central subject is a stone circle, isn't it? And not in England, but in Ireland, I do believe?"

"Well, I was raised in Ireland—"

"Exactly," Corinna cut in. "Allegories are symbolic representations, as you know. If one looks closely, one will see that the shadows cast by the standing stones resemble trees. English trees."

"Oh," the woman said.

"I cannot believe you didn't know that," Lady Hartshorn scoffed. "It's brilliant, Mr. Hamilton. Simply brilliant. How long did you take to paint it?"

"Three days, my lady."

"Three days? The thing is the size of a drawing room wall! The largest painting in the history of the Summer Exhibition, wasn't it?"

"When one is inspired," Corinna said, "the image simply flows from the hand through the brush. I myself have completed a painting in a single day." Once. One tiny painting, no more than eight inches square. Allegory of Shadow was eight feet by sixteen, at the very least. "Have you ever painted, Lady Hartshorn?"

"No. No, I haven't."

"I thought not," Corinna said in a superior tone of voice.

Just then Lord Lincolnshire coughed. And coughed again.

"Do you need something to drink, Uncle?" Sean took the back of his chair, looking not at all unpleased to have a plausible excuse to escape the conversation. "Let me bring you to the refreshment room."

Without the celebrated Mr. Hamilton as a point of focus, the gathering quickly dispersed. Shifting uneasily, Deirdre watched her brother wheel the earl off.

"Would you like to go outside, Mrs. Hamilton?" Juliana asked her kindly. "Lord Billingsgate has a lovely garden."

"Oh, yes," Deirdre said, sounding grateful. "I would like that very much."

"Why don't you take her?" Juliana suggested to Corinna, her gaze straying to where James stood in a circle of men engaged in a heated argument. All members of Parliament, no doubt. "I've a mind to rescue my husband by asking him for a dance."

Corinna nodded, taking Deirdre's arm to steer her around the perimeter of the dance floor, toward French doors that opened to the terrace. "Thank you," Sean's sister breathed when they finally made it outside. "I'm thinking I don't really belong in there, do I?"

Corinna led her down a path where twinkling lanterns hung overhead. "Whyever would you say that?"

"I'm a simple country girl, a vicar's daughter from a village in Ireland. I've no place in London society."

"You're married to John Hamilton."

"In name only," Deirdre said darkly. "He hasn't paid me any mind since…well, for a long time."

In all the time since Deirdre lost their baby, Corinna knew. Although Sean had told her little about himself, he'd spent much time explaining Deirdre's situation and how it had led to the mess they were in now. She imagined it was hard for Deirdre to speak of it. "You have every right to be here. And at least you know more about art than your brother."

"I know less about my husband's art than you might think. You did a grand job deflecting those questions. I can see why my brother admires you."

Sean had told her that? Corinna's heart skipped a beat at the thought. "I'm surprised to hear he said so."

"Not in so many words, mind you. But he told me all about you, and I could hear it in his tone of voice."

"He likes my paintings."

"Sean doesn't care a fig about art. But he likes the way you're not afraid to face great odds to get what you want. He did the same himself, you know. He started with nothing, and now he's richer than a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow."

Corinna hadn't brought Sean's sister out here to glean information about him, but she couldn't resist taking advantage of that opening. "How did he manage that?"

Deirdre shrugged. "He says he has a knack."

"A knack?"

"I don't know what he means, exactly. All I can tell you is that shortly after I wed John, Sean moved to London, using a small inheritance he received from our uncle. A small inheritance," she emphasized.

"And?"

"The next time I saw him, he owned several pieces of property, including his own house. Twenty years old, and he had his own house." Wonder suffused her voice, and she shook her head disbelievingly. "I never saw my brother often, since John doesn't care to live in London. Once a year, maybe, if that. But the next time I saw Sean, he owned more property, and some manufactories, and any number of other businesses. Ships, too. And a bigger house. And, a couple years later, a bigger one still. Now he lives in a house so big all of Kilburton could move in. The whole village would fit in a corner of the acreage."

"Kilburton?"

"Perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration." Deirdre shrugged rather sheepishly. "Kilburton is where we grew up in Ireland."

"Tell me more," Corinna said, thinking she knew even less of Sean than she'd thought. "Tell me how he came to own all he does."

"I don't know that much," Deirdre said with a quiet smile. "I think you should ask him yourself."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Griffin," Rachael said. "What are you doing here?"

In his cousins' Lincoln's Inn Fields town house, Griffin stopped pacing the drawing room and turned to find her leaning against the doorjamb. Even in a simple day dress, she looked entirely too sultry for his comfort. Her lips appeared freshly licked. Her dark hair fell in soft waves around her face. Her eyes looked large and luminous.

And sad.

"I'm waiting for you, as I suspect your butler told you. Why aren't you at the Billingsgate ball?"

"I didn't feel like going," she said.

Her wan expression broke his heart, but he embraced the emotion. Pity was much safer than lust. "You cannot withdraw from life, Rachael."

"I'm not." She scanned his evening clothes. "Why did you leave the Billingsgate ball?"

"To fetch you."

"What if I don't want to be fetched?"

He shrugged and said nonchalantly, "Then I won't tell you my news."

"What news?" she demanded, straightening and coming toward him. "Tell me."

"I'll tell you on the way to the ball," he promised her with a smile—the charming smile that worked on everyone.

But it didn't work on Rachael. Not tonight. "I don't want to go to the ball."

"Then I don't want to tell you my news. I'll stop by again tomorrow."

"Griffin!" Moving closer, she laughingly punched him on the shoulder. "You cannot do this to me!"

He was happy to see her more animated, but that wasn't enough. He wanted her joyful. He wanted her socializing. He wanted to see her dancing with eligible gentlemen and getting on with her life.

"Would you care to bet?" he asked, starting from the room.

She grabbed his arm. "All right, I'll go to the ball."

"Excellent." With any luck, she'd find a love interest tonight. Then it wouldn't matter that she wasn't his cousin, because she'd be taken anyway. "I'll wait here while you change."

"Oh, no, you won't." Still holding his arm, she pulled him toward a sofa. "Tell me what you learned." With both hands, she pushed him to sit. "Now, damn it."

"Has anyone ever told you you're demanding?"

"Most everyone." She sat beside him and licked her lips, kicking his pulse up a notch even though that was the last thing he wanted. "Did the man you hired find my father's parents?"

"His mother is dead, but the man found his father. His name is Thomas Grimbald, same as his son. Colonel Thomas Grimbald—he was a military man, too."

She nodded, looking vulnerable in a way that made him want to hug her. "Is he still living in Yorkshire?"

"Not anymore. He's living at the Royal Hospital in Chelsea."

"So close," she murmured. The Royal Hospital wasn't a hospital for the ill, but rather a government-funded home for pensioned soldiers. "I have a grandfather so close, and I never knew it." She licked her lips again, proving Griffin a pathetic weakling of a man. "I want to see him. I want to meet him and find out if my father really committed treason."

"I'm glad," he said. It was better to know than to stay in denial. "I'll take you Monday. No, Tuesday. I've got a meeting with my solicitor scheduled for Monday. I'm sorry."

"You're entitled to live your own life. I can wait. I've waited twenty-four years already."

"I guess you have. Now I'll wait while you change for the ball."

She sighed. "You're not really going to hold me to that, are you? I don't want to dance, so what's the point in going? I don't feel up to having men paw me."

"They wouldn't dare. I'd issue a challenge on the spot."

"To a duel? Just what I need…your death on my head."

"You think I would lose? You wound me." He playfully clutched his heart. "Get changed. You can dance with me," he offered, vaguely wondering what the devil he was doing suggesting something that would result in clenching his teeth all night. "Nothing but innocent, cousinly dances."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Billingsgates had a rather impressive art collection, one Corinna had spent much time studying during the ball the Billingsgates held last season. This year, although she once again found herself hovering in their picture gallery, she wasn't enjoying herself nearly as much.

And she wasn't studying the paintings this time, either. Mostly, she was trying to help Sean escape both the room and the guests who insisted on surrounding him. If she could manage that, maybe she could also manage to get him off alone.

She wanted to talk to him without everyone's eyes on the two of them. She wanted him to look at her without it being a look of distress. She wanted to touch him and feel his touch in return. She wanted to be close enough to breathe in his scent.

And she was dying for a kiss.

Unfortunately, Lady Billingsgate's guests weren't cooperating. And neither was Lord Lincolnshire.

"Wouldn't you care for some air, Uncle?" Sean asked for the third time.

"Oh, no. I'm…enjoying this conversation."

No doubt he basked in seeing his heir command so much attention. But Corinna had already had to save Sean from mistaking a watercolor for an oil and justify his description of a piece of William Hogarth's as a "groundbreaking new work."

Not an easy task, considering Hogarth had died in 1764.

"It was groundbreaking when it was a new work," she'd said. Fortunately, the hangers-on bunched around Sean had nodded as though they'd interpreted his comment that way all along.

"Oh, I do adore mythology as the subject for a painting," Lady Trevelyan said now, moving on to the next piece of art. "What do you think of this one by Kauffmann, Mr. Hamilton?"

"Very detailed," Sean said—a safe enough comment. But then he added, "I admire his—"

"His?"

"Joshua Reynolds, he means," Corinna rushed to say. "Am I right, Mr. Hamilton? You were referring to Sir Joshua Reynolds, since Angelica Kauffmann was one of his protégées?"

"Joshua Reynolds, yes." The smile he sent her was a grateful one. "As I was saying, I admire Reynolds for being open-minded enough to recognize a female artist."

"That's what I thought." Corinna breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Although, of course, Kauffmann was widely recognized as one of the founders of the Royal Academy. One of only two female Academicians in its history, as a matter of fact."

Sean's smile now was warm rather than grateful. "I look forward to your being the third."

Their gazes caught and held. He really did want to see her succeed. "I appreciate your support," she said softly.

A gentleman cleared his throat. "Speaking of Reynolds," he said, moving along to stand before two large portraits. "What do you think, Mr. Hamilton, of Reynolds's work as compared to Gainsborough's?"

"Hmm." Corinna saw Sean glance to the artists' signatures. "This Gainsborough is rather sentimental, is it not, while the Reynolds here is, ah, more grand. Establishing the importance of the man portrayed rather than sympathy with the subject."

Though Sean looked quite proud of his analysis, the questioner frowned. "I meant in general, Mr. Hamilton, not these particular portraits. One man's body of work juxtaposed against the other."

"I do not judge entire bodies of work, sir. I never seek signatures prior to evaluating a painting. Each work should stand on its own—the artist's identity shouldn't influence my opinion of any specific picture."

The gentleman was clearly taken aback. "I thought all artists studied the masters' techniques."

Corinna didn't quite know what to say to that, so she was relieved when Juliana stepped forward and laughed. "Ah, there is your mistake, Lord Prescott," she said. "One cannot make suppositions regarding all artists. Artists are known to be eccentric and individualistic. They pride themselves on being unconventional. Therefore you should never expect a particular artist, such as Mr. Hamilton here, to approach other artists' work in any singular, conforming manner."

Thank God for sisters, Corinna thought. Lord Lincolnshire also looked impressed with Juliana's speech. He blinked madly. And then he coughed. And coughed again. A bit of froth appeared on his lips.

Looking alarmed, Sean dug out a handkerchief and dabbed it off. "I really think you need some air, Uncle. I insist."

"Take me to the…doors, then. And…let me see…you dance"—gasping, he looked to Deirdre—"with your wife."

Corinna was alarmed, too. "He cannot even get three syllables out before needing a breath," she said to her sister as they followed Sean, Deirdre, and Lord Lincolnshire into the ballroom. "Maybe you should ask James to have a look at him." Besides being an earl, Juliana's husband was also a physician.

"I'm sure Lord Lincolnshire has his own doctors."

"But he's getting worse."

"He's dying," her sister reminded her gently.

"But he might die before I finish his portrait, and he really wants to see it completed."

Juliana measured her for a moment. "All right. I'll ask James."

"Thank you," Corinna said.

They watched Sean wheel Lord Lincolnshire over to the open French doors, then turn to Deirdre and reluctantly escort her to the dance floor. The musicians struck up a country tune.

Corinna breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness it isn't a waltz."

"Why is that?" Juliana asked.

"Sean cannot waltz to save his life."

"Sean?"

"Mr. Delaney," Corinna corrected quickly. "And thank you for stepping in to save him. With any luck, that was the last in our long series of close calls."

A slow smile curved her sister's lips. "Our, hmm?"

"Yes, our. You, me, Mr. Delaney, Alexandra, Griffin. We're all in this together. All of us who know the secret."

Juliana's smile remained. "Our could also mean just you and Sean—I mean, Mr. Delaney." Now her smile widened at her own deliberate mistake. "The two of you belong together. Anyone can see it."

"We do not." The last thing Corinna wanted was her meddlesome sister interfering. "He's not from our world, Juliana. Griffin would never agree."

"Griffin has nothing against the man. In fact, he said he admires him. I asked him what he thought of Mr. Delaney earlier this evening, before he left and came back with Rachael."

Rachael and Griffin were dancing together even now. Unsurprisingly, Corinna's sister was looking rather smug about how that relationship was progressing. And Corinna wasn't at all surprised to hear Juliana had questioned Griffin about Sean, either. "Mr. Delaney is color-blind. He cannot even appreciate my paintings."

"There's something between the two of you," Juliana insisted.

"A mutual desire to see Lord Lincolnshire happily through his last days, that's all."

Her sister shrugged. "If you say so," she said agreeably, without sounding like she really agreed at all.

"Holy Hannah," Corinna muttered. "Go dance with your husband, will you? And don't forget to ask him to have a look at Lord Lincolnshire."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Sean had decided that the day he'd brought Lincolnshire to Hamilton's studio hadn't been the longest one of his life, after all.

This damn ball felt at least a week longer.

Escorting Deirdre off the dance floor, he noticed Corinna standing by the open French doors. She caught his eye, motioning her head toward the Billingsgates' garden before slipping outside.

Sean brought Deirdre in the same direction, walking her back to Lincolnshire. "Are you enjoying the fresh air, Uncle?"

"Very much. And…I enjoyed…seeing you dance."

"We enjoyed the dance, too." For the dear gent's benefit, Sean smiled at his sister and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm feeling a wee bit overheated after that, though, I'm afraid. Would you mind keeping my wife company while I step outdoors for a moment?"

"Not at all," Lincolnshire said, reaching for Deirdre's hand.

Leaving the two of them, Sean entered the garden, knowing he probably shouldn't, and immediately spotted Corinna on a path lit with twinkling lanterns. Beckoning for him to follow, she disappeared.

He briefly thought of turning back, but having come this far, he didn't feel it fair to leave her waiting. Following the sound of her light, running footsteps, he found her quite a distance down the path and off to the side, in the darkness of a small stand of trees. Though the area was shadowed, he could see the outline of her lovely form, not at all hidden by her slim, high-waisted dress. He walked closer, telling himself he shouldn't touch her, knowing he would.

Her scent wafted to him through the starlit night, flowery and sweet, underlaid with that astringent hint that reminded him she was an artist, a talented female who went her own way. But she was aristocratic, too. Beneath her facade of originality and forwardness, she was sheltered and unspoiled, a woman who had never wanted for anything. Like a bright, newly minted coin, nothing had tarnished her. She was shiny and pretty, and that perfection drew him. Tempted him toward a world where he didn't belong.

He knew that, and he'd tried to stay away the past few days because of it. He'd kissed her three times already—four if he counted the occasion he hadn't resisted pressing his lips to the nape of her neck—and he knew that was three or four times too many.

He also knew she didn't have the same reservations. She was impulsive and eager and ardent. He drew close, and when she raised her fingers to brush along his jaw he wasn't the least bit surprised. A moment later they were in each other's arms, their lips locked together.

It was frightening, this mad passion. He felt swamped. But the fear didn't stop him from taking what he wanted, from feasting on her mouth and running his hands down her back. From tasting her and finding that taste intoxicating. From pressing her against his body and reveling in the feel of her and enjoying her small sounds of delight.

When he drew back, they were both breathless. She moved closer again, close enough to lay her head against his chest. "I missed you the past three days," she said softly.

"It's sorry I am for that," he said, because he was sorry, for disappointing her but also that he'd let things get to the point where she would be disappointed. And that he wasn't doing anything to stop that progression. "I've had things I've had to do."

"What things?" She pulled away a little and gazed up at him, her blue eyes looking black in the darkness. "What do you do, Sean, exactly?"

"Unfortunately, very little for myself since this began. Now Lincolnshire has asked me to find new positions for all of his many servants. Well, actually he asked me to keep all his servants after he passed, but Hamilton isn't going to do that, so I told him I'd find positions for them instead. So that's what I've been doing. Finding placements for them." He smiled down at her, and because he couldn't help himself, he gave her another kiss. A short, gentle one this time. "Thank you for keeping him busy and making that possible."

"It sounds like a horrible imposition. You'll be glad when this is all over, won't you?"

"Very glad." Although he wondered if he would ever see her again. How he possibly could. And whether he'd find himself content again if he couldn't. "I'll miss seeing you, though, when it's over."

"I think we'll see each other again. My brother wants to talk to you. He wants to ask your advice about property management."

"Does he now?"

"He likes you. He's impressed with your business sense."

"I didn't think marquesses were interested in business."

"They're not, mostly, but Griffin's a little different. He never wanted to be the marquess. He likes being in the center of things. He was in the cavalry, you know, before our older brother died. An officer. He led campaigns in the Peninsular War. Although he complains of too many responsibilities, I think in his heart he feels a little useless now. He'd like to find something of his own, something more challenging, more involving."

"Managing property can be very involving." Her brother sounded like a man he might admire. And if the man admired him as well, then…

There was no sense thinking in that direction. But he held Corinna a wee bit closer and pressed another kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the warm, floral scent of her hair. "We'd best get back," he said regretfully, taking her hand and easing them both out of the trees. "Or people will come looking for us."

"That wouldn't be good," she agreed, moving with him. "Juliana would come looking for us first, and then who knows what would happen." While he was wondering what could happen, they turned onto the path. "I liked what you said in there," she said. "In the picture gallery."

"In the picture gallery. Saints preserve us. I don't think I said anything that wasn't a disaster."

"You said that an artist's work should stand on its own, that his identity—or hers, I'm hoping everyone who was listening would agree—shouldn't influence the viewer's opinion of any specific picture." Her hand soft and warm in his larger one, she looked over and up at him and smiled. "Wherever did you come up with that?"

"Hamilton," he admitted with no small measure of disgust. "Hamilton said something very like that, and I remembered it. In my desperation to sound artistic, it just came flying out of my mouth."

"I know you despise him, and for good reason, but I'm so glad to hear he thinks that way. It makes it so much more likely that he'll vote for my painting."

Sean didn't think so. She didn't know the rest of what Hamilton had said—the part about females never painting good portraits. But he wasn't going to tell her that, not now. He wasn't going to ruin the last of these few stolen moments together.

"He should be back by now," he told her instead, pulling his hand from hers as the house came into sight. Faint snatches of music floated to them from the open French doors. "He said he'd be gone two weeks, and it was two weeks on Thursday. But instead of coming home to deal with everything, he sent a letter."

She clasped her hands before her, like maybe she was missing holding his. He hoped so. But he knew he shouldn't. "That's just as well," she said. "If he came home now, he might ruin his uncle's last days. What did the letter say?"

"He's painting the Lady of the Waterfall, and he doesn't want to leave. But I'm suspecting the lady he doesn't want to leave is the one in his bed." The rotter. "He told me not to worry; he'll be home well before the Summer Exhibition vote."

"I don't expect you were worrying," Corinna said. "You obviously cannot do the voting for him. Just like you cannot come to Lady Avonleigh's reception next week in his place. Ten days," she added with a sigh as they approached the open French doors, instinctively moving farther apart so it wouldn't appear they'd done anything but talk. "In ten days my painting will be turned in and Hamilton will come home."

"He should return before that. He said he'd be here well before the vote."

"Then in fewer than ten days, you'll be free."

Sean wouldn't be free until Lincolnshire passed on, unless Hamilton stirred everything up.

But he didn't want to say that.

Much as he wanted his life back, much as he knew he and Corinna were growing too close, ten days in her company didn't seem nearly long enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"How does Lord Lincolnshire fare today?" Sean asked as he stepped into the man's house late Monday afternoon.

Quincy sighed, a maudlin sound that spoke volumes. "Perhaps you should ask his new physician."

"New physician?"

"He's with him now. Second doctor to visit today."

Alarmed, Sean headed for the crystal staircase. Glimpsing Corinna inside the salon as he passed, he was tempted to stop. But her back was to him, and she looked absorbed, humming tunelessly while dabbing vigorously at her painting.

And Lincolnshire took precedence now regardless.

Sean took the steps two at a time, wincing at the sound of Lincolnshire's cough. Apparently hearing her brother's footsteps, Deirdre hurried out into the corridor. "You're back early today," she whispered.

"He wasn't doing well this morning."

"That's why I decided to stay home with him. He was sitting for Lady Corinna when he started coughing blood. Just a wee bit, but…"

"A wee bit is too much."

She nodded. "Lady Corinna sent him upstairs. Nurse Skeffington summoned his doctor, and then Lord Stafford arrived, too. Dr. Dalton was livid." Her eyes were wide. "He packed up his leeches and left."

"His leeches?" Sean pulled a face before registering the rest of Deirdre's words. "Lord Stafford? Corinna's brother-in-law?"

She nodded again. "Lady Corinna sent him a note. He's in with Lord Lincolnshire now." She motioned to the door, and they headed toward it.

"My recommendation is that the leeches and bleeding and blistering be stopped," Lord Stafford was telling the earl as they walked in. "Your choice, of course, but I don't believe those treatments will accomplish anything, unless you're aiming to hasten the end."

Lincolnshire shook his head wildly and coughed again.

"There now." Lifting a cup off the earl's bedside table, Lord Stafford leaned closer and held it to his lips. "Have a little sip for me, will you? It will soothe your throat, and the warmth will ease your lungs." He straightened and looked to Sean. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton."

Considering the man knew he wasn't Hamilton, he'd said that smoothly, Sean thought. "Thank you for attending him. I thought you ran a smallpox facility."

"I spend most days vaccinating, yes. But I also see a few very special patients." He aimed a gentle smile at Lord Lincolnshire. "Another sip for me, as a favor?"

The earl took a very tiny one.

"He doesn't have but a wee appetite," Deirdre said.

"He's doubtless nauseous," Stafford explained. "Although we cannot see it, of course, his internal organs will be swelling along with those parts we can see. He won't be wanting to eat much, but you should encourage him to take what he can. Especially the tea."

"We will," Sean said. "And we shouldn't allow Dr. Dalton to apply more leeches, then, yes?"

"It's my belief such treatments will only make Lord Lincolnshire more uncomfortable. Better to let things progress naturally, as I see it. But I don't expect Dr. Dalton will be returning in any case." Stafford set an affectionate hand on the earl's shoulder. "I'll be attending Lord Lincolnshire now."

Lincolnshire gave him a weak smile. "Thank you," he whispered, closing his eyes.

"Think nothing of it. I'd do anything for you—just like everyone else who's had the good fortune to be part of your life."

Not Hamilton, Sean thought darkly, watching the earl's breathing even out. His head lolled against the pillows. No matter his cheerful front, Lincolnshire was weakening. He wouldn't last much longer. Though Sean regretted spending the day out of the house, he'd needed to talk to his people, to figure out where more of Lincolnshire's servants could be placed. He wanted to assure the earl's peace of mind before he passed.

Stafford dropped his stethoscope into his black leather bag and fastened it with a snap. "I'll return in the morning. I trust Nurse Skeffington to take good care of him in the meantime."

Deirdre glanced gratefully at the sturdy woman hovering nearby. "Sure, and she will. And Sean and I will be caring for him, too."

Lord Lincolnshire's actual niece by marriage, Deirdre was proving more devoted than Sean had expected. More grown-up than he'd imagined. He gave her a sad smile of approval before following Stafford downstairs.

The two men paused at the salon door. Corinna still had her back turned, but she wasn't painting anymore. She wasn't humming, either. She just stood there, gazing at her canvas.

Her hair was swept up, and the nape of her neck looked vulnerable. Something inside Sean stirred, a long, liquid pull.

As though she could sense it, she turned. "Sean. And James." Joining them in the entry hall, she looked to her brother-in-law in concern.

"Lord Lincolnshire has fallen asleep. I put a drop of laudanum in his tea. He's resting easily for now."

"Might he get better, then, do you think?"

"I fear not," Lord Stafford said gently. "It is, of course, difficult to predict the path of an illness. He could have an hour or a day when he seems better, but overall he will continue to decline." He leaned close and kissed her cheek. "You were right to send for me. Juliana suggested I see him, but I didn't realize the situation was so urgent."

"Thank you for coming." She walked him to the front door, which the competent Quincy was already holding open. "I know Lord Lincolnshire is in the best of hands," she added softly.

She watched him go down the steps, then waited for Quincy to close the door before turning to Sean. "When did you get home?"

This wasn't home, but he shrugged wearily. "A while ago. You looked very busy."

"I'm finished."

"Leaving for the evening, then?"

"I'm finished. With the painting."

"Oh." He blinked. "May I have a look?"

"Yes, I was hoping you would." She hesitated a moment before heading back to the salon, motioning him to follow. As they drew near the canvas, she seemed to hold her breath. "What do you think?"

"It looks just like Lincolnshire. A healthier, more vital Lincolnshire." The man who'd sat for her, blended together with the younger Lincolnshire of her memories, Sean guessed.

It was a full-body portrait, a natural pose in lieu of the typical head-and-torso formality. The painting showed the earl seated on a bench beneath a plane tree in Berkeley Square—perhaps the same bench where Sean had explained the truth to Corinna. Lincolnshire wasn't eating a Gunter's ice, though; instead he held a weighty, leather-bound book. Rather than reading it, he looked like he'd just glanced up, distracted by the viewer walking by. He seemed relaxed and contemplative. And very much alive.

"It's good," Sean said simply.

Corinna exhaled in a rush. "You know nothing about art."

"I know what I like, and it looks very well done to me. You'll submit it for the Summer Exhibition, won't you?"

"I hope to. But first I'm going to show it at Lady Avonleigh's reception on Wednesday." She'd have it delivered, along with a selection of her other paintings, to Lady A's house tomorrow. "I want to see what the artists say of it."

"The judges."

"Yes." She bit her lip and met his gaze, nerves suddenly jumping in her stomach. "I hope they'll like it."

Her voice quavered, and she wondered if he'd heard it. He didn't say anything, so she couldn't tell. He only looked at her for a moment. Just looked at her, while she stood there wishing she hadn't eaten any luncheon, because she felt like the cold meat and fruit she'd nibbled on was about to come back up.

Abruptly he turned and walked back to the salon's huge carved and gilded door. Shut it with a heavy thump. Then turned again to face her. "You're nervous," he stated in that low, melodic tone that made everything shift inside her. "Come here, Corinna."

She rushed into his arms, raising her face for his kiss. But he didn't kiss her. He only held her. He only held her tight, murmuring wordless sounds of comfort, or maybe they were Irish words—she didn't know. But just at that moment, she fell in love.

The realization robbed her of breath, made her heart stutter once before it raced faster. She slid her hands beneath his tailcoat and around him. Squeezed him as he was squeezing her, as hard as she could.

"There's nothing to be nervous about," he said soothingly, running his hands up and down her back. "It's a lovely painting."

She turned her head to lay her cheek against his warm, comforting chest, wishing there weren't a shirt and waistcoat between them. "I know."

"And you've many more paintings at home, don't you? So if the judges don't agree, they could choose another one."

He smelled like starch and soap and man. "I know." Impossibly masculine man.

"And if they don't choose another one, there's always next year. You won't give up. I know you."

She knew him, too. And she loved him. She didn't think she could tell him—there was so much happening around them, so much else complicating his life. But she raised her face again, hoping this time he'd kiss her so she could tell him without words.

He did.

It was a gentle kiss, not at all like the ones they'd shared before. Their kisses tended to be stormy. But this was tranquil and slow and calming—and exactly what she needed.

Tender and caring, his lips slid over hers, taking their time. His tongue swept her mouth, languid and unhurried, luxurious and deliberate, as though tasting her and discovering her and making her feel better were the only things he cared about in the whole world.

She quivered. But not with nervousness now, because he was right: There was always next year, and at the moment this give and take, this lingering caress, seemed so much more important. She lost herself in him, lost herself in the magic of love and all of its promise.

A knock came at the door, and they jerked apart. Sean whirled and opened it. "Deirdre."

His sister blinked, looking between them. "I'm sorry. I wasn't meaning to interrupt."

"No, no." He drew her inside. "Lady Corinna was just showing me her finished picture."

Corinna feared the other woman could see the truth on her face—or rather her lips, which were tingling and felt thoroughly kissed. But if Deirdre could tell, she didn't let on. Her own lips curved in a faint smile as she walked toward the painting.

"Oh, Lady Corinna, this is absolutely lovely. Tell me about it, will you?"

Behind Deirdre's back, Corinna shared one last, lingering glance with Sean, feeling so much better about everything. She was in love, and she knew that mattered more than any painting.

Hugging her new secret to herself, she went to join his sister.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

ALMOND CAKES

Grinde halfe a pound of Almonds and mixe with halfe a pound of Sugar and Orange or Lemon Water. To this add ten Yolks of Egges beaten and the boiled skins of two Oranges or Lemons grounde fine. Mixe together with stiff Egge Whites and melted Butter gone cold and bake it all in a good Crust.

Good for nibbling during nervous occasions, such as when my daughter brought my first grandchild into the world earlier this year. Oh, my, what a day and night. I think I'd much rather give birth myself!
—Elizabeth, Countess of Greystone, 1736

As was customary, the furniture in Aunt Frances's Hanover Square home had been rearranged to prepare for the birth of her child.

On the ground floor of Malmsey House, a room had been designated as the lying-in chamber, and a portable folding bed had been brought in for the occasion. A larger connecting room provided a gathering place for relations during the labor, and more rooms across the corridor had been outfitted to house the accoucheur—the obstetrical doctor—and the monthly nurse, called such because she not only assisted the accoucheur and attended the mother during the birth, but stayed for a month afterward to care for the baby.

The accoucheur and monthly nurse had arrived yesterday in anticipation of Aunt Frances's due date a week hence. But apparently Dr. Holmes had reckoned incorrectly, because today, while Corinna and her family nibbled on the almond cakes Juliana had baked and brought, Frances was laboring in the inner chamber.

As she had been for half a day already.

Corinna had been forced to rush this morning to get her paintings sent to Lady A's house before coming here to be with Aunt Frances. Along with the portrait, she'd chosen all her best landscapes and a few of her favorite still lifes. At least waiting for the birth was keeping her from fretting over whether she'd made the right selections.

Well, a little bit, anyway.

Hearing more moans and murmurs through the door, she winced. "How long is this going to take?"

"It hasn't been that long." Alexandra smiled down at her infant son. "If you'd attended Harry's birth, you'd know that."

Alexandra had delivered in the wintertime, at Hawkridge House in the countryside. Two weeks early, a full week before her sisters had planned to arrive. Her accoucheur had miscalculated, too, and at the moment, Corinna was grateful for that. The thought of Alexandra groaning like Aunt Frances made her want to groan herself.

"Oh, damn," Griffin suddenly said.

"What is it?" Corinna asked. Had he heard something through the door that she hadn't? Something bad? Something dire?

"It's nothing," he said. "I just forgot something." He rose and went over to a little desk in a corner of the room, where he started pulling drawers open. "I need to send a message."

Juliana rose, too, and found paper and quill for him. "It seems this is taking forever," she said, looking rather pale as she returned to her seat. "James, maybe you should help."

"I don't deliver babies," her physician husband said for the fifth time. "But there's no need to fret. Dr. Holmes is the best."

"He could take some measures," Griffin muttered as he scribbled.

"It's usually better not to intervene as long as the labor is making progress. What would you have him do?"

"Bloodletting, perhaps."

"James doesn't believe in bleeding," Juliana said quickly. Juliana hated the sight of blood. She said it made her sick to her stomach.

Griffin folded his letter and began scribbling again, adding the direction to the outside. "Then maybe forceps."

"The use of forceps," James said, "can result in tearing the mother."

"I don't want to hear this," Corinna said. The sight of blood didn't bother her, but her stomach was turning anyway with all of this talk. She didn't want to see Aunt Frances bled, and the thought of forceps was equally upsetting. But something needed to be done, because she didn't think she could listen to what was coming from behind the closed door a moment longer.

"Are you all right?" Juliana asked her.

"I'm fine. I just never want to give birth."

Everyone laughed. But this was no laughing matter. She was never going to tell Sean she loved him, because what if he wanted to get married? And though Griffin probably wouldn't assent, what if he did? She could end up wedded and bedded and moaning and groaning behind a birthing room door herself.

A particularly piercing scream came from the room beyond, and she felt the blood drain from her face.

"It's worth it," Alexandra said softly, still smiling down at her child.

"I think I'll stick to producing pictures," Corinna muttered.

"Your husband may not agree with that," Griffin said, rising from the desk. He strode toward the room's door. "I'll be right back. I need to give this to a footman to have it delivered."

I believe all men are deceitful, Corinna remembered Amanda saying in Children of the Abbey. Well, her brother wasn't deceitful. Oh, no, he was perfectly straightforward. He was determined to marry her off, and there was nothing the least bit deceitful about the way he was going about it. To the contrary, he regularly announced it to the world.

Your husband may not agree with that.

Corinna was yelling at him in her head, deciding just what words to use to make it clear to him, once and for all, that she wasn't looking for a husband in the first place and wouldn't accept one who didn't support her art career in any case—when the moaning and screaming suddenly stopped.

Corinna's breathing stopped, too. "Do you think Aunt Frances is…?"

She couldn't bring herself to utter the word dead. And evidently no one else could, either, because a tense silence flooded the room.

And then a thin cry came through the closed door.

"Of course not, you goose." Juliana grinned. "She's had her baby."

"Thank God." Corinna bit off a hunk of almond cake. Her aunt's ordeal was over. Marriage and childbirth hadn't killed her, after all. "When can we see it?"

"Not for a while," Alexandra told her. "The baby will be covered in mucus and blood, so it will need to be cleaned up first, and Aunt Frances will need to deliver the afterbirth—"

"Stop." Griffin walked back in, looking rather green. "I don't think Corinna needs to hear this."

Corinna laughed softly. She was feeling better already. Her stomach fluttered with excitement as they all waited to be invited inside. The baby stopped crying, and the murmurs that came through the door sounded contented rather than distressed. She heard Frances's familiar soft chuckle and knew everything had gone well.

At last the connecting door opened. From the bed Frances smiled, propped comfortably against her pillows. Lord Malmsey came out of the room, a short man with a receding hairline, a wide smile, and a pink bundle cradled in his arms.

"It's a girl," he said, sounding bemused.

Everyone seemed to sigh in unison.

Slowly he unwrapped the blanket, revealing a little heart-shaped face, a shock of straight dark hair, and large, unfocused blue eyes.

Corinna rose and walked toward him.

"What are you calling her?" she asked.

"Belinda," he said quietly.

"Oh, God." Frances's sister's name. Corinna's mother's. "May I hold her?"

Griffin laughed. "I thought you didn't want a baby."

"There's a big difference between having one and holding one," she retorted, opening her arms.

Lord Malmsey reluctantly handed his daughter over. Belinda felt warm and smelled divine. And holding her close, Corinna fell in love for the second time in two days.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Hanover Square, Tuesday 13 May

My dear Cousin,

I regret that I shall be unable to accompany you to Chelsea today, as my Aunt Frances is most inconveniently delivering a child. I shall take you tomorrow if that agrees with you.

Fondly,

Cainewood

"A useful skill indeed, miss." Sean made a notation in his notebook. "Perhaps I can find a position for you cleaning Delaney and Company's main offices."

"Offices?" the scullery maid squealed, her cracked and work-reddened hands flying up to her cheeks. Clearly she considered cleaning offices a huge step up in the world. "A place of business? Not a kitchen?"

"I cannot make any promises, since decisions have yet to be made. But you won't be working in a kitchen." One business he wasn't involved in was food service. He stood, and when she stood too, he stuck out his hand. "Whatever your final assignment, you should expect to begin the Monday following Lord Lincolnshire's loss."

"Will I still live here?"

"I'm afraid not." Sean was certain Hamilton would never allow it. "But have no fear, miss. I shall arrange lodging in a boardinghouse for you until you can find a situation of your own."

She clutched his hand in both of hers, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Thank you, my lord. You cannot imagine—"

"I'm not a lord," he interrupted. "Merely a mister."

"You'll be a lord soon—"

"And you're very welcome. Before you return to the kitchens, please ask Mr. Higginbotham to step in."

He sat and made a few more notes while she all but danced out of the room. When the house steward entered, he rose again. "Was she the last one then, Mr. Higginbotham?"

A tall, thin man with a gaze that didn't miss anything, Higginbotham ran Lincolnshire's household like clockwork. "Other than Eugene Scott, one of the gardeners, yes. I allowed him the day off to sit with his ailing mother."

"A gardener." Sean nodded and made another note. Perhaps Mr. Scott could be assigned to work with the crews that landscaped new buildings following construction. "Please sit down, Mr. Higginbotham."

The steward did so, smoothing his palms on his striped trousers. "I must tell you, sir, that everyone, from the basement of this house to the attics, is extremely grateful for your seeing to their continued employment."

"Think nothing of it. They're uncommonly loyal employees, and as such, will prove to be assets in their future positions."

Now that Sean had interviewed them all—mostly in the evening hours over more than a week—he would assess their relative strengths so he could appropriately distribute them among the varied businesses he owned. Some would be involved in property management, others in import or export, manufacturing, construction, and many other of his endeavors.

"I hope everyone will be pleased with their final assignments," he said.

"I'm certain they will be pleased to have any employment at all. Although they wish to remain with Lord Lincolnshire until he's gone, of course."

"Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Higginbotham hesitated. "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Hamilton…" He cleared his throat. "How is it you've come to know of enough available positions? And come by the authority to hire—"

"I know a lot of people," Sean interrupted dismissively.

"I expect as a well-known artist you've had commissions from all the best—"

"Something like that." He tapped his quill on the notebook. "As for your future, Mr. Higginbotham…"

The man sat forward, apprehension crossing his long face. "I assumed I'd remain here. If I may say so, Mr. Hamilton, you're going to require a minimum of staff at the least."

Sean wouldn't think of leaving such a fine man at the mercy of Deirdre's husband. "Your efficiency has impressed me. I know of a factory in Surrey in need of a foreman. If you're amenable, I'd like to see you in that position."

Higginbotham's eyes widened. "A factory?"

"They manufacture lamps, the new gaslights. As it's a growing industry, it's a very large factory indeed, with upward of three hundred employees."

The steward squared his shoulders. "I have managed a sizable staff here."

"More than a hundred, by my estimate." Sean felt like he'd interviewed a thousand. "You'll have to relocate outside London, of course, but compensation will include a foreman's house and the staff to manage it, leaving you free to focus on the factory's needs."

"I'm to have my own servants?"

"You'll need them. The factory is a major responsibility."

The man's eyes filled with determination, perhaps tempered by a touch of excitement. A house steward was a respectable position, but managing a factory was something else altogether. Rather than a glorified servant, he'd be a man of industry, a man of business. "I'm up to it, sir, I assure you."

"I've no doubt." Sean snapped the notebook closed. "We're agreed, then, and I'm finished here. Let Lord Lincolnshire know, if you please. I'm off to…paint."

Lincoln's Inn Fields, Tuesday 13 May

My dear Cousin,

It should have been better had you notified me of your delay sooner than four hours after I expected you. You seem to have forgotten that Lady A is holding her reception tomorrow, possibly the most important day of your sister's life. As I plan to attend, Thursday afternoon will be more agreeable for Chelsea.

Yours very sincerely,

Rachael

P.S. I wish Lady Malmsey the best.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ROUT CAKES

Take Flour and mix with Butter and Sugar and Currants clean and dry. Make into a paste with Eggs and Orange Flower Water, Rose-water, sweet Wine, and Brandy. Drop on a floured tin-plate and bake them for a very short time.

My mother said these cakes bring luck, and indeed, I fed them to my husband the day he proposed! Serve to ensure the success of your rout or any other event you'd like to see turn out well.
—Katherine, Countess of Greystone, 1765

Finally, the day of the reception dawned. Corinna arrived at Lady Avonleigh's town house, where an ancient butler ushered her inside. Her knees were shaking. Lady Balmforth, who shared the house with her sister, came over to greet her and bring her to the drawing room.

"Welcome, my dear. Where is Mr. Hamilton?"

"He…ah…he couldn't come," she said, which was the truth. Mr. Hamilton couldn't come, as he was in Wales, and Sean couldn't come in his place, either. "I haven't seen him the past few days, Lady B. Apparently he's very busy."

That was true, too. She hadn't seen Sean since she'd finished the portrait.

"Well." The older woman huffed, sucking in her already thin cheeks. Lady B was as skinny as Lady A was plump. "My sister is not going to be happy about this."

Some of the ladies' friends were already there, exclaiming over Corinna's paintings. Lady A and Lady B had taken all the other pictures off their peach-painted walls and hung Corinna's art there instead.

Everything in their house seemed to be peach. The color unfortunately clashed with some of Corinna's work, but there was nothing she could do about that. Nothing but cross her fingers and hope that the artists would like what they saw when they arrived.

Alexandra showed up next, a platter in her hands. "Rout cakes," she explained. "They're supposed to ensure the success of your rout."

"It isn't my rout. In fact, it isn't a rout at all. It's a reception."

"It's a fashionable gathering, and as Lady A's home isn't overly large, it's bound to be a crush. That's a rout in my book." Alexandra leaned to kiss her sister's cheek. "You look nervous."

A sarcastic retort hung on the tip of Corinna's tongue, but she felt too frazzled to make jests. "I am," she admitted instead. She abruptly realized that, other than the rout cakes, Alexandra held…nothing. And there was a decided lack of squeaky wheels. "You left Harry at home."

"Babies don't belong at routs." Alexandra set the platter on a side table of mahogany inlaid with lighter, peach-colored wood. "Show me your newest painting."

But before Corinna could do so, Juliana walked in. Then Rachael and Claire and Elizabeth. Then more of Lady A's and B's friends, and their other sister, Lady Cavanaugh, and the first of the artist judges.

Suddenly, it was a rout.

Corinna could barely move among all the people. Lady A pushed through the crowd to give her a hug, enveloping her in camphor and gardenias. "Our honored guest! Where is Mr. Hamilton, my dear?"

"He couldn't come."

"Well. I…well. I never—" More guests were arriving, cramming the drawing room. Her plump cheeks quivering with indignation, she turned to the nearest new arrival. "Have you heard, Mr. West, that Mr. Hamilton isn't coming?"

Benjamin West! The president of the Royal Academy! Corinna found herself speechless with terror, which was not a good thing, considering the man looked mightily confused.

"I'm sorry to hear that, madam, but it's hardly a surprise, considering he's currently in Wales."

"When did he leave for Wales?"

"Last month, I do believe."

"Last month? I think not." Lady A looked even more confused than he did. "Lady Rachael," she called, motioning her over. "Did we not see Mr. Hamilton last Saturday at the Billingsgate ball?"

"Why—"

"No," Corinna cut in, sending her cousin a pitiful, pleading look. Although Rachael didn't know the truth, surely she'd respond to such obvious silent begging. "That was Sean Hamilton, remember? Sean, not John." Before Rachael could disagree or Lady A could protest further, Corinna clutched Mr. West's arm and began pulling him toward her painting of Lord Lincolnshire.

Though she was no shrinking violet, she surprised herself with that kind of boldness. But she didn't see where she had much of a choice. She had to get Mr. West out of there before—as irreverent Rachael would put it—all hell broke loose.

"Will you have a look at my newest painting, Mr. West?" she asked, coming to a stop before it. "As I'm considering submitting it to the Summer Exhibition, I'd surely appreciate your thoughts."

Before commenting, he studied the picture quite a while. Corinna studied him. He was balding, what was left of his hair was gray, and he looked rather dour overall. But not really unfriendly, she decided with some relief.

Mr. West was famous for his paintings of recent battles that depicted their heroes wearing modern dress rather than traditional, classical garb. Since Corinna thought it rather silly to paint contemporary men sporting flowing Roman robes, she heartily approved—and she hoped his willingness to take the less traveled road meant he was more open-minded than most.

"It's very nice, Lady…Corinna, is it?" he said at last in his disarming American accent. "Your basic techniques demonstrate fine skills. But I'm not certain your model's form looks quite realistic."

"His form?"

"His body, under his clothing. Not quite natural, I'm afraid."

Her heart turned to lead in her chest. She'd done her best, considering the Academy refused women access to anatomy lessons. Maybe she should point that out to him. As the Academy's president, maybe he would see how unfair that was, how detrimental to a lady's chances, and decide to change the Academy's rules.

No, that would never happen. And he might consider such a request to be very bad form. She'd never get elected to the Academy if its president thought she was vulgar.

On the other hand, maybe he was wrong. Maybe Lord Lincolnshire's form looked perfectly fine. West was known for painting all of his subjects with large almond-shaped eyes, so maybe he wasn't one to judge. Although his portrait clients thought those eyes most dashing—and doubtless commissioned him for that reason—it wasn't accurate, after all. Some of them had narrow, squinty eyes, or small round ones.

"Thank you very much for your opinion," she told him as sweetly as she could. "I surely appreciate it, and I shall take your thoughts under consideration."

Suppressing a sigh, she returned to Rachael after he took leave. "Well, that didn't go well."

Rachael's sisters came to join them. "Who was he?" Claire asked.

"Benjamin West, the president of the Royal Academy. He said Lord Lincolnshire's body doesn't look natural beneath his clothing."

Elizabeth glanced over toward the painting and shrugged. "Looks fine to me. Rather impressive, in fact."

"He did say my techniques demonstrate fine skills. And maybe he's wrong about the other, but that doesn't really matter, does it? Either way he won't vote for my painting unless I change it."

"His is just one opinion." Rachael touched her arm. "There are other committee members, aren't there? How many in total?"

"Nine. The president plus eight elected Academicians."

"So you have eight more men to influence. Seven if you count Mr. Hamilton as being on your side. And he should be, considering you've become friends with him."

"I'm not sure friends is an accurate description of our relationship." But although Rachael didn't know the truth, in a sense she was right. The real Mr. Hamilton should be on Corinna's side, considering how hard she'd been working to keep his uncle happy. And he believed each work should stand on its own and not be judged by the gender of its creator. "However, I think he probably will vote for me," she decided.

"So you've already balanced Mr. West's negative opinion with a positive." Rachael smiled; but then her brows drew together in a frown. "Why did you claim you didn't see Mr. Hamilton at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday? That he was Sean Hamilton, not John? I've heard you call him Sean, and Lord Lincolnshire calls him that as well, but it's just a nickname, after all."

"Mr. West seems to think Mr. Hamilton is in Wales for some reason. I didn't want to argue with the president of the Royal Academy. Better to go along with what he said, I was thinking."

Rachael exchanged puzzled glances with her sisters. "I don't know about that."

Corinna gave what she hoped was a casual shrug, then smiled at Lady A, who was approaching with another man in tow.

"I cannot understand why everyone thinks Mr. Hamilton is in Wales," the older woman muttered darkly. And then more graciously as she drew near, "Mr. Mulready, I'd be pleased for you to meet Lady Corinna Chase. Lady Corinna, this is William Mulready."

Mr. Mulready looked much younger than Mr. West, probably not a decade older than Corinna herself. "A pleasure to meet you, my dear," he said in an accent that reminded her of Sean.

That thought made her smile. "Oh, Mr. Mulready, your painting in last year's Summer Exhibition was my absolute favorite!"

She wasn't making that up; the enthusiasm in her voice was genuine. And judging from the man's expression, he rather liked hearing it. "Which one, my dear?" he asked.

Academicians were allowed to display six paintings each—works that were hung without question, without being judged by the committee. "The Fight Interrupted. I adore the seventeenth-century Dutch masters, and it reminded me of their work. An updated version, if you will."

"I too admire the Dutch masters," he said, sounding like he also admired her for admiring them. "Their work inspired The Fight Interrupted."

Encouraged by how much better this was going than her last conversation, Corinna started inching Mr. Mulready toward her painting of Lord Lincolnshire. "I also much admire your wife's landscapes, Mr. Mulready."

"Elizabeth does lovely work."

"Since you married a female artist, may I assume you don't disapprove of us?"

He laughed, apparently enjoying the saucy question. "A valid assumption. I've had a look at your paintings, my dear. Your own landscapes are quite remarkable."

Oh, this was going astoundingly better. "Here is my latest portrait. What do you think?"

"Lord Lincolnshire, isn't it?" Cocking his head, he perused the picture. "I think, Lady Corinna, that you've truly captured the essence of the man."

Corinna couldn't help but grin. She couldn't think of a more wonderful compliment than hearing she'd captured the essence. That was exactly what she tried to accomplish, not only with this portrait but with all of her paintings.

And the score was now two to one. Mulready and Hamilton on her side, and only Benjamin West on the other. Clearly her chances were good.

She loved William Mulready.

Until she heard the next words out of his mouth. "But he seems a wee bit…stiff."

"Stiff?"

"Yes, stiff. I've had the pleasure of meeting Lord Lincolnshire—quite the art collector, isn't he?—and he struck me as a relaxed sort of fellow. It's something about this fellow's frame beneath his clothing that looks stiff, I think…" Smiling, he patted her on the shoulder. "Not to fret, Lady Corinna. Your landscapes are brilliant. I'm sure the committee will be more than pleased to choose one of them."

She didn't want them to choose a landscape. She was no longer sure she even wanted to submit any. She was going to have to fix Lord Lincolnshire's portrait.

"How is it going?" Alexandra came and asked when Mr. Mulready had walked away.

"He likes my landscapes."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"He's not nearly as impressed with my portrait. He thinks Lord Lincolnshire looks unnatural beneath his clothes. And Benjamin West said the same thing."

"Oh, my. I think you need a rout cake."

Alexandra fetched one from the platter and handed it over. Corinna bit into it morosely, thinking she could use their luck.

No matter that she disbelieved such nonsense.

"How many works will be chosen?" Alexandra asked.

"There were nearly a thousand in last summer's Exhibition."

"Well, then, I should think your chances will be good."

"But there were more than eight thousand submitted. And there are eighty Academicians who get to show six pieces each, which leaves only five hundred twenty for the rest of us."

"Only five hundred twenty," Juliana said with a laugh as she joined them. "I should think there'd be room for one of yours in all of that. And I cannot believe you did that calculation that fast."

Juliana never had been very quick with numbers, but that was beside the point. "I've done that calculation a hundred times," Corinna admitted. "At the very least."

"How are the pieces chosen?" Juliana asked.

Corinna was about to confess ignorance when a man stepped up and gave a little bow. "I'd be pleased to explain to such fine ladies." Although he wasn't anywhere as handsome as Sean, he too had a similar lilting accent. She'd had no idea so many Academicians were Irish. "Martin Archer Shee, at your service," he added.

Martin Archer Shee had studied with the late, great Sir Joshua Reynolds. Corinna was awed that such a man would bother to introduce himself, let alone take time to explain a mysterious procedure. "I'm Corinna Chase, and I'd adore hearing all about it."

"It's very pleased I am to meet you, Lady Corinna. The process is a simple one, if a wee bit tedious. The works are marched past the Committee by a chain of human art handlers. The first round cuts the mass of submissions to about two thousand, and the next round is much more rigorous. From the Academy's earliest days, two metal wands have been used to stamp labels attached to each painting. One wand is surmounted by a letter D, the other by a more ominous X. A work which receives the vote of three or more Academicians is awarded a D for 'Doubtful' and passes to the next round of selection. Works which get the X are eliminated. The rounds are repeated until the paintings that remain are reduced to a reasonable number. Beef tea is served to keep the Academicians' spirits up during the ordeal." His eyes twinkled. "Which isn't really very much of one, in reality. Hanging the exhibition is a much more arduous affair."

"That takes days," Corinna told her sisters. "More than a week."

"With much politics involved regarding whose picture goes where. All done in a veil of secrecy, to protect the Hanging Committee from being hanged ourselves."

Mr. Shee smiled at his own joke; a quite engaging grin, Corinna thought. "Thank you kindly for the explanation."

"I'm much impressed by your work, Lady Corinna. Your textures are quite admirable. I wish you the best of luck in the selection process," he added before taking his leave.

Corinna turned to her sisters. "He likes my work," she breathed. Maybe her chances weren't so dire, after all. "Martin Archer Shee likes my work. And he studied with none other than Reynolds."

"Ah, but I wrote Life of Reynolds," another man said, rivalry evident in his tone.

He stepped up to take Shee's place. Though she'd never seen him before in her life, Corinna knew who he was immediately. "James Northcote, I'm honored to meet you. I read your book four years ago, when it first came out, and I found your recollections of your old master to be quite enlightening."

"He was an enlightening man," Northcote said. "And a discerning one. He'd have been impressed, as I am, with your portrait of Lord Lincolnshire. The man's suit looks like real velvet, his lace truly handmade, the trees in the background wet and glistening. An admirable endeavor, Lady Corinna. Not perfect, of course. The underlying anatomy seems a mite off, and—"

"I'm so pleased you think well of it," Corinna interrupted before she was forced to hear that complaint again. "I realize it's not usual for a female to paint portraits."

"Half the things that people do not succeed in are through fear of making an attempt," he told her solemnly. "You've an excellent start. I wish you well in proceeding with your portrait career."

"I think you have a good chance," Juliana said as he walked away. "He sounded very impressed with your realism."

Corinna smiled at her sister's use of one of the newest terms in art. But then she sighed. "He didn't think the underlying anatomy looked very real."

"He said you have an excellent start."

"Exactly. One doesn't submit a painting that looks like a start, does one? Clearly he was implying I need more practice."

She mentally counted her votes. Against: Benjamin West and James Northcote. For: John Hamilton and Martin Archer Shee. William Mulready would vote for a landscape but not for a portrait.

She wanted to submit a portrait.

Well, maybe Mr. Mulready or Mr. Northcote would vote for her portrait if she fixed it. And there were four other committee members. With either Mulready or Northcote on her side, she needed only two of them to swing the vote.

"How are things going?" Lady A asked, joining their little circle.

"All right," Corinna said. "Mr. West was lukewarm, but Mr. Shee said he was impressed by my work, and so did James Northcote." She wouldn't mention that Mr. Northcote had also said she needed improvement in portraying anatomy.

"Mr. Hamilton will certainly vote for you, although I'm still miffed with him for not attending. He could have influenced the others positively. What did William Mulready have to say, my dear?"

"He loves my landscapes, but he's not as enthusiastic about the portrait."

"Well, that doesn't signify, now, does it? My daughter painted wonderful landscapes. You should be happy enough to get a landscape into the Summer Exhibition."

Corinna wasn't certain that would make her quite happy, but she didn't say so. She didn't want to sound ungrateful. She was thankful to Lady A for giving her the opportunity to meet all the committee members, even if things weren't working out the best.

Besides, things weren't looking all that dire, either. She needed only two more artists to love her work, and she had four more chances to find them.

"I spoke with William Beechey," Lady A added. "I'm sorry to tell you, my dear, that it doesn't seem he approves of females painting portraits."

Corinna couldn't say she was surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. A portrait painter himself, Mr. Beechey had painted the royal family and nearly all the most famous and fashionable people. A steady stream of very sober portraits. Obviously he took life seriously and wouldn't be wanting competition from anyone, let alone from female artists. "Well, then, I don't need to meet him. There are still three committee members I've yet to speak with."

Lady Balmforth threaded her way to them. "I talked to William Owen," she reported. He was principal portrait painter to the Prince Regent.

"And?" her sister asked.

Lady B just shook her head. Mournfully.

Another artist to cross off Corinna's list. Now there were just two left…and her stomach felt as though rocks were collecting inside it.

"How about Henry Fuseli?" she asked. "Or John James Chalon? Have either of you talked to either of them?"

"Our sister has one of Mr. Fuseli's pictures in her bedroom," Lady B said. "Let's ask her if she'll introduce you."

Lady A nodded. "That would be good. I'll find Mr. Chalon in the meanwhile."

As Lady B took her to find Lady C, Corinna wondered what sort of picture the woman had in her bedroom. That she had one at all was rather intriguing. Mr. Fuseli painted weird, often sensual scenes, fantasies that were daringly inventive. His most acclaimed painting, The Nightmare, was an unforgettable image of a woman in the throes of a violently erotic dream.

She was a bit nervous to meet Mr. Fuseli. He seemed attracted to the supernatural, and he was bound to hold strong opinions. She almost hoped Lady Cavanaugh would be too hard to find.

But she wasn't, of course. The house simply wasn't large enough to get lost in it. Lady B found her sister very easily, and Lady C was positively pleased to provide the introduction.

Mr. Fuseli had masses of curly white hair and a face that looked oddly like a lion's. He'd already examined Corinna's artwork on the walls.

"Your paintings are very well done," he told her in a booming voice. "Very accurate, Lady Corinna."

"Thank you, Mr. Fuseli. I admire your paintings, too. I'm inspired by your inventiveness. I find your work fascinating. Very visionary."

"I do believe that a certain amount of exaggeration improves a picture."

Was that a criticism? He'd described her work as well done and very accurate. She always did her best to portray the truth or, as William Mulready had put it, to capture the essence. There was nothing exaggerated in her pictures at all.

"Our ideas are the offspring of our senses," he continued.

What was that supposed to mean?

"It was lovely speaking with you, Lady Corinna," he concluded. "I wish you the best of luck."

That was it? He was done? She hadn't the barest idea what he'd been talking about, or whether he'd liked her pictures.

Her sisters appeared as if by magic—or perhaps as if they'd sprung from one of his strange paintings. "What did he say?" Juliana asked.

"I don't know, exactly. He didn't quite make sense. But he did wish me the best of luck."

"Then he goes in the for column," Juliana said firmly, being the type to always look on the bright side.

Corinna wished she were half so certain. But maybe Mr. Fuseli did like her paintings. And there was still John James Chalon.

The crowd seemed to be thinning out. Spotting Lady A, who was looking rather flustered, Corinna made her way over to see her.

Her sisters followed in her wake.

"Did you talk to Mr. Chalon? Did he say he was willing to meet me?"

"I couldn't find him," Lady A said. "It seems he's left."

"Oh, no. He was the last committee member." Her final opportunity to convince herself she still had a chance. "Now I won't know if he liked my portrait."

"It's all right, dear." The sweet lady smiled. "Everyone loved your landscapes. This all went brilliantly, don't you think?"

Corinna nodded. It was all she could manage. Her only other options were to scream or to cry.

"Have another rout cake," Alexandra said.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The earl's health was failing fast.

Lord Lincolnshire hadn't left his bedroom in two days…two days during which he wanted his nephew nearby. Stuck in the house for hour upon hour, Sean was at his wit's end. He had so much he needed to accomplish, so much that wasn't getting done.

And he missed Corinna.

For a solid week she'd spent long days painting in the salon. Morning to evening, she'd been there. Though he hadn't been there much himself during those hours, he'd liked seeing her portrait every night, checking her progress. He'd liked thinking that if he wanted to see her, he knew exactly where to find her.

She'd been a fixture. A comfort. A temptation.

But since she'd finished the portrait, all her time had been spent with her aunt or Lady Avonleigh. Now that he was here, she was gone. He didn't know when he might see her next, and the house felt empty.

Fearing the situation would drag on, yesterday Sean had asked Higginbotham to have his art supplies fetched from the studio on Piccadilly Street. Thinking it was what Hamilton would do himself, he'd set everything up in the drawing room that had Hamilton's pictures all over the walls. Then he'd summoned his secretary, Mr. Sykes.

Sykes had been in Sean's employ for nearly eight years. He was a short, dark man with round gold spectacles, a quick, precise mind, and an encyclopedic knowledge of Sean's many and varied enterprises. During the hours the earl slept—which, fortunately, were many—the two of them worked quietly behind closed doors in the drawing room. The staff had been told that Sykes was Sean's assistant, there to mix paint for him and such. In reality, they were allocating positions for all of Lincolnshire's many servants.

Sean was thankful that was now done. He'd begun notifying each member of the staff of his final decisions. Were it not for the sadness of Lincolnshire's impending demise, he suspected some of them might be singing as they worked. They were obviously looking forward to what lay ahead. And very relieved overall.

But Sean was not.

In deference to Lincolnshire's wishes, he was neglecting his own concerns. In defiance of Hamilton's plans, he'd been introduced as the man in public. And other than the last few days—and despite knowing what was best—he was kissing Corinna too often and growing much more attached to her than was prudent.

Nothing was working out the way it was supposed to. And lately he'd found himself wondering if maybe he could stay with her. Marry her. He kept thinking about how her brother reportedly thought him a fine man, and attaching way too much significance to that.

This had to stop.

When she showed up unexpectedly Thursday morning, he was entirely too happy to see her.

"How is he?" she asked quietly, poking her head into the earl's room.

"The same." Sean waved her to the chair next to him beside the towering bed, where the earl slumbered upright, his back propped against a dozen pillows. "Sleeping as comfortably as I expect we can hope." It seemed the only way the man could sleep these days, the only way he could breathe.

"You look upset."

"It's not pleasant," he said with a shrug, "but it cannot last much longer." He looked closer at her, noticing her tense jaw, a certain wildness in her eyes. Or maybe panic. "You look upset, too."

Lowering herself to the chair, she sighed. "Lady Avonleigh's reception didn't go well."

"What happened?"

"She kept asking why you weren't there," she said, keeping her voice low. "Or rather, why Mr. Hamilton wasn't there." She winced and flicked a wary glance at Lincolnshire, apparently worried he might have overheard. "Sorry."

"He's asleep. Though we should be careful."

She nodded. "The committee members were mystified, since they believe Mr. Hamilton to be in Wales. Lady A and her sisters and my cousins and others all kept saying he'd been seen at various social events, and the artists kept saying that was impossible…" She clenched her hands together in her lap. "It was a mess, Sean."

"It's sorry I am about that." Not that there was anything he could have done. "How about the rest? Did the committee members like your new painting?"

She sighed again. "For the most part, they didn't seem enthralled with my portrait of Lord Lincolnshire."

"Why not?" He was outraged. These artists were obviously idiots. Temperamental idiots, one and all—with the exception of Corinna, of course. "It's brilliant."

"It isn't." When he might have protested further, she unclenched her hands and laid one on his arm. "They liked Lord Lincolnshire's expression well enough. William Mulready said I captured the essence of the man." A hint of a smile transformed her face; she'd obviously liked hearing that. "And they admired the textures overall. They thought his suit looked like real velvet, his lace truly handmade, the trees wet and glistening."

"But…?" All of that sounded grand. Which meant there had to be a but.

"But they claimed Lord Lincolnshire's form doesn't seem real beneath his clothes. He looks stiff and unnatural."

"Did they?" Sean hadn't looked for such a thing. Hadn't known to look for such a thing. He'd been impressed with the way she'd rendered Lincolnshire's face, and aye, his clothes and the background. Even color-blind, he could see that. But he'd paid no attention to the man's body.

Well, another man wouldn't, would he? Unless he were an artist.

Hurting for her, he tried to point out the positive. "It doesn't sound all that bad. They had lots of good things to say."

"One of them really loved my work—"

"One?"

"Yes, one. Or rather, only one had no reservations about it. Martin Archer Shee, that was."

"How about the rest?"

"Benjamin West liked my basic technique but didn't have anything else good to say. William Mulready and James Northcote both think I paint excellent landscapes, but they weren't so enthusiastic about my portrait."

He didn't know any of those names, but this wasn't the time to tell her. "That's four out of how many?"

"Eight, not counting Mr. Hamilton. Two were hopeless. William Owen and William Beechey. They simply don't approve of women painting portraits. I have no idea what the last two thought. I found Henry Fuseli's comments completely indecipherable, and John James Chalon left before I could hear his opinion."

"They might approve, then, the both of them."

"They might. But they might not. Or they might, like some of the others, like my landscapes but not my portrait."

"You can submit landscapes, then, can't you? Or landscapes along with your portrait? How many paintings are you allowed to turn in?"

"Three. NonAcademicians are allowed to submit three…"

She trailed off with yet another sigh.

She looked tortured, which made his heart seem to squeeze in his chest. He wanted to gather her into his arms, but he couldn't do that in Lincolnshire's bedroom. He fisted his hands to keep from reaching for her. "What is it, cuisle mo chroí?"

For a moment, she looked puzzled instead of distressed. "Cooshla-macree? Whatever does that mean?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "It just slipped out. The language of my childhood…sometimes it just slides off my tongue."

He shouldn't be calling her that. Not as a slip of the tongue or anything else.

The tortured look was in her eyes again. "What is it?" he repeated, without the Gaelic this time. "What has you so troubled?"

"I don't know how to explain it," she said slowly, her gaze focused on the canopy above the earl's bed. "I don't quite understand it myself. As the reception wore on, it became more and more obvious that one of my landscapes would surely be accepted. Which has been my goal all these years, hasn't it? Yet it seemed the more they said they liked my landscapes, the more I wanted to submit a portrait. Only a portrait." She lowered her gaze, finally meeting his eyes. "I want to be known as a portrait painter, Sean. I think I'm going to try to fix Lord Lincolnshire's portrait."

"Can you do that?"

"I hope so. I think so. I have four days before the submission is due. I painted him into the scene in a week, so I should be able to fix him in a shorter time."

"That sounds hopeful." It made sense. But she still didn't look very sure of herself. "Well then, is there another problem?"

"There is." The two wee words sounded so despondent. "Even should I fix it, two of the committee members will refuse to vote for it just on the grounds that I'm female. And I cannot count on all six of the other members, either. If it's better—if it's brilliant—I imagine some of them may come around. But others may not. I'm counting on Mr. Hamilton to be the deciding vote, but that will work only if three others besides Mr. Shee vote for me, too. So I was wondering…"

"Wondering what?"

"When he gets here, before the vote, do you think you could ask him to talk to the committee?" she whispered in a rush. "I don't want my painting selected if it doesn't merit the honor, but if he could just ask them to seriously reconsider it even though they've seen it before, to give the revised version a fair look even though I haven't made a name for myself yet. Do you expect he might be willing to talk to them, as a favor? After all, you and I have done him a big favor by appeasing his uncle."

Sean couldn't believe she'd said that in the earl's bedroom, even in a whisper. He slanted a nervous glance toward Lord Lincolnshire, but the man was snoring peacefully. Or at least as peacefully as a dying man could.

Their secret was still safe.

That knowledge did not, however, allow him to rest easy.

He wasn't at all sure Hamilton would vote for Corinna's portrait, let alone encourage others to do so. I seriously doubt I will vote for that female's painting, he remembered Hamilton saying. I'm certain her paintings won't be good, because she's never studied anatomy. Sketching statues is not going to help her learn anything.

"I'm not sure," he said apologetically. "Hamilton isn't known for being cooperative."

"But we saved his inheritance."

Darting another glance toward Lord Lincolnshire, he rose. "Let's have our chat somewhere else, shall we?"

"We cannot leave him alone."

"I told Mrs. Skeffington to rest her bones a spell, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind returning."

Indeed, Mrs. Skeffington was coming down the corridor when Sean peeked out. He thanked his lucky stars she hadn't returned a minute earlier and overheard Corinna. After seeing the nurse settled by Lincolnshire's side, he guided Corinna downstairs and into the salon.

He closed the door behind them both. Took a seat on a blue-and-gold sofa. Smoothed his palms against his thighs.

Cleared his throat.

Corinna settled beside him, closer than he would have liked. Well, he liked it, but he needed to keep a clear head for this conversation.

"I'm sorry I said that out loud," she apologized. "I wasn't thinking."

"No harm done." He drew and released a breath. "I have an idea."

"For what?"

"For helping you fix the portrait of Lincolnshire."

"Helping me? How can you possibly help with that? I only want you to have a talk with Mr. Hamilton."

"You've a need to learn anatomy, haven't you? Since you're wanting to make him look more natural?"

She looked perplexed. "That's why I sketched all those Elgin Marbles."

"But that wasn't good enough, was it?"

He couldn't believe what he was about to say. He'd spent the last two days thinking about how they were getting too close, and this would make it even harder to keep any sort of distance. But he saw no other way to make certain Hamilton would admire her portrait. No other way to repay her for all the assistance she'd so generously given him.

There was nothing for it. He drew one more deep breath and took the plunge. "I'm thinking I can pose for you."

"What?"

"I can pose for you. If you practice painting me, that might help you fix the portrait in time."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Holy Hannah. Corinna had to forcibly close her mouth.

"You want to pose for me?" she asked when she'd more or less gathered her wits. "So I can learn anatomy?"

His gaze caught hers and held, looking rather apprehensive. "I said so, aye."

Aye. Sean never said aye. "You do realize…"

Though he looked no less wary, a corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. "That I shall have to take off my clothes?"

She glanced away, scandalized. But she recognized a good opportunity when she was offered one. She needed to fix Lord Lincolnshire's portrait, make his body look more realistic, and sketching marble gods had quite clearly left her unprepared for the task.

She would never have asked Sean to pose for her. Never. The idea would never have occurred to her, not even after a hundred more kisses.

But now that he'd brought it up…well, how could she possibly refuse?

It was scandalous, but it could be her one and only chance to truly study male anatomy. And it was certainly her only chance before this year's Summer Exhibition. While there was time for no more than a session or two, perhaps a live model would make the difference. She might be able to master figure drawing once and for all.

Though she was staring through the large windows that overlooked the garden, she wasn't seeing trees and flowers and blue sky. Instead she was picturing the sofa where Lincolnshire had sat for her…with Sean on it instead.

Naked as the day he was born.

She swallowed hard. Her heart thumped unevenly. Warmth flooded her cheeks.

Biting her lip, she met his gaze again. "You won't have to take off all of your clothes."

"Will I not?" He raised a brow. "Lord Lincolnshire's portrait isn't just head and shoulders, as I recall. His body wouldn't look 'stiff and unnatural' had it not been shown, would it?"

"But there's no need to sketch all of you at once. I can do parts."

"Parts?" The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement.

"A part at a time. You can undress just a little bit."

"If you say so." He looked unconvinced. But perhaps he also looked relieved. "Where shall we do it?"

"Not here. And not in my brother's drawing room."

God forbid.

"In the square, then? Where the painting is set?" Reacting to her shock, he released a shaky laugh. "I was jesting, mo chroí. We can use Hamilton's studio."

Macree again…what did that mean? "That sounds good. When shall we meet?"

"Time is of the essence, is it not?"

"I have four days to fix the painting. I'd best not sketch more than two."

"We shan't delay, then. I shall meet you there in an hour."

"So soon?" Time might be of the essence, but she wasn't at all sure she was ready for this. "Can you leave Lord Lincolnshire? I thought he wanted you to stay here."

"Saints preserve us. Lincolnshire does want me here. But we cannot wait for the poor man to die."

Oh, that was so irreverent.

And so true. "Sean…"

"Let's make it in the evening, then. Lincolnshire's been falling asleep early these days, and if he doesn't, I'll come up with some excuse."

"What excuse can I give Griffin to leave the house alone in the evening?" She preferred, of course, to be honest with her brother, but she could hardly tell him she was going to sketch a nude man.

Her cheeks burned at the mere thought.

"Tell him Lincolnshire's invited you for dinner. I'll come for you, and we'll walk to the studio together." Sean grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed a kiss to her lips. Quick and hot.

Her senses were spinning when he pulled back.

"It'll be fine, Corinna. Don't worry yourself. This plan is going to work."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Her grandfather was here somewhere.

Nervously smoothing the lavender dress she'd chosen to wear—after trying and rejecting six others—Rachael gazed down the length of the Royal Hospital's great hall. The black-and-white marble floor seemed to stretch forever. "Which one is Colonel Thomas Grimbald?" she asked the guard at the door.

It was early evening—dinnertime, to be precise. Covered in spotless white cloth, sixteen long tables crowded the hall, each seating twenty-six pensioners. Every man wore the same outfit: a scarlet coat and tricorn hat based on the service uniform of the Duke of Marlborough's time. They were all sixty-five or older, and they all, to Rachael's eye, looked alike.

Maybe none of them was her grandfather. Maybe Griffin had been wrong.

"I'll show you to Grimbald, milady," the guard said. Griffin offered his arm, and she clutched it tightly as they followed him. Cutlery clinked, and the hall rang with the deep voices of so many men. The chandeliers overhead seemed too few to light the towering chamber, but the last of the day's sunshine streamed through its many tall, arched windows.

The guard stopped at one end of a table. "Colonel Grimbald?"

A gray-haired man glanced up—a man who looked eerily familiar.

Griffin hadn't been wrong.

"This fine lady and gentleman are here to see you," the guard told him and walked off.

The man blinked and rose, standing at attention, his narrow chest puffed out in the smart red coat. He was medium height, with a long nose in a long, pleasant face. He had Rachael's dented chin and, beneath the black tricorn, Rachael's sky blue eyes.

But they were blank.

"Who are you?" he asked, not rudely but not in a welcoming tone, either.

Griffin took Rachael's hand. "I'm the Marquess of Cainewood, and this is my cousin, Lady Rachael Chase. Your son's daughter."

"Hmmph." He reclaimed his seat and picked up his fork, silently dismissing them. "My son has no daughter."

Would he send her away without even listening? Rachael looked to Griffin and back to the man. Her grandfather. "Sir." She swallowed hard. "I know this must come as a shock, since your son—my father—is dead, but—"

"Thomas isn't dead." He lifted a tankard and took a swallow of beer.

"Sir." Rachael felt tears sting her eyes and cursed herself. It would have been nice to be welcomed with open arms, but if that wasn't to be, she at least wanted some answers. "I know your son did something shameful, but I just want to ask you—"

"My son has done nothing wrong." The words weren't said angrily but rather matter-of-factly, his blue gaze unfocused on his dinner. "Thomas will be an important man someday; just you wait and see. He'll be marrying John Cartwright's daughter, he will. Lord John Cartwright's daughter. Course, the gel ain't yet born, so I cannot be telling you her name." He glanced back up, cocking his head in apparent confusion. "Who are you?"

Flustered, Rachael freed her hand from Griffin's so she could dig in the beaded reticule that matched her lavender dress. "I'm your granddaughter." She pulled out her father's badge and held it out toward the man. "See, this is your son's badge."

"My son has no badge," he said flatly. "Where would he get such a thing? The lad isn't even a year old."

The man across from him, an aging fellow with big ears and a hooked nose, reached to take the badge and examined it with a low whistle. "Tenth Hussars. Old Grimbald's son must have done well for himself." He handed it back. "He don't mean to be uncivil, milady," he said sympathetically. "Colonel Grimbald, he's not quite here, if you catch my drift. Thinks it's 1760. If you stay long enough, he'll start nattering on about how he just saved some fellow's life and the bloke promised his firstborn daughter to his infant son."

"John Cartwright," Grimbald confirmed with a nod. "A bloomin' a-ris-to-crat." He drew the word out into four distinct syllables and ended it with a chortle. "My name will be connected to nobility."

Rachael dropped the badge back into her reticule. "Dear heavens." She stared down the hall toward an old, faded mural of King Charles II on a horse with the Royal Hospital in the background. He'd commissioned these buildings, she suddenly remembered—a disjointed thought that came out of nowhere—but never lived to see them finished.

Like her father hadn't lived to see her.

Disappointment was a physical ache, a knot in her middle. She looked back to her grandfather and tried again. "Sir—"

"Yes?" He looked up, appearing startled to find her there, blinking at her through eyes just like her own. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Our thanks for your time, sir." Griffin curved an arm around her shoulders. "Let's go," he murmured under his breath. "Staying here will accomplish nothing."

She nodded and allowed him to draw her back toward the door. Suddenly the huge room felt close and stifling, making her grateful to step out into the cool evening air. In the center of the deserted courtyard, a grand, bronze statue of King Charles thrust toward the sky, and she sat on its marble base, smoothing her dress over her knees and hugging them.

"He's gone," she said. "He's there, but he's gone."

"I'm sorry." Griffin stood gazing down at her, looking as solid as the old brick building behind him. "I should have come to see him myself before bringing you."

"No. I'd have wanted to see him, anyway. Just to convince myself he was my grandfather."

"He has your eyes."

"And my chin. We're related; I've no doubt of that at all." She hugged her knees tighter. "But he'll never be able to tell me what happened to my father."

"No, he won't." Griffin lowered his rangy frame to sit beside her. "He thinks your father is still a child."

A lone hawk circled overhead, looking as solitary as Rachael felt. "I'll never really know who I am."

"Ah, Rachael." He shifted closer, wrapping an arm about her to pull her against him. "What your father did, however heinous, has nothing to do with who you are."

She dropped her head to his shoulder, taking comfort from his nearness, breathing in his warm male scent. "I know. I just wanted to know. I assure you, I wouldn't have fallen apart had I learned the truth."

"I never thought you would. You're strong, Rachael."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

There was conviction in his voice, and admiration, and something else she couldn't identify, but it helped the knot in her middle loosen a little. It helped to have Griffin here. She'd always considered him an unreliable scapegrace, yet he'd been by her side all through this. Which seemed to lend her the strength she'd been missing. The strength he believed she had.

It was amazing what a difference it made to have someone believe in her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

"How shall we work this?" Setting his large case full of art supplies on the table, Sean glanced around the sparsely furnished garret studio. "Will you sit on the sofa?"

"Lord Lincolnshire sat on a sofa for the portrait," Corinna pointed out, "so I think you should pose there. Did he fall asleep?"

"He didn't. I think he might be getting better." Sean wasn't sure whether he was happy about that or not. Much as he liked the man, this couldn't continue forever, could it?

"Then how did you manage to leave him? What excuse did you give him?"

"I told him my painting wasn't going well at Lincolnshire House, so I needed to work here instead. That's why I brought along these supplies. I'd have looked a liar otherwise."

He'd brought candles, too, knowing it would grow dark as the evening wore on. He pulled them out of the case and set them up around the room and began lighting them.

"Lord Lincolnshire didn't mind, then?"

"I sent for Deirdre to keep him company."

Though his sister was nominally living at Lincolnshire House, she spent most of her waking hours at Daniel Raleigh's place of business—or his home, where she planned to live with or without a divorce. Sean was less than thrilled with that, but he didn't want to fight with his sister. He'd told the earl his wife was very fond of shopping.

Yet another lie, he thought with a sigh. "She wasn't happy, but she agreed."

"She should. You're putting yourself out to secure her future."

If only Deirdre saw it that way. "Lincolnshire likes her," he said dryly. "Thinks I chose a fine wife."

"That's good," she said distractedly. "I like to paint standing, but I usually sit when I sketch." She moved his case to the floor and sat herself on the small table. "This should do fine."

He lit the last candle. "I'll get you a chair."

"From where?"

"From one of my tenants." At her blank look, he smiled. "I own this building, Corinna. And half the others on this street."

"Oh." Now she looked stunned. "I thought you said the studio was Mr. Hamilton's. I guess you didn't mean literally."

"Hamilton said he plans to lease it when he returns. I intend to charge him a small fortune. I'll be right back."

It took but a few minutes to run downstairs and borrow a chair from one of the shopkeepers on the ground floor. He returned to find Corinna with her sketchbook open, chewing on her bottom lip. She'd worried it pink and plump with her teeth.

At least, he assumed it was pink. It definitely looked darker than usual. And very enticing. He wanted to kiss away the marks, wanted that so badly he could already taste her. But if he kissed her now, he knew, this session would get way out of hand.

"Sit," he said instead, "while I undress." He set down the chair so it faced the sofa.

"Just a little bit," she reminded him as she lowered herself.

He sat across from her and pulled off his shoes and stockings. "Will this do?"

She stared at his bare feet, seeming rather riveted by them, to his amusement. "Lord Lincolnshire's feet aren't in the picture," she finally said. "Just a little more."

He rose and shrugged out of his tailcoat. "Will this do, then?"

She cracked a smile. "A little more."

He unbuttoned and took off his waistcoat.

"More."

He untied and drew off his cravat.

"A little more."

He saw her swallow as he removed his braces. He unfastened the top button on his shirt.

"Wait."

"Wait?" His fingers paused on the second button, he raised a brow. "You're going to draw this wee bit of my throat?"

A nervous laugh escaped. "Your hands. Lord Lincolnshire's hands are in the picture. I've decided to start with your hands."

"I'm thinking you've sketched hands before. Your sisters', perhaps?"

"Yes, of course. But I need a man's hands."

"Lincolnshire had two, I believe. Quite naked at the time he sat for you."

"Old hands. I painted him younger."

"Your brother's hands, then. Surely he's sat for you."

"Not without grumbling. And never long enough."

"I don't remember you mentioning that any of the artists criticized Lincolnshire's hands. I'm thinking you've probably mastered the painting of hands."

"It's notoriously difficult to paint hands," she said in clipped tones. "Will you just sit down and show me your hands?"

Evidently she was anxious, which was hardly surprising. This was rather unnerving for him as well. "All right," he said, sitting and placing his hands on his spread knees. "Will this do?"

"That will do fine." She blew out a breath. "Just relax."

"I might suggest you do the same."

"Yes. Of course. Right." She scooted her chair closer and put pencil to paper. "However did you come to own half this neighborhood?"

He didn't usually talk to people about his property, his businesses, his company. He'd learned over the years that it made others envious. They couldn't understand how a single man could have so much, and they certainly didn't believe he'd worked hard and earned it honestly. They figured he'd come by it through luck or fraud or chicanery—or all three.

He'd grown up tithing, and these days he gave quite a bit of money to charity—more money every year than most people ever saw in a whole lifetime. But people didn't seem to care about that. They wanted what he had for themselves, and they resented him for having it when they didn't. They thought he should simply agree to give them some of it. Or they plotted ways to steal some of it, or destroy some of it.

Mother Mary, he'd never been able to decide which was worst.

Quite a few people did know, of course. People in high places, people he often dealt with. People those people had told. It was inevitable, he supposed, and he accepted that, even though it sometimes made life difficult. But he operated on the general principle that anyone who didn't already know—and had no reason to know—would be better kept in the dark.

But Corinna…

How could he justify keeping Corinna in the dark any longer? He'd been kissing her. She stirred his blood, and he'd become equally attracted to her intellect. He admired her. She seemed to fill a void in his life he hadn't known was there, and he'd been thinking of marrying her.

Though he remained far from convinced he actually could, the thought had surely crossed his mind. And she'd been asking for details for quite a while now. Not forcefully, but sweetly. Under the circumstances, it didn't feel right to keep dodging her questions.

"I have a knack," he finally said.

Her gaze stayed on her sketch, but a faint smile curved her lips. "Deirdre said you'd say that."

"When was that?"

"At the Billingsgate ball." Focusing on his left hand, she drew a few lines. "She told me you departed Ireland with nothing, and the next time she saw you, you owned several pieces of property."

"I didn't start with nothing," he corrected. "My uncle left me an inheritance."

"How much?"

"Ten thousand pounds."

She nodded, clearly unimpressed. Sean hadn't expected any different. Ten thousand might be a fortune to a vicar's son in Ireland, but to a marquess's daughter in Mayfair?

It was a pittance.

Such different people they were, from such different backgrounds. He might have money now and dress like a gentleman, but he'd never have met her were it not for Hamilton. He'd never have spoken to her. Never have danced with her or shared ices in Berkeley Square.

And they certainly would never have kissed.

He shifted uneasily, thinking he shouldn't be doing this. Knowing he shouldn't be doing this. It was too tempting for them both, and he didn't know how he was going to remove any more of his clothes without her attacking him and him allowing it. Or, more likely, encouraging it.

She was only sketching his hands so far, he reminded himself. There was no need to panic yet.

"What happened after you received the inheritance?" she asked.

"I left my family, came to London, bought a small, run-down building. By myself I fixed it up, and then I sold it for a profit. That's when I discovered I have a knack."

"For buying and selling property?"

"For making money," he said with a grin.

He couldn't help himself. He rarely talked about this with anyone, and he was rather proud of himself, after all. The seventh deadly sin, his father would have reminded him had he been alive to see how far his son had come. But Sean would have laughed, because he believed a man was entitled to find satisfaction in a job well-done.

As was a lady, he thought, watching her sketch. "I bought a larger building and did it again," he explained. "And again. Eventually I had enough funds to hire other people to fix up the buildings, so I could concentrate on finding and buying them faster, and after that, I realized it might be more profitable to keep some of the buildings—select ones, based on criteria—and make money leasing them out."

"Deirdre said you own more than buildings. Businesses. Manufactories. And ships, too, she told me."

His sister had a big mouth. No wonder Corinna had been so curious. "Well, now, one of the tenants I leased to had a business that was about to fail, and I realized I could fix that, too. So I bought it and made it profitable. And then I bought other businesses. And started some. Some of the businesses required supplies that came from outside the country, and I realized I could make more profit by importing such supplies myself. And importing supplies for other people. And exporting some of the things I was manufacturing, and some other things other people were manufacturing— " He cut himself off and shrugged. "I seem to have a knack for making money all sorts of ways."

She froze midsketch, stunned. And admiring. All the men she knew were wealthy, of course, but their wealth came from owning land. Mostly from owning land for generations—the same land, for hundreds of years. None of them had started with nothing, or even ten thousand pounds, and built their wealth all by themselves.

No other men she knew had a knack for making money. Or a knack for much of anything else, come to think of it. Except maybe sitting a horse or tying a perfect cravat.

"How is it coming?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The hands."

"Oh. They're…they're fine."

"You need to see more than hands, Corinna, if you're going to fix Lincolnshire's portrait."

She nodded, knowing he was right.

Apparently taking that as agreement, he rose and finished unbuttoning his shirt. In one single, fluid movement, he pulled it off over his head. Then he draped it over the arm of the sofa and…just stood there.

He was magnificent.

He looked better than the Elgin gods. Human, not marble, and very, very male. His chest rippled with muscles and ridges, and he looked warm and smooth and altogether enticing. It was all she could do to keep from reaching out to touch him.

She'd never seen another man without his shirt. Did they all look like this? Somehow, she thought not. All the gentlemen of her acquaintance led lives of leisure. It seemed fixing buildings had toned Sean's body in a way that made him different.

And much, much better.

His hands moved to the buttons on his trousers.

"No." She swallowed hard. "That's enough for now." She wouldn't be able to concentrate if presented with anything beyond that splendid torso. "You need a book."

"A book?"

"In the painting, Lord Lincolnshire is holding a book."

He reached for one of the sketchbooks Mr. Hamilton had left behind. Another fluid movement that made something flip-flop in her stomach. "Will this do?"

"What? Oh, yes. Have a seat. Like Lord Lincolnshire did, if you'll remember."

He sat and held the book, looking nothing like Lord Lincolnshire, even though the pose was similar. She sketched a few lines. Shaky lines, since she couldn't seem to take her eyes off him.

"I fear you don't really look like Lord Lincolnshire."

"Close enough, I imagine. You're painting him younger, aren't you?"

"I thought the portrait would be more compelling that way. And please Lord Lincolnshire more as well. But I seriously doubt he ever looked like you. That he looked so…"

Hard and hot. Strong and overwhelming. Just looking at Sean robbed her of words. She was growing more confident, though. Her fingers flew across the page, capturing every detail while she had the chance.

She'd remember this evening always.

"So…what?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

He smiled and settled back. "How many sessions do you expect you'll need?"

A thousand. Maybe more. "I've time for only two," she said regretfully. "After that I'll really need to paint. I hope Mr. Hamilton won't return and expect to use this studio before then."

"Don't worry yourself about that." Disgust filled his voice. "I got another letter from him yesterday. He's staying longer. Claims he's seeing fairies in the falls or some such blarney," he added with a snort. "But of course he's really lingering with his lover."

His lover. Corinna felt her skin heat just hearing those two words. Her eyes skimmed Sean's form, her pencil traced the lines on the paper, and she imagined him kissing her.

Her lips tingled.

She blew out a tense breath.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I'm just concentrating."

Sean shifted, reclining a little to one side, raising an arm to lay it along the back edge of the sofa. He was looking more relaxed—and not at all like Lord Lincolnshire had posed. She considered asking him to move back, but she didn't want him to.

In the flickering candlelight, he looked absolutely delicious. So delicious she wanted a bite. It was a shocking thought, but she wanted to do it. She wanted to sink her teeth into all that smooth, warm skin—

Oh, this would never do.

She had to concentrate on sketching him, not biting him. Or kissing him.

She sketched awhile more in pensive silence.

"I know you're worried." She heard compassion in his voice. He shifted again, raising a bare foot to the sofa's surface. He rested the hand with the sketchbook on his bent knee. "But Hamilton is aware that I cannot pretend to be him at the Royal Academy. He'll be home in time to vote on the Selection Committee."

"I know that," she said.

"Is something else wrong, then, a rún?"

Oh, yes, something was wrong. He kept saying words she didn't understand, for one thing. Words that sounded so lovely and melodic they made her melt inside, even not knowing what they meant. And the way he was looking at her, the way she was looking at him. She wanted to touch him and bite him and kiss him, and she needed to sketch.

It was all just unbearable.

Her sketchbook and pencil both fell from her hands. "Oh, Sean, I don't think I can do this anymore. Not tonight."

His foot slid back down to the floor. The hand with the book dropped to his side. "Why not?"

She didn't answer. She didn't think she could tell him. Looking concerned, he took his arm off the edge of the sofa back and sat straighter, ruining the delicious pose.

But she found him delicious, anyway.

"Because I cannot concentrate," she said, feeling her temper rise, although she couldn't figure out why. "All I can think of is bi…kissing you."

"Oh. Well, then. I think we can fix that." She thought he might smile, but he didn't. In fact, he looked a little apprehensive. "Why don't you come over here and give me a kiss, get it out of your system?"

Well, she wasn't going to resist that invitation. She simply couldn't. She all but flew out of the chair and into his arms, sprawling over him on the sofa.

He'd intended it to be a little kiss. A get-it-out-of-your-system kiss. She knew that. She could tell by the way he looked startled, by the way his mouth felt a little stiff when she planted her lips on his.

But that didn't last long, of course. Most of their kisses had been rather wild, and this one was no exception. A moment later he was kissing her back, slanting his mouth over hers, sweeping his tongue inside to claim her.

And, oh, she wanted to be claimed. She remembered reading Ethelinde last summer, and how Ethelinde had cried, I am yours whenever you come to claim me. That was exactly how she felt.

But Minerva Press novels hadn't prepared her for everything else Sean made her feel. When he kissed her, the world disappeared…she knew only the exciting heat of his mouth and her own blood rushing through her veins, the fierce pounding of her heart and that wonderful melting feeling inside her.

He undid her.

Feeling like that now, she touched him like she'd been wanting to. She ran her hands over his bare skin, and it was hot and silky and made an ache form low in her middle. And she wanted more.

"I want you, Sean," she murmured.

He stopped kissing her. "What?"

"I want you." She hadn't realized that until she'd said it, but it was true. That was why her temper had flared; she wasn't getting what she wanted. "I want all of you."

He didn't pretend that he didn't understand her. "I want you, too," he said wryly, but she also heard frustration in his voice. "This is difficult, isn't it?"

"No, it's wonderful. You feel wonderful." She ran her hands over him again, feeling his muscles jump beneath his warm skin, beneath her fingers. A soft groan sounded in his throat, and he shut his eyes, making a little thrill run through her. "Touch me, Sean," she breathed. "Touch me like this."

Instead, he opened his eyes and took her hands. Took them off of himself.

"I cannot." He sat up, moving her to sit beside him, shifting so he could meet her eyes. "Not now, not before…it wouldn't be right, Corinna. I cannot do that." A strand of her hair had come loose, probably when she'd leapt on him, and he reached to gently tuck it back. "What you're offering me isn't mine to take. Not now."

"But I want you to take it." More than she'd wanted anything before in her life. "That makes it yours to take."

"It doesn't." He shook his head. "I shouldn't even be kissing you, though God knows I enjoy it. You're an innocent. A sheltered, aristocratic miss."

"I'm an artist," she argued. "Artists are eccentric, individualistic. Free-spirited." Maybe she wasn't all of those things, exactly, but she'd always wanted to be. "We don't conform to convention."

"Well, I do. Sweet Jesus, I'm the son of a vicar. I don't go around ruining women. I won't do to you what that bastard Hamilton did to my sister. I like to think I'm better than that."

Corinna was startled silent. How could she argue with that? How could she say she wanted him to act like the man he despised most in the world? He was only being honorable. And she'd known all along he was honorable, hadn't she?

He'd proved his honor so many times, in so many ways. The way he'd wanted her to know the truth from the very beginning, and kept at her until she believed him. The way he still felt guilty deceiving Lord Lincolnshire, even though he knew it was best.

And then there was the way he didn't want Deirdre to live with the man she loved unless she could marry him. She should hardly be surprised he held himself to the same standards. Sean was the most honorable man she knew.

That was one of the many reasons she loved him.

It wasn't that he didn't want her. She wasn't stupid enough to believe that. She could see the wanting in his face, feel it in his kiss, in the way he touched her. He'd said not now, hadn't he? He was planning a future with her. He hadn't told her yet, just like she hadn't told him she loved him. All of that had to wait until this was all over. She was going to have to content herself with his kisses until then.

He wanted her. He just didn't want her now. And he seemed so distressed, so troubled. The way he was looking at her broke her heart.

"You are much better than that," she said quietly. "That's why I want you so much, but I understand." And then, because she couldn't help herself: "But I wish you wanted me now."

"Of course I want you now," he burst out, sounding exasperated, sounding like he couldn't believe he had to explain it. "You obviously don't understand. I want you now, and a minute ago, and a minute from now. All I ever think about is wanting you. I want you more than I want to breathe, but I want what's best for you even more than that."

And when those words came out of his mouth, that was when Sean knew.

He loved her.

Yes, she made his blood sing; yes, she'd crawled under his skin; yes, he admired her drive and ambition. But it was more than that, much more. When a man put a woman's interests before his own, when he denied what he wanted most because it wouldn't be best for her…well, if that wasn't the definition of love, he didn't know what was.

He loved her. He was going to ask her to marry him.

Not now, not until all of this was over. Not until he'd seen everything through, eased Lincolnshire to his rest, settled things between Hamilton and Deirdre. Not until he'd reclaimed his life and had something to offer Corinna besides subterfuge and lies. Not until he could approach her brother with his head held high.

Even then, the marquess was likely to refuse him. But he was going to ask.

And though he was a busy man who rarely stopped to pray anymore, right now he was praying harder than he ever had that the answer would be yes.

He kissed her, because he'd already done that and there was no going back. It was a gentle kiss, slow and heartfelt, a kiss he hoped told her without words what he wasn't ready to say.

Then he rose and reached for his shirt. "I'm thinking it's a good idea for us to stop now, as you said. We'll do this again tomorrow afternoon."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The next day, Lincolnshire perked up.

When Lord Stafford made his usual early morning call, he was pleased to see his patient more comfortable. "He's more awake than he's been for days," he reported when he came out of the earl's bedroom following his examination. "And he can speak whole sentences—entire paragraphs—without pausing for breaths between words."

Sean had suspected the man might be getting better. "Do you expect all the sleep has revived him?"

"Perhaps, but only temporarily," the doctor reminded him. A gentle warning. "This sort of disease tends to progress and regress in uneven waves, but he's not recovering by any means." His brown eyes met Sean's with sympathy. "You'd best enjoy your uncle's alertness while you can."

Lincolnshire wasn't his uncle, but Sean nodded and thanked Stafford and saw him out. Only to find another man coming in.

This man carried a leather valise. A quite official-looking one. "I'm Mr. Lawrence Lawless," he said by way of introduction. "Lord Lincolnshire's solicitor. Here to consult with him at his request."

Lawless was a tall and very sober sort of gent—not a man Sean normally would greet with a grin. But he couldn't squelch a smile at meeting a lawyer named Lawless. He turned away to hide it, allowing Quincy to escort the man upstairs.

It was the last time Sean smiled that day.

The solicitor spent a full hour closeted in Lincolnshire's bedroom, and no sooner had he left than the earl summoned his nephew. On her way out to go to Raleigh, Deirdre turned back and went upstairs with Sean.

"Good day to you, Lord Lincolnshire," she said softly as they entered his room.

"Good day to you, my dear," the earl wheezed. Sean was amused to hear Deirdre's Irish phrasing echoed rather than good morning in the English way. And very happy that, wheezing or not, Lincolnshire had indeed rattled off that whole sentence without pausing for breath.

But when the earl added, "I'm getting my affairs in order," any smile that might have sprung to Sean's lips died before it could emerge.

That sounded so dire. So final. Despite the doctor's warning, despite his need to get on with his own life, Sean must have been harboring some small hope that Lincolnshire might recover after all, because his heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"For what?" The older man coughed. "Sit…both of you."

Sean and his sister exchanged a glance. Playacting, or perhaps sensing Sean's distress, Deirdre took his hand as they slowly lowered themselves in unison.

The earl swiped the back of a swollen hand across his face, clearing his mouth of a bit of froth he'd coughed up. When his hand dropped, his lips were curved in a half smile of his own. "I'm pleased to see the two of you holding hands. I cannot imagine why rumors of infidelity persist, when I've seen for myself you've a wonderful marriage. Devoted, close…understanding."

Sean's guilt spiked to record levels. He'd have dropped Deirdre's hand like a hot coal, except she sensed that and gripped his tightly.

"Give her a kiss," Lincolnshire coaxed.

There was nothing for it. Suppressing a sigh, Sean turned to his sister and gave her a wee peck on the cheek.

Lincolnshire nodded, still smiling. "Discreet in public, as usual. But I'd wager that behind closed doors—"

"Uncle," Sean cut in. He couldn't take hearing more about his wonderful marriage to Deirdre. Not without losing his breakfast. "Was there something else you wished to tell me?"

"Indeed. I wanted you to know that I'm pleased—or shall I say overjoyed—at the success you've had finding new positions for all of my staff."

"It was nothing," Sean muttered.

"It was everything," Lincolnshire disagreed. "My heart sings to know all my holdings will be going to such a worthy man. My nephew—my blood." Tears sprang to the older man's eyes: not tears of pain, but tears of regret for devotion discovered much too late. "I'm so sorry I never came to know you before this. That your undeserved reputation and my unresolved feelings about my brother kept me from seeking you out earlier—"

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Sean interrupted, having had enough of this guilt-inducing affection. "My life has also been enriched by our time together. But your brother…this is the first you've mentioned these 'unresolved feelings' concerning him."

Lincolnshire shrugged. "I loved him, of course. He was my twin—"

"Your twin?" This was the first Sean had heard that.

"Surely you've noticed your father and I look identical?"

"I hadn't…thought about it." Now he was the one pausing between words. "My, uh…father…died years ago. He never mentioned you were twins. What happened between you? What made you banish your brother to the wilds of Ireland?"

"Banish him?" Lincolnshire snorted. "He should have been down on his knees kissing my feet. I saved the ungrateful bastard." He cocked his head, measuring Sean for a long, silent moment. "He never told you what happened?"

"Never." And if Sean could judge by Hamilton's attitude, Lincolnshire's brother hadn't given his real son the facts, either. "What happened?"

"You honestly don't know?"

Sean shook his head.

"When we were young men," Lincolnshire said, settling back against his pillows, "our father died, leaving me the earl. Your father was less than happy I inherited everything and he nothing. He was furious, as a matter of fact. A mere five minutes' difference in our births made me the heir and him the second son."

"It's understandable he might feel that way," Deirdre said, no doubt remembering her father-in-law's underlying anger.

"I agree. But that's the way our world works. I assured him I'd take care of him, support him and his new child and his young wife—a wife he'd been forced to wed after getting her in the family way, I might add."

"Like father, like son," Sean whispered beneath his breath.

"Why do you say that?" the earl asked, proving his hearing wasn't affected by the dropsy. "My father's marriage was a love match. No one forced him to wed our mother."

"No, of course not," Sean assured him, thinking back. Hamilton's parents' marriage hadn't been a happy one. He'd always figured that was a result of their displeasure at being stuck in Ireland, but maybe it had been more than that. "Just a slip of the tongue, a commonplace expression. Pray, go on."

"Well, promising to support my brother and his family wasn't enough. He wanted more than just a generous allowance. Shortly after I inherited, I went off to Ireland, to Kilburton, to see my steward, meet my villagers and tenants. I returned to a scandal of unimaginable proportions."

"What?" Deirdre breathed.

"In my absence, William had decided to take some of what he considered his due. He'd pretended to be me, and we looked so much alike that people had believed him. He'd lived in this house, worn my clothes, gone to my club. He'd attended dinners and card parties and breakfasts and balls and soirees. He'd even paid my respects to King George at court, and while doing all of this, he'd run up debts that amounted to thousands. The biggest gaming debt in all of London, in my name. He couldn't pay it, of course. And a man's vowels, a debt of honor, is expected to be paid before any other."

"They must have been livid," Deirdre said. "All those men to whom he owed money."

"Oh, they were livid, all right. All the gentlemen and the ladies, too. But not because of the debt. I paid that immediately upon my return."

"Why then?" Sean asked. "Why should they remain livid after having been paid?"

"Because he'd tricked them," the earl said. "Made fools of them, one and all. He'd made them believe he was me, and for that they would never forgive him. Society has a long memory, and they hold a grudge even longer." Lincolnshire's sigh was one of heartache, of sorrow and deepest regret. "Only the gravest misdeeds will warrant the cut direct, but my brother had crossed that line."

"He had to leave," Deirdre concluded. "He couldn't live any longer in London."

"Indeed, he couldn't. Many wanted him banished to the countryside, to live in poverty and anonymity, or even better, they'd have preferred to have seen him shipped off to America. He hadn't the option of entering the clergy, and I couldn't buy him a commission in the military—the peerage is too well connected to both for him to have held posts in either. So I did what I could. I sent him to Ireland, where no one knew him. Where he could hold up his head and play the lord in Kilburton. Live in the drafty old castle—"

"He built an enormous new manor house."

"I know that, my dear." Lincolnshire smiled sadly at Deirdre. "He wanted a fancy new house, and I wanted him to be happy. Or at least as happy as possible. He was my brother, you see, my twin. If I never fully forgave him, it wasn't because of what he did, but because I lost him as a result."

"He never forgave you, either," Deirdre said.

"I know that, too. But I also know I did my best." He looked to Sean, who hadn't said anything for quite a while. "I hope you don't blame me for your father's disgrace. Under the circumstances—"

"No," Sean said in a dead tone. It was the only tone he could manage, because he felt dead inside. "I don't blame you."

"You understand, then?" Lincolnshire pressed.

Sean nodded. He understood perfectly.

He understood that the aristocracy wouldn't countenance being duped. He understood they held grudges forever. He understood that, having impersonated Hamilton, Lincolnshire's nephew and heir, he'd earned the cut direct from society himself.

Once the people of Mayfair learned the truth, none of them would speak to him ever again. They'd look right through him as though he weren't there. And should he marry Corinna, she and all of her family would be rejected along with him.

How had he not realized this? How had he convinced himself that he, an Irish vicar's son, could ever dream of wedding the daughter of an English marquess? The two of them had been doomed from the first. If not by his background, then by Hamilton's games. Damn the rotter.

Damn him to hell and beyond.

The fact that Sean would never have met Corinna if not for Hamilton was entirely inconsequential. He'd been happy before he met her, or if not happy, at least content.

Now he'd never be either again.

And how was he going to explain all of this to her? Although they'd never discussed marriage, he wasn't a knothead. He knew she was thinking in that direction. Sweet Jesus, she'd offered herself to him. And she had but three days to fix Lincolnshire's portrait before she had to submit it.

After Sean posed for her this afternoon, she'd have only two days left to paint. The truth would devastate her, break her concentration, destroy any chance she had of achieving her lifelong dream. How could he tell her now?

He couldn't.

He couldn't tell her for three long days, until after the painting was finished. He was going to have to lie again, for her sake. He hated lying. And lying to the woman he loved seemed the worst lie ever.

It felt like a knife had sliced his heart, and his gut felt heavy. Like an anvil was lodged in it.

"Nephew… Sean." The earl was tiring. And clearly struggling to make amends. His eyes were pleading. "I wish I'd…known you all these years. I'm so…sorry—"

"Please, Uncle," Sean ordered himself to respond. "It's all water under the bridge, isn't it? We've come to know each other now, haven't we? And nothing makes me happier than seeing how very gratified we both are at the outcome."

"Gratified? I am…euphoric. You came running when I asked…you've cared for me like a son. You've found positions…for my servants…seen all my concerns…are alleviated."

Lincolnshire wheezed, then coughed, then placed a hand on his chest. His lids fluttered, then slowly shut. Before he drifted off to sleep, he uttered one last sentence in a ragged whisper.

"You're the best man…I've ever met."

But Sean felt like the worst man who'd ever lived.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ICED CAKES

Mix sugar together with butter and rose-water. Mix this together with six eggs leaving out two whites and beat for a quarter of an hour. Put in your flour and mix them together well. Put them in your patty pans in an oven as hot as for manchet. Then make your icing. Put fine sugar in a mortar with rose-water and the white of an egg. When the cakes are cold put them on a tin then dip a feather in the icing and cover them well. Set the cakes back in the oven to harden.

These are sweet as a newborn baby. Eat them for the baby's health.
—Belinda, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1799

"Oh, Aunt Frances, she's beautiful." Balancing her own son on her hip, Alexandra leaned close to run a finger down Frances's daughter's tiny, downy cheek. "Is she a good baby?"

"When she isn't crying." Frances cuddled Belinda closer. Reclining on a chaise longue that had been moved to her drawing room, she looked around at all the seated ladies who were visiting her and smiled a weary smile. "Which seems to be most of the time."

"For her first three months, my youngest daughter cried all the time too," Lady A said. "She nearly drove me to Bedlam. Luckily she soon outgrew that and turned into a lovely child."

"I'm certain Belinda will outgrow it, too," Claire said.

Elizabeth nodded. "And besides, you do have the monthly nurse."

Rachael took an iced cake from the plate Juliana offered. "I expect the nurse sees to the baby's needs?"

"True," Frances said wryly. "The monthly nurse currently sees to her needs, and she's instructing the permanent day nurse and the night nurse. I'm only surprised Theodore hasn't hired a governess to start teaching Belinda her letters and numbers already. Nothing is too much for his daughter."

"As it should be," Lady A said approvingly. "It was the same with mine."

"But three nurses? When I'd as soon care for Belinda myself?"

"Alexandra feels the same way." Juliana set down the platter. "I expect I may be that way, too. May I hold her?"

"Of course." Frances held out the baby. "Support her head."

"I know," Juliana said, taking Belinda like an expert. "I learned that with little Harry."

Watching her sister, Alexandra smiled and cuddled her son. "Does she make you want one of your own?"

"I'm going to have one of my own," Juliana said quietly. "In the winter."

A hush fell over the room while all of the ladies absorbed that information. Someone let loose an excited squeal. Then it seemed everyone was talking at once, exclaiming and congratulating and jumping from their seats to rush over and give Juliana hugs.

Except for Corinna, who seemed riveted in place.

While she was happy for her sister, suddenly she wanted a baby of her own more than she'd thought possible.

Regardless of her protests the day Belinda was born, she'd never considered that she might not ever have a child. She'd always figured she'd marry eventually, after she made her mark on the art world. Though she'd never shared her brother's urgency, because her painting came first, now she was thinking there might have been another reason, too. It had been difficult to feel urgent when she'd never had any mental picture of the man who would father her children.

But now she did.

The man in the mental picture had dark hair and fathomless, deep green eyes. Square, masculine hands. A firm, defined chest. Rippling muscles, a disarming grin, a charming Irish accent.

And Sean Delaney's face.

She wanted Sean's baby. He was so honorable. He would make such a wonderful father.

Of course, she'd have to marry him first, but she'd already been thinking about that, hadn't she? And she couldn't imagine having a child with anyone else. No one else had ever made her feel like Sean did, and she was certain no one else ever would.

Marriage to him would be unbelievably exciting. He was going to pose for her again this afternoon, and now, as she imagined him disrobing, a shimmering heat seemed to shudder through her—

"Are you all right?" Juliana asked, interrupting her reverie. She stood in front of Corinna, looking concerned. Sometime in all the commotion, she must have handed the baby back to Frances. "You don't look very excited."

Odd, considering she'd certainly felt excited at the thought of seeing Sean later. But Corinna wasn't about to confide that to her sister. And in the back of her mind, she felt disturbed somehow, as though something bad might happen.

"Of course I'm excited. And I'm thrilled for you and James and, oh, all of us." Corinna forced a smile, deciding she must be more worried about fixing Lord Lincolnshire's portrait than she'd thought. She rose and gave her sister a heartfelt hug, then sat again. "I'm just being selfish as usual. Thinking about my upcoming submissions. I need to bring my paintings to Somerset House on Monday."

"Who is going with you?" Lady A asked.

Corinna hadn't thought that far ahead, but of course she couldn't go alone. It wouldn't be proper. Being female proved terribly inconvenient at times. "I suppose I'll ask Griffin."

"I'd be honored to accompany you, my dear." Lady A's smile looked wistful. "It would be my pleasure. I'm supposed to assist my nephew at the Institute until four o'clock on Monday, but I can tell him I need to leave at noon." The New Hope Institute was James's facility, where he provided smallpox vaccinations for the poor. Lady B was his assistant today—she and Lady A took turns. "Will that be early enough?"

"That will be fine." Considering all the kind woman had done for her, Corinna wouldn't think of denying her this pleasure. "I'll come for you in my brother's carriage at one o'clock. The submission deadline isn't until five."

"Oh, then two o'clock would be better, if you wouldn't mind. That way I'll have time for luncheon first. And there's nothing to worry about." Lady A leaned to give Corinna's hand a pat. "The committee members said lovely things about your paintings. My daughter would have been overjoyed to have such important men give her such recognition," she added with a sigh.

Corinna didn't know whether Lady A's sigh indicated happiness for her prospects or sadness for her own daughter's failed dream. But regardless, she sighed along with her. "Most of them did say nice things, but they also said my portrait wasn't quite right. I need to fix it before Monday."

"You're not going to skip the Teddington ball tomorrow night, are you?" Juliana asked. "Or Lady Hartley's breakfast on Sunday? It's the event of the season."

"I probably should skip both." Which meant her brother would be hovering over her all weekend, badgering her to leave the house and meet more men. "I wish I could find somewhere peaceful to paint."

"Chelsea Physic Garden is very peaceful." Juliana rubbed her belly, even though it was still flat as a canvas. "Only physicians and apothecaries can generally gain entrance, but James could obtain a ticket for you."

"I was just in Chelsea yesterday," Rachael commented rather absently. "At the Royal Hospital."

Corinna still felt disturbed. Maybe it would be better to change the subject. "Why is that?" she asked.

When Rachael looked flustered and hesitated, her younger sister Claire answered for her. "It was a charitable visit. Rachael brought books for the pensioners."

"That was very kind," Lady C said.

A footman came in and set a tray of tea things on a table by the door.

"Would anyone like tea?" Since Aunt Frances wasn't up to acting as hostess, Lady A rose and headed toward the teapot. "My younger daughter's father-in-law is a Chelsea Pensioner. But I haven't seen him in years."

While Lady A was across the room, Rachael nudged Corinna. "Lady A seems to take any excuse to mention her younger daughter," she whispered. "I think the poor woman really misses her."

"Brilliant observation," Corinna whispered dryly.

"James told me Lady A's younger daughter took her own life," Juliana said quietly. "Lady A doesn't have any grandchildren. Her oldest daughter eloped against her father's wishes, and he banished her from their lives. Her middle child, a son, drank too much and accidentally drowned. And her younger daughter was in the family way when she jumped off the London Bridge, taking Lady A's last chance at having a grandchild with her."

"Oh, poor, poor woman!" Rachael sighed. "I really like Lady A. She reminds me of my mother. I think it's the gardenia scent she wears. Mama always loved gardenia perfume." Though she smiled, the expression looked sad. "I think I'll go help her pour tea."

As their cousin went off, Corinna nudged Juliana. "I think Lady A smells as much of camphor as gardenias."

"I agree." They shared a smile. "But as Rachael has been suffering from dampened spirits of late," Juliana added, "I don't think we should say anything to ruin her comforting illusion."

Corinna wished she had a comforting illusion. All the way through the rest of the visit, and all the way home, she continued feeling disturbed. As she went up to her bedroom to ready herself before meeting Sean, she told herself things weren't that bad.

Sean was still willing to kiss her. She still had time to fix Lord Lincolnshire's picture. And her life certainly wasn't as tragic as Lady A's. She'd lost her parents and a brother, yes, but only to illness, which was sad but not completely unexpected. She hadn't lost anyone to drink, or to suicide, or because they'd eloped without permission and been banished from the family.

She plopped onto her bed, suddenly realizing why she felt disturbed.

She wanted Sean's baby more than anything. She wanted to marry him. But what if she had to elope with him in order to accomplish that?

She hoped Griffin would agree to their marriage, but what if he didn't? Sean wasn't anything like the men her brother pushed on her, and not only because he was Irish. He could certainly support her—after what she'd learned yesterday, she suspected he could support half of London. But he wasn't aristocratic. Griffin's saying he admired Sean and wanted his advice didn't mean he'd endorse their marriage.

She was willing to defy her brother's wishes to marry Sean, should it come to that. She was willing to run off to Gretna Green to elope. Her family wasn't the type to banish her. And she was an artist, after all, wasn't she? Freethinking, a rebel, unconventional.

But none of that mattered…because Sean was conventional.

He wouldn't elope with her against her brother's wishes. She was certain of that. He was too honorable.

Now that she'd figured out why she felt disturbed, the disturbance grew. The iced cakes she'd eaten felt like they were congealing in her stomach. The tea she'd sipped was threatening to come back up.

How could she persuade Griffin to allow them to marry if he disapproved? She didn't know. All she knew was that unless she came up with a plan, her future with Sean was very uncertain. And should Griffin discover she was meeting Sean, this might be the last time they were alone together, ever.

She'd best make the most of it.

She'd work on a plan, she decided as she rose to change and gather her things. In the interim, she wanted more of Sean's kisses. And she couldn't afford to be nervous about sketching him this time. If she were to have a prayer of fixing Lord Lincolnshire's portrait, she needed to study Sean. All of him.

Her stomach churning with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation and who knew what else, she felt more disturbed than ever. Thinking she needed what she'd sometimes heard referred to as "Dutch courage," she grabbed a bottle of her brother's first vintage on her way out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

They met in the afternoon this time, so Sean didn't bother lighting any candles. "I'm thinking we don't need them with all of this light," he told Corinna. "Hamilton chose this place because of the north-facing windows."

"I'll be able to see you fine without candles," she said softly. "All of you, I'm hoping."

Sweet Jesus, he was in trouble.

How on God's green earth was he going to take off all his clothes without the two of them ending up tangled together on the sofa? It had been a close thing yesterday. Never had he come so near to going against everything he believed. And he'd removed only his shirt last time.

Now she wanted to see all of him.

"I'm thinking you won't see all of me at once, though," he said, noticing she'd brought two glasses and a bottle of wine with her. He would have to make sure he didn't drink much. "I'm remembering you said you wanted to sketch part of me at a time."

"I really need to see all of you if I'm to fix Lord Lincolnshire's portrait." Turning away, Corinna made herself busy pouring the wine. "Male artists sketch live models day in and day out. I have only these two sittings to get it right." With an apologetic smile, she turned back and held out a glass filled to the brim. "I brought some of my brother's wine to help us both relax."

Sean accepted the wine reluctantly, telling himself he needed to keep a clear head. He took a tiny sip, just to be polite.

She drank nearly half of her own large glass down. "Don't you like the wine?"

"I like it fine. But I don't drink very much, so I've never built up a tolerance."

"Now I'm remembering you drank only a little that night you were summoned to our family dinner. Just a couple of sips."

"I watched my maternal grandfather drink himself into the grave. An effective advertisement for moderation."

She touched his hand, a brief contact that left him wanting more. "I'm sorry."

He'd felt the warmth of her skin, and now he smelled her sweet floral fragrance and the slight hint of paint underneath it. He'd come to love that hint of paint, because it was uniquely Corinna and he loved her. To keep himself from reaching for her, he abruptly sat and sipped again. "He was a happy drunk, but he never made anything of himself."

"You've made a lot of yourself," she said, moving to sit across from him. After draining the rest of her glass and setting it on the floor, she reached for her sketchbook. "You're the best man I know."

She was the second person to tell him that today, which served to remind him of the first and what he'd learned before Lincolnshire had said that. The reminder cut him to the core.

He took a full swallow of wine.

Her blue, blue eyes locked on his, she opened the sketchbook. "You can disrobe now. I'm ready."

He wasn't ready—he didn't think he'd ever be ready—but there was nothing for it. He'd offered to pose for her, and he wanted her painting to be a success. He took another swallow of wine and put his glass down carefully, then stood and tugged off his shoes and stockings, his cravat, his coat, his waistcoat. Feeling her gaze on him, he swiftly removed his braces, then unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off over his head.

Like last night, his hands moved to the buttons on his trousers. But this time she didn't stop him.

He stopped himself instead.

Taking a gulp of air, he reached for his glass and swallowed more wine.

"Sean?" she whispered, then bit her lip. She looked as tense as he felt. And as aroused. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide and yearning.

The sight devastated him.

Her sketchbook lay open on her lap, ignored. He felt sweat break out on his brow, a sheen slick his bare chest. Her gaze was fastened on the front of the trousers he'd yet to open, on the obvious bulge straining against them. He knew it was only a matter of time before that sketchbook was on the floor and they were in each other's arms. A short time.

Maybe he should just tell her the facts, tell her they had no future together, cut this off before it got out of hand.

No, he couldn't tell her, not until she'd finished the portrait. The knowledge wouldn't just cut this off; it would devastate her. He was devastated already, so he knew exactly how she would feel. Completely, utterly devastated.

And she wouldn't be able to paint.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Corinna couldn't sketch. She could only stare. She felt a heat beginning to build in her, and she wanted nothing more than to leap across the space between them. And Sean wanted her too, didn't he? More than he wanted to breathe, he'd said last night, and hadn't hearing that melted her to the consistency of fresh paint?

Just like she felt melted now.

The big glass of wine had gone to her head, and she licked her lips, feeling a bit woozy. The sketchbook slid to the floor as she leaned over to pull off her slippers.

"What are you doing?" Sean murmured.

She didn't quite know what she was doing, so she didn't answer. Instead she reached beneath her skirts and untied one garter and then the other, dropping the lace-trimmed ribbons atop her discarded shoes.

She could scarcely believe she was acting so wanton. It had to be the Dutch courage, because she'd never been the beguiling sister. That was Juliana's role. But suddenly she remembered Juliana demonstrating something she called the look, a practiced flirtation so contrived Corinna had never been able to imagine herself doing it. Now she glanced down and then swept her gaze up, looking at Sean full on as she curved her lips very slowly in a deliberately seductive smile.

His pupils dilated, and she saw his breathing quicken.

Seduction was so much easier than she'd ever thought it would be.

Maybe it was the wine, but she thought it was also Sean. He was so seductive himself that any woman would feel seductive around him. Every word he said in that lyrical Irish voice seeped right into her, dissolving her bones. She hadn't even touched him yet, nor had he touched her, but her blood was already sluicing through her in a seductive rhythm.

Soft afternoon light slanted through the north-facing windows, illuminating his sculpted face, glinting off the slight dark stubble that had grown since he'd shaved this morning. Her fingers itched to stroke that roughness, that glorious maleness, just as her body yearned to press against him, to mold her curves to his muscled form.

She drew the hem of her dress up to rest on her knees and began rolling down a stocking, watching Sean's face. What she saw there made the heat build more. He was watching her with the most impassioned look, like in Children of the Abbey, a look more intoxicating than any wine. She pulled the stocking off of her foot and dropped it to the floor and started on the other.

Transfixed, Sean stood riveted in place, staring at the pile of satin and lace and silk that was building up. He knew he should stop her, but he couldn't seem to make himself move. She drew the second stocking off her foot, baring her toes. Small toes they were, pale and tender-looking. Imagining sucking on them, he thought he might die. He looked up to her bare, curvy calves and died a little more. He raised his gaze to her naked knees, and saw the hem of her dress rucked up there, and imagined her wearing a gauzy bit of a shift under it. Or a chemise, as the highborn called it. A gauzy, enticing chemise.

He tried to take another swallow of wine, but his glass was empty.

What was he doing? He couldn't tell her he couldn't marry her, so he had to keep his wits about him. He had to fight this. He shouldn't be imagining what was under her dress; he shouldn't be imagining anything. Feeling light-headed, he carefully set down the glass. He wouldn't allow her to refill it.

"Sean," she said in a tone so husky it made his breath catch. She rose and walked close, so close he felt heat shimmering between them. Lifting a hand to his cheek, she turned his head to face her.

All over again, her blue eyes devastated him.

"Are you all right, Sean?"

He wasn't all right, no. He was growing so hard he was in pain. He was dying.

"Sean," she breathed, moving her fingers on his face so gently he wondered that he could feel it. But he did feel it, so strongly the feeling seemed to permeate his body. She shifted and leaned closer, arching herself toward him. "Oh, God, Sean, I want you to kiss me."

Oh, God, Sean thought. He could see down her dress.

Sacred heart of Jesus.

There was a gauzy chemise under it, just as he'd imagined. Beneath that, her breasts looked high and round and firm, making him want to touch them. Hell, he didn't just want to touch them—he wanted to rip off her dress and fasten his mouth on them. She leaned closer, and he could see their rosy tips strain against the chemise like he was straining against his trousers. Her scent swamped him, and she raised her other hand to cradle his face, and then…

He kissed her. It was a defensive move, because he couldn't stare down her dress a moment longer without exploding. But he was lost the moment his lips touched hers.

Lost in the kiss, lost in her, lost in his own longing. She consumed him.

He was devastated.

Somehow they made it down to the sofa, and she was pushing him back and crawling over him. She was running her hands over his chest and around to his back. Her fingers left fire in their wake, a hot trail of burning sweetness that seemed to devastate him yet more.

"Touch me, Sean," she murmured. "Touch me like I'm touching you."

She devastated him. He was going to die if he didn't touch her. So, God help him, he touched her.

His hands went everywhere, everywhere they shouldn't, everywhere he wanted. Under her bodice to tease a nipple, to cup a breast when she moaned and asked for more. He was going to die if he didn't taste her, so his mouth followed. He nibbled on her neck, her shoulders. He unbuttoned her dress in back and dragged it down and suckled her, feasted on her.

Corinna wanted more. She'd never imagined she could feel like this. What she'd felt last night when she'd thought she wanted him was nothing compared to this. Nothing. The little ache that she'd felt then was nothing compared to how she ached now. Sean's mouth on her breast felt hot and made her ache everywhere, but especially between her legs, where the ache was exquisite, almost painful, just unbearable. She wanted more.

"Sean," she whispered, "I want you to take me."

"I want to take you," he echoed in a tone so ragged it tore at her heart. "I want all of you." He reversed their positions, climbing over her. He slipped a hand under her skirt and skimmed it up her calves to her thighs. Still he suckled her breasts, one and then the other, a sensation so astounding she was grateful she'd found the courage to act wanton. His fingers felt wonderfully warm on her legs, stroking, inspiring her to touch him more. She ran her hands over his skin, feeling his muscles underneath, and sinewy tendons, crisp hair where he had it and the smooth, soft places where he didn't.

His breathing became as rough as hers, making her heart thunder just to hear it. He moved his hand higher, brushing her curls, cupping her where no one had touched her before. He nibbled up her neck and took her mouth with his again, thrusting his tongue inside while his fingers slowly parted her below and began to stroke. He caught her gasp in his mouth and continued moving his hand, slowly, patiently, stroking her while excitement built until she couldn't keep still, until she couldn't stop a little sound of frustration that came from her throat.

And then he slipped a finger inside her.

"Oh, God, Sean," she breathed. "Oh, yes."

"Sweet, so sweet," he murmured into her mouth. He buried his face in her neck, moving his finger in and out of her. "So hot, so wet, so tight," he whispered against her skin. He did something with his thumb, touched a spot so sensitive her hips bucked off the sofa, and when he lingered there, circling, circling, she felt she might tumble off a ledge.

And then she did. She tumbled and tumbled, over and over, gasping and crying out his name. Sensation rocked her, sprinting along all her nerves, spreading everywhere.

"Sweet, so sweet," he choked out.

She felt dizzy; she felt lethargic. She felt drained, but she wanted more.

She wanted him.

"I want more," she whispered. "I want you."

He lifted his head then, kissed her, and lifted his head again. "Open your eyes, críona." She did, and he met her gaze, his own hazy with desire. He kissed her again and again, little nipping kisses and slow, deep ones. "This is wrong," he whispered, "but it feels so right."

"It is right. Oh, Sean, I still want you."

His gaze held hers for so long, so steadily, she felt she might be lost in it forever. Then he nodded and began tugging up on her dress, gathering it around her waist.

This is it, she thought. Finally he's going to join his body with mine and make me his. Her heart soared with the rightness of it, her pulse pounded, and every inch of her strained to feel him. She reached to help unbutton his trousers, but he moved down instead. He nibbled his way across her jaw and down her throat and past her breasts, nipping and licking her abdomen and her belly and lower, kissing her thighs, little feathery kisses that coaxed her to open them, baring her to his gaze.

And then he was there between her legs, his breath washing over her, hot and heavy. He kissed her there, then touched her lightly with his tongue.

What was he doing? She'd never imagined such a thing. But the pleasure was even more unimaginable. She'd thought she was finished, drained past sensation; she'd wanted only to feel him inside her. But suddenly every fiber of her being was sparking alive again, driving her up once more, crowding every lucid thought from her head. She couldn't think; she could only feel: the incredible heat of his mouth; his tongue, licking slick and unbelievably exciting; the tension building; her body straining toward a peak of passion she feared might tear her apart.

And it did. She splintered into a million shards of sensation, waves rushing, shimmering, making her soar.

Sean felt her tremble, felt her shudder, heard her gasp and cry out his name, and thought it the sweetest moment he'd ever known. He held his mouth to her, savoring the taste of her, a honeyed flavor he would never taste again.

He loved her, and he'd wanted to give her this. He knew there could be only this once, and he'd wanted to give her what he could before it was too late.

He crawled up her body and laid his head against her soft breasts, listening to her heart thunder like his. He wanted her, wanted her more than he'd ever thought possible. She whispered, "Take me, Sean; I still want you," in a tone so desperate, so filled with yearning it made him want to weep with despair. Oh, how he wanted to take her; he wanted to bury himself inside her and stay there forever.

But he couldn't. Somewhere in the madness, somewhere in the midst of giving her what he could, he'd discovered he still had a shred of clarity.

The wispiest shred, the barest fog, but just enough.

He wasn't going to take her. Not forever, not for a moment, not at all. He couldn't do that; he couldn't ruin her. Lust and drink had brought him closer to that than he'd intended, so close a hot rush of shame and regret overwhelmed him, but it wouldn't take him any farther.

"Take me now," Corinna whispered desperately, pressing herself up against him.

She felt divine, but he couldn't take her now. Not even if he'd wanted to. The shame and regret had stolen his desire.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Cuisle mo chroí, I'm so sorry."

"I feel like I've been waiting forever."

"I'm sorry." She was going to be waiting forever. He was never going to take her. He wasn't going to be able to do that, ever, because they had no future together.

But he couldn't tell her, not now, not until her painting was finished.

More shame and regret overwhelmed him, tightening his throat, making it difficult to breathe as he watched her eyes slowly clear, watched her come to her senses.

"Oh, God," she whispered. "Oh, Sean. I cannot believe what happened. It was more wonderful than I can possibly describe. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, but it was heaven."

"It was, yes," he said, meaning it. He'd been in a terrible state physically, but feeling her tremble in his arms had been the sweetest moment he'd ever known. He would never feel such sweetness again, but to feel it even once was a gift beyond measure.

"Next time—"

"Hush," he interrupted, and kissed her, a short kiss, because his throat was so tight he feared he couldn't breathe. There wouldn't be a next time, but he couldn't tell her that until her painting was finished.

He feared he might never be able to breathe again.

And he still had to help her fix the painting. She hadn't sketched yet, and she needed to sketch. He couldn't marry her, he would never have her, but he could still do what he'd come here to do. Three days from now, when he gave her the facts, when he devastated her, at least she would have her art. She'd have fixed her painting, and when it was accepted for the Summer Exhibition, she would still have her dreams, and they would help console her.

That thought in mind, he rose from the sofa and pulled her up, too. Ignoring her startled face, he tugged her bodice back up. Fortunately, the rest of her dress fell into place all by itself.

"Go sit in the chair, Corinna."

"What?"

"It's time to sketch now." He started unbuttoning the left side of the falls on his trousers.

"You've got to be jesting. I couldn't possibly sit and sketch now."

"We came here so you can sketch," he said, unbuttoning the right side. "Go sit down."

She did, watching him shuck off his trousers. Her eyes widened. Thank God he'd lost his desire, he thought, sweeping a used sketchbook off the table.

"Sketch, Corinna." He sat, holding the book as the earl had in her picture, arranging himself in a similar pose. "I want you to sketch."

Her gaze wandered over him. Wandered everywhere. A melting softness came into her eyes.

She devastated him.

But he hadn't the luxury of being devastated, not anymore. "Start sketching."

"I cannot possibly concentrate after what just happened. We'll have to do this again tomorrow."

"We're not doing this again, Corinna. I'm not leaving here until you've sketched enough anatomy to fix Lincolnshire's portrait. And I'm not touching you again; that I promise. I'm not kissing you or touching you…so sketch."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Corinna had never painted so fast in her life.

As she swept her brush along the canvas, she remembered all the hours she'd spent sketching earlier tonight. Intense hours. She hadn't thought she'd be able to concentrate, but she'd found herself focusing, fascinated, simply sinking into the experience. After sketching a full hour and realizing that wasn't nearly enough, she'd sent home a note with a contrived excuse, and Sean had lit candles, and she'd kept sketching.

Still caught in the lush aftermath of Sean's lovemaking, she'd captured him, all of him, head to bare toe. Captured his essence, she was sure of it. Her painting instructors had spoken of this, but studying a real, live man had made the difference. Finally, after months and years of trying, it had all clicked into place. She'd come home with page after page of sketches that would help her fix Lincolnshire's body beneath his clothes.

She wouldn't see Sean again until the portrait was finished. He'd made it clear, very clear, that he expected her to spend the entire weekend painting. Knowing she needed that time, she hadn't argued. Much as she would miss seeing him, she had but two days left to paint.

Three hours ago, in the darkness, Sean had walked her to her doorstep, graced her with a single, heart-stopping kiss, and sent her inside to fix the portrait. Instead, without conscious thought, she'd grabbed a blank canvas. In the quiet house, while Griffin and his staff slumbered upstairs, she'd surrounded it with lanterns.

And started another portrait, more vivid than any she'd ever imagined.

Now, in the middle of the night, the picture was simply pouring out of her, the brush an extension of her body, its movements seemingly undirected. Hour by hour, stroke by stroke, the portrait was taking form, coming to life.

Unlike the vast majority of the portraits she'd ever seen, this portrait wasn't posed; it wasn't contrived; it wasn't meant to convey the importance of its subject. The gentleman's clothing wasn't carefully chosen to indicate his level of status or wealth. He wasn't meticulously groomed, nor did he hold objects imbued with significance. His gaze didn't issue a challenge. It didn't say: Look at me. I'm superior and distinguished.

Rather the man reclined half-clothed, sprawled with casual abandon on a sofa upholstered with sumptuous fabric. He held nothing, one strong arm relaxed along the back edge of the furniture, the other on a bent knee. His shirt had been removed and draped negligently on the sofa, revealing a splendid toned chest that gleamed in the candlelight. His feet were bare, his lower body concealed by only trousers tight as a hug. His gaze was focused off-canvas, lost in contemplation. It didn't say anything direct at all, allowing the viewer to draw his own conclusions.

It was Sean, of course. Sean in a richer version of the garret studio, Sean in Corinna's mind's eye. Warm, golden skin and firm, rippling muscles. Raven hair curling at the neck. Eyes of deepest emerald edging toward black, a shadowed hint of shaven stubble on cheeks and chin. All she'd touched, all she'd experienced, all her emotions, all she still yearned for…

Exposed for all to see.

As she created, snatches of lines from novels tumbled through her mind.

…a passion which virtue cannot sanction or reason justify…

…the soul-soothing certainty of being beloved by him…

…life, without him, would lose far more than half of its charms…

She painted without thinking, only feeling. Flesh tones, candlelight and shade, crisp white linen, velvet-dark fabric. The sofa, ruby red and decadent. Richly paneled walls in the background, an exotic carpet underfoot.

Her brush followed the ridge of a ropy thigh, the slope of a brawny shoulder. The angle of jaw, the curve of cheek, the line of flexed and bended knee. She was melting inside. Hot and melting and deliciously languid, melting right onto the canvas.

She wanted him. She wanted him again, wanted more of him next time. Twice he'd shown her heaven—she couldn't believe the things he'd done—but she wanted more.

She wanted all of him.

The wanting was a ball of heat gathering in her middle, a sweet, yearning ache growing down lower. He was going to be hers. The words remained unspoken between them, but she was going to marry him. She had a plan now, a solution, something to guarantee Griffin's cooperation.

This painting.

An hour ago, well into painting it, she'd suddenly realized that proof Sean had posed nude for her was all she needed to make sure Griffin would allow them to wed. In fact, if Griffin saw this portrait, he'd insist she and Sean wed.

He'd insisted Tristan marry Alexandra after they were caught together in a bed, even though they'd both sworn nothing had happened that night. The mere sight of this portrait would make Griffin suspect she and Sean had shared a bed, too.

She wished they'd shared a bed. She wanted Sean, and remembering how it had felt almost having him, remembering how he had made her feel with his hands and his mouth and his tongue, sent a stunning thrill rippling through her.

Her knees threatening to buckle, she stepped back and examined her work.

It was marvelous. The portrait looked breathtaking in the lanternlight. Though it was still quite unfinished, she had no doubt it would be her most inspired painting ever. Sensual and scandalous and altogether brilliant.

And all at once she knew: She wanted to submit it for the Summer Exhibition.

No.

Blinking, she took another step back.

She couldn't.

Should it be selected, it would be hung for all to see. Sean would be mortified when people saw him half-naked. And her heart was laid bare on the canvas—anyone looking at the portrait would be able to sense, unequivocally, that the artist was in love with her subject. It would be like announcing to the world that she and Sean were lovers.

But wait…

Maybe she could change Sean's hair color, his eyes. Then no one would recognize him. There might be whispered speculation about the artist's lover, but she could laugh it off, because no one would find a man who looked like him anywhere.

That was a plan.

And she was a rebel, wasn't she?

She was going to forget Lincolnshire's portrait. Forget her landscapes and still lifes. This would be the painting she submitted for the Summer Exhibition.

The one she wanted to be known for, the one that would launch her career.

Sean was in a beastly mood when he joined Deirdre for breakfast the next morning. A cup of coffee was waiting on the table, strong and black the way he liked it, and she pushed it toward him after he slammed into his chair.

"You look upset," she observed, sipping her own tea.

Upset didn't begin to describe the depths of his self-loathing. It didn't so much as scratch the surface. Allowing drink and lust to overcome him last night, he'd all but ruined the woman he loved. And keeping the truth from Corinna was tearing him up inside, like coarse gravel tumbling around in his gut.

He'd been fooling himself all along. There'd never been a chance he'd end up with Corinna. And Deirdre wasn't going to get her divorce, either. Hamilton was going to be furious when he learned Sean had appeared in public pretending to be the earl's heir; the moment Sean had agreed to that, he'd sealed his sister's fate. All that was left was seeing Lincolnshire through his last days—nothing else was going to work out.

But he wasn't going to tell Deirdre any of that.

"Lincolnshire's sliding downhill," he said, taking a gulp of the hot, bracing brew. "He's too weak to come down and join us."

"Someone to see you, Mr. Hamilton." A footman appeared in the doorway. "Your assistant, Mr. Sykes."

"Mr. Sykes? Send him in. At once. Please," he added as an afterthought.

"By all means," the man said, and left.

"Just what I need," Sean muttered.

Deirdre frowned. "What could he want?"

"I haven't a clue. But it's Saturday. Sykes doesn't work on Saturday. Which means whatever it is can't be good."

"You can't know that. It might not be bad."

"Maybe it isn't."

And maybe the sun would fail to rise tomorrow. Maybe it wouldn't rain for the whole of the summer. Maybe London's poor would stop drowning their sorrows in gin.

"Shut the door," he instructed when Sykes walked in, then waited until the man had. "I don't remember summoning you today to play my art assistant."

"I apologize for the interruption."

"I'm certain you've a fine reason. Do sit down."

After pulling out a chair, Sykes wasted no time coming to the point. "All of your concerns are being investigated. Inquiries are being made." He pushed up on his round spectacles. "Not only at your main offices, but at your factories, your shipyards, your—"

"I get the picture," Sean interrupted.

It was horrendous timing, but he wasn't altogether surprised.

It was those people who knew, probably someone he'd dealt with. Perhaps someone whose failed endeavor he'd acquired for pennies on the pound and turned into a high-producing concern. Or someone whose property he'd bought and improved and made profitable. Or someone whose employees he'd hired and paid better, or…

The possibilities were endless.

He liked to think he was a pleasant fellow, if perhaps a bit driven. He'd never forced anyone to do anything. He believed every man had the right to his own property and the right to make his own choices regarding it, so long as he respected others' rights in the process.

All of his business dealings were honest and straightforward, within the law, and—most important—within his own moral code. He took responsibility for himself, had no sense of entitlement, didn't ask anyone for anything. All he wanted was the opportunity to pursue his goals, the chance to realize his potential. There were few bywords he swore by, and they all reflected a similar theme: mutual consent, live and let live, the Golden Rule.

But this wasn't the first time someone had tried to ruin him, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

"I'll look into it." Downing the rest of his coffee, he pushed back from the table. "If Lincolnshire needs me," he told Deirdre, "send for me. You know where I'll be."

He was out the door, on his way to Delaney & Company's main offices, before the cup stopped rattling in its saucer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Berkeley Square, Saturday 17 May

My dear Cousin,

I have an idea I wish to discuss with you. As I'll be bringing Corinna to the Teddington ball tonight, I hope you will also be attending.

Fondly,

Cainewood

Arriving at the Teddington ball on Saturday night, Rachael waved to Lady A and looked around to locate Griffin. She found him in the refreshment room, talking to Juliana.

Or rather, complaining to Juliana.

"I cannot believe she refused to come tonight. How the devil am I supposed to find her a husband?"

"Corinna's submissions are due on Monday, Griffin. This is important to her."

"Well, she said she doesn't want to go to Lady Hartley's breakfast tomorrow, either, but I won't hear of it. It's the event of the season, and I've already lined up three men for her to meet."

Juliana looked as though she might argue with that, but then she noticed Rachael standing there. "Good evening, Rachael."

Griffin turned and looked at Rachael, too. Or rather, he skimmed her from her toes on up, his gaze lingering on her sky blue silk bodice before it reached her face. "What are you doing here?"

"You sent me a note," she said, confused. "You asked me to come." What kind of a fool would ask her to come and then ask her why she was here?

"Well, I didn't ask you to wear a dress like that."

"It's a ballgown. This is a ball." What else was she supposed to wear? "Your note sounded important." She glanced around, seeing entirely too many people. "Is it something we should talk about privately?"

"Let's go to Lord Teddington's library."

"All right." They'd gone to the library during the Teddingtons' ball last year, too—in fact, it was where she'd first asked Griffin if he might help her find her father—so she knew exactly where to head: down a long corridor past several other doors. Slipping inside, she walked over to a leather sofa and sat, irritated that she'd responded to his note. "What did you want to discuss with me?"

Leaving the door open, Griffin joined her on the sofa, sitting sideways to face her. "I thought of something," he said quietly. "Maybe your grandfather wasn't the last chance to learn what became of your father. If we can find your mother's family, perhaps they will know the truth."

The irritation rapidly dissipated, shifting to disbelief. She stared at him. "We cannot find her family."

"We have a name now. John Cartwright. If we can believe the old man's ramblings, he saved John Cartwright's life and Cartwright promised his daughter in return. I know your mother called herself Georgiana Woodby, but she must have been Georgiana Cartwright."

Having seen her grandfather, Rachael could no longer doubt that Griffin's reasoning made sense. "But even if she was Georgiana Cartwright, she had no family left. There's no family to find."

"Maybe that's not the case. If she gave a false name, she might have told other untruths. She might have had living family, after all."

"Maybe." Though the implications made her reel, she was willing to concede the possibility. "But how would you find them with just a name, and such a common one at that?" The man who'd raised her had also been called John, as were many other men of her acquaintance. John Hamilton, for instance. "There must be a hundred John Cartwrights." Maybe more.

"But how many of them are titled? At the time of her marriage, your mother was Lady Georgiana, which means her father was an earl at the very least. We can look him up in Debrett's Peerage. Even if he did die young, the succession will be listed in the pedigree. If you have any living relations, I can find them."

Of course he could. "I'm a bloody idiot." She rarely considered herself a fool, but it was so simple. "Why didn't I think of that?"

He shrugged. "I expect your mind was on other things. Your life has been rather traumatic lately. Besides," he added artlessly, "I'm here to think for you."

She preferred to think for herself, but she had to admit—if only to herself—that it was comforting to have Griffin's support. And surprising. Never in a million years had she thought she'd lean on Griffin.

A man dumb enough to ask her to a ball and then ask her why she'd come wearing a ballgown.

"I'm going to go home right now and consult Debrett's," she said. "Do you want to come with me?"

"There's no need to go anywhere," he said, rising from the sofa. "Why do you think I suggested we discuss this in Lord Teddington's library?"

She was a bloody idiot. Everyone had a copy of Debrett's. It didn't take long for Griffin to find the Teddingtons'. He drew it off a shelf and came back with it in his hands, a small but very fat volume bound in deep green leather.

"Here," he said, handing it to her as he reclaimed his seat by her side. "You look it up."

With shaking fingers she opened the cover and turned to the table of contents. All they had to go on was a last name.

"There," Griffin said. "'Surnames and the Superior Titles of the Peers and Peeresses of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.' That's the section you want."

"I know," she said dryly. "I've looked in Debrett's before." She turned to that section and flipped to the second page, where the Cs were listed. "Cartwright—Avonleigh."

There was a little e by the listing, indicating Cartwright was an earl. "Your mother's father was the Earl of Avonleigh," Griffin said.

"Maybe." She wouldn't believe it until she saw her mother's name in the Earl of Avonleigh's pedigree. She simply couldn't make herself believe it.

Although the earls were all listed in one section, they were in no particular order that she'd ever been able to discern, so she went back to the front, where all the titles were indexed.

"Avonleigh," Griffin said. "There it is. Page two thirty-three."

"I can read, Griffin." He may have done all the research up until now, but she could do this. She turned to page 233. "'Robert Cartwright, Earl of Avonleigh…'" She scanned down past the current earl's birth and marriage dates. "'… succeeded his uncle, John, the late earl, born 1739, married 1765 to Aurelia Egerton, daughter of William, Earl of Wilton, by whom he has issue Alice, born 1767, married 1785 to George Egerton, youngest son of John, Earl of Wilton, died 1799; Harold, born 1770, died 1791; Georgiana—'"

She broke off.

"There she is," Griffin said softly.

"Yes." There it was, in black and white, her mother's name.

"What does it say about her?" he prompted.

She swallowed hard and refocused on the tiny print. "'Georgiana, born 1774, married 1792 to Thomas Grimbald, died 1793.'"

"The year you were born," he said.

"Yes. She didn't die. She married my father—Lord Greystone—and had me." Something seemed to be tugging at her mind. Something significant. Confused again, she glanced up at Griffin.

His green gaze was unfocused, as though he were deep in thought. "Everyone believed she'd died, obviously. She was officially dead. Then she married Greystone and hid herself in the countryside."

"She pretended she had asthma and couldn't go to London because the air here was bad for her. She never liked to socialize."

"Are you sure?" Griffin asked. "I'm thinking she never came to London because someone here might have recognized her. Someone here would have realized she wasn't actually dead."

"Maybe," she said. "That does make sense. Maybe her family was here in London. John Cartwright, the Earl of Avonleigh, my grandfather. And his wife"—she glanced back to the pedigree to find the name—"Aurelia…"

When she trailed off, Griffin laid a gentle hand on her arm. "What?"

"Aurelia, Lady Avonleigh. I don't believe it." That was what had been tugging at her mind. "We know her, Griffin! She's Juliana's aunt by marriage, one of the ABC sisters. She hosted the art reception for Corinna. She smells of gardenias, like my mother. Lady Avonleigh is my grandmother!"

At ten o'clock, Sean arrived back at Lincolnshire House, exhausted. Deirdre met him at the door and hurried him into what he thought of as the Hamilton drawing room. "What did you learn?" she asked, closing the door.

He shut his eyes, not wanting to see all of Hamilton's damned pictures. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I spoke with dozens of my people around London and learned nothing concrete," he told her, opening his eyes. "Whoever is making inquiries is going about it very discreetly. Asking who owns each place and what sort of man I am—but nothing else. Nothing to help me figure out what he's actually looking for. Or so my people told me."

"They haven't any reason to lie to you, have they?"

"I wouldn't think so, but even good people manage to justify all sorts of misdeeds." Another lesson he'd learned over the years. "They could have been bribed, or…oh, I don't know. Nothing surprises me anymore." He wandered to an armchair and dropped onto it.

"What happens now?"

"I've asked for reports from the concerns farther out, but I won't be hearing anything back until tomorrow, at the earliest. More likely Monday and later in the week. I'd go interview them myself, but I cannot leave Lincolnshire."

"You cannot, no." Stepping behind him, she rubbed his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Sean."

The massage didn't help, but he didn't want to tell her that. It was a chilly night, and someone had laid a fire on the hearth. He stared at the dancing flames for a while, wondering how Corinna was doing with the painting. Wishing he could be with her, knowing he had to explain their impossible situation.

Wishing he didn't have to explain anything, that there were no impossible situation to explain.

"You didn't send for me," he said finally. "How is Lincolnshire? I suppose I should go up and talk to him."

"He's with Mr. Lawless. His solicitor."

"Again? This late at night?"

"The man's been here for hours. I cannot imagine what the two of them are doing in there."

"Getting Lincolnshire's affairs in order." Wishing he could get his affairs in order, Sean sighed and rose. "Thank you. That felt good." He turned and pressed a kiss to his sister's forehead. "I'm after going up to bed."

"Good night to you, Sean. I hope tomorrow will be a better day."

"I hope so, too," he said.

But hoping, he knew, never accomplished anything. He was a doer, not a hoper…but there seemed nothing he could do these days to make things right.

CHAPTER FORTY

"I saw her here earlier," Rachael said, wandering the Teddington ballroom for the second time.

Griffin walked with her, keeping his eyes off her damned clingy dress. Or at least trying to. "I saw her here as well, I think." He wasn't exactly sure which woman was the Dowager Countess of Avonleigh. He realized she was one of the ABC sisters, but Lady C, Juliana's mother-in-law, was the only one of them he knew at all well. He'd always thought of Lady A and Lady B sort of lumped together. One was plump and one was skinny, but he wasn't sure which was which. "Has she got some meat on her bones, or is she a stick?"

"Really, Griffin. She's a perfectly lovely, kind, healthy-looking woman."

The plump one, then. The other one looked like she hadn't eaten in a week, which couldn't possibly be healthy. "Let's check the refreshment room again. And then you can check the ladies' retiring room again."

"And we should check the garden again, too." Rachael turned toward the refreshment room, then turned back. "There's Lady C. I bet she'll know where her sister went. Lady Cavanaugh!" She waved, and Lady C started walking toward them.

They met her halfway. "You look lovely tonight, dear," Lady C told her. "That's a stunning ballgown, and it matches your eyes, which are sparkling like diamonds."

"Thank you," Rachael said, her eyes sparkling even more. "I'm looking for your sister, Lady Avonleigh. Do you know where she might have gone off to?"

"I'm afraid she went home, dear."

"Oh, no. Is she unwell?"

"Not at all. But my sisters are older and don't stay out as late as they used to, especially since they began helping my son run his New Hope Institute. I expect she's sound asleep by now." Lady C put a hand on Rachael's arm. "What did you want with her? Is it something I can help you with?"

"No. I…well, I just need to talk to her. Do you think she'd mind my paying a call on her tomorrow?"

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind at all," Lady C said, looking curious but obviously much too polite to press. She pulled her reticule off her wrist and opened it, fishing out a scrap of paper and a pencil. "She lives just off Oxford Street. I'll write down her direction for you."

"I know where she lives. I was at her house for my cousin Corinna's art reception."

"How could I have forgotten that?" With a charming laugh, Lady C dropped the items back into her fancy little purse. "I'm sure she'll be happy to see you again."

"Thank you so much," Rachael said, and waited patiently while Lady C walked off. Or at least, she looked patient. No sooner had the older woman got out of earshot than she whirled to Griffin. "Lady Cavanaugh is my aunt—can you believe it? She's such a nice lady. The wait is going to kill me. Can we visit Lady Avonleigh first thing tomorrow? You'll come with me, won't you?"

"I need to take Corinna to Lady Hartley's breakfast."

"That doesn't start until half past one. The best people won't get there until three o'clock. It isn't fashionable to arrive at parties on time."

He'd never understand why a garden party that started after one o'clock was called a breakfast. He ate breakfast every morning at eight. And why the devil was it fashionable to arrive late? But maybe Corinna would be more cooperative if he allowed her to paint until three. "Very well, then. We'll go see Lady Avonleigh right after church."

"How about before church?"

"You can't wake up an old lady to give her this news, Rachael. Or interrupt her toilette. And then no doubt she'll be in church, and then she'll want luncheon." Lady A was the one who liked to eat, after all, and Lady Hartley wouldn't be serving "breakfast" until the fashionable people arrived. "I'll pick you up at one o'clock."

"Then we won't get to Lady A's until half past one. What if she's left for Lady Hartley's house already?"

"You just told me people won't arrive until three. Half past noon, then. That ought to be safe."

"I cannot wait that long."

"You've already waited twenty-four years, remember? I expect you'll survive."

"All right," Rachael muttered, sounding more than disgruntled. But her eyes were still sparkling. She looked better than she had in months, as though she were blossoming, as though a weight had lifted off her shoulders. Not that she'd looked bad before…

She licked her lips.

Good God, he would really be in trouble now.

"How is it going?" Griffin asked.

Startled, Corinna jumped, then quickly stepped from behind her easel, struggling out of the fog she'd worked in all day.

"All right," she said, though the painting was going brilliantly.

Although it was faced away from him, she raised her palette before it like a shield. She couldn't risk Griffin's seeing it before she'd changed Sean's hair and eyes—she didn't want him to know Sean was her model unless he had to know. Unless she decided she had no choice but to tell him. With any luck, Griffin might decide she could marry Sean without ever learning he'd posed nude.

"I don't want you to see it until it's finished."

He only shrugged, in any case. He'd never cared overmuch about her art. "I'm glad to hear it's going well. I want you to attend Lady Hartley's breakfast tomorrow."

"I'm not going, Griffin. I already told you that. How was the Teddington ball?"

"It went well. I lined up four men there for you to meet tomorrow. You should go up to bed now, so you'll be fresh."

She glanced toward the clock on the drawing room's mantel. "It's but one in the morning, and you know I rarely stop painting before three. And I don't need to be fresh tomorrow, because I'm not going to the breakfast."

"How about if we compromise and you paint until three o'clock tomorrow afternoon? That sounds fair, doesn't it? It's the event of the season."

"The Summer Exhibition is the event of my life." He was such a brother. She decided to change the subject. "Have you asked Mr. Delaney's advice yet regarding property management?"

"I've been too busy. And why do you care?" His eyes narrowed speculatively. "Juliana asked me about that, too. You're not interested in Mr. Delaney, are you?"

She wondered whether he would consider that a good thing or a bad one. "Interested in what way?"
"As a suitor. A potential husband."

She still couldn't tell what he was thinking. Better to play it safe, she decided; better he should get to know Sean before she admitted anything. "Of course not. I just remembered you'd said you wanted to talk to him, and I wondered if you had yet, that's all." She hoped that when he did talk to Sean he'd be impressed, which would save her from having to tell him who had posed for her portrait. "Now leave me alone, Griffin. I need to paint. And I'm not going to Lady Hartley's breakfast."

"I'll send our regrets," he gritted out, and then, as he walked off, Corinna heard him mutter, "Why do women always seem to get the best of me?"

Fog-free for the first time all day, she returned to her easel to appraise her picture. It really was coming along brilliantly, she thought, smiling. Just brilliantly.

But oh, my.

This was one extremely sensual painting.

Maybe no one besides the committee should see it before it was hung in the Summer Exhibition. It was her best work ever, but someone might express shock and talk her out of submitting it. Griffin especially—even though he wouldn't be able to tell it was Sean, he might not be entirely thrilled that his sister had painted such a portrait. After all was said and done, after she'd been honored by its selection, it would be a different story. He'd be proud of her then, surely. But before then…

Thanks heavens Lady A had offered to go with her to deliver it. She'd have to cover it up so the dear woman wouldn't be able to examine it in the carriage. Then somehow get through the submission process without her ever seeing it.

How she'd manage that, she couldn't imagine, but she'd worry about that later. After the painting was finished, after she'd changed Sean's hair and eyes.

Until then, she wanted him just as he looked now, she thought, raising her brush to the canvas and letting the fog close in again.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

"Did you not sleep well?" Deirdre asked solicitously when Sean slammed into the breakfast room again Sunday morning.

"I didn't sleep at all."

He'd spent the entire night alternating between worrying about his company and arguing with himself over whether to devastate Corinna now or allow her to paint in peace.

There was nothing he could do about the former that he wasn't already doing. He knew that. As for the latter, he also knew what was best for Corinna. But it didn't feel best for him.

The gravel had torn his insides to a pulp.

Still deliberating and ignoring Deirdre, he gulped down coffee and little else, then stomped upstairs to play nephew to Lincolnshire.

Coming to a halt in the earl's doorway, he listened to the man's ragged snores for a long minute, calming down somewhat. "How is he doing?" he finally asked Mrs. Skeffington quietly.

Sadness etched on her kind, plain face, the nurse shook her head.

The ragged snores ceased, making them both turn. "Cainewood?" Lincolnshire croaked.

"I'm here, Uncle." Sean walked closer and touched the man's hand, wincing when his fingers left indentations in the swollen flesh. "It's Sean."

Lincolnshire slitted his eyes, but just for a bare moment. "Cainewood?"

"He's not here, Uncle. But I am."

"Wake me…when…Cainewood…arrives," he wheezed again, and drifted off.

Sean looked to Mrs. Skeffington. "He thought I was Cainewood. Is he delirious, then?"

"Not delirious, but very tired. He was up quite late last night, closeted with his solicitor. And I fear…" She sighed and shook her head again. "I cannot say it."

Sean also feared the earl's end was near. "I cannot say it, either," he muttered, wondering why that should be so depressing. Life would be much easier when this was over. Maybe not happier, but surely easier. "Why would he want to see Cainewood?"

She shrugged. "Lord Lincolnshire asked for the marquess last night. Instructed Mr. Lawless to summon him first thing in the morning. I expect he wants to say good-bye. They've been neighbors for thirty years, after all, since the marquess was born." She forced a smile and patted Sean's hand with her own sturdy one. "I'll watch your uncle, Mr. Hamilton. You go paint. There's nothing you can do for him now."

"I cannot…well, perhaps I will." The earl didn't seem to want or need him right at the moment. He wouldn't paint, of course, but perhaps he would leave for a while. Go talk to Corinna or return to his offices. See if any reports had come in yet from outside London. "Please ask my wife to send for me if my uncle has need of me. She'll know where to find me."

He went downstairs and asked a footman to see that his curricle was brought around. As he headed for the door, the knocker banged, and Quincy opened it to reveal Corinna's brother.

Cainewood stood stiffly, his arms folded behind him. He looked impatient, or maybe furious. Sean didn't know him well enough to be sure which, but he was exhausted out of his mind—and he knew he'd taken liberties with the man's sister.

For one delusional moment, he imagined Cainewood was hiding a pistol behind his back.

"It won't happen again," he promised quickly. Stupidly.

Once had been more than enough.

Cainewood frowned and raised both his hands. Empty hands. "I beg your pardon?"

Sean blew out a breath, remembering Lincolnshire. "The earl has been asking for you."

"Yes, his solicitor summoned me. I don't know why. But I've another appointment this morning, so I'm hoping this won't take long."

"I think he just wants to say good-bye," Sean assured him, moving past him.

On the street, waiting for his curricle, he found his gaze drifting to the town house with the blue door on the west side of the square. As though drawn by unseen cords, he walked toward it, stopping on the pavement in front of the large window that fronted the drawing room.

Corinna wasn't in the drawing room, of course. It wasn't even ten o'clock, and she slept until noon unless someone offered her a kiss for getting up early. Her easel was visible, though, so he walked closer to have a look at how Lincolnshire's portrait was coming along. But it sat sideways, and the painting was covered by a crisp white sheet.

And it wasn't finished. He knew that. She'd use every minute she had left before it was due. It wouldn't be finished before tomorrow, which meant he couldn't devastate her until then. He couldn't wake her—that wouldn't be fair.

He needed to see this thing through the right way, he lectured himself, heading back to where his curricle waited. He'd known that all along. There had been no use losing sleep over a decision so obvious.

Lady Avonleigh's town house was near all of Oxford Street's many shops. As Griffin banged the knocker, Rachael couldn't help hoping that Lady A might invite her to visit often. They could go shopping and get to know each other. It would be such fun. She'd never had any living grandparents to spend time with—at least, not any she'd known of.

The butler who answered the door looked as old as Lady A and Lady B put together. "Yes?" he croaked.

"I've come to call on Lady Avonleigh," Rachael said.

He cleared his throat. "She's not here. She's left for Lady Hartley's breakfast."

"But it's not even one o'clock."

He shrugged his bony shoulders. "She doesn't like to be late for anything, my lady."

Her heart sinking, she swiveled to Griffin. "I told you we should have come first thing in the morning."

When he also shrugged, she couldn't help noticing his shoulders were much wider than the butler's. "I don't mind waiting," he said.

"Lady Hartley's breakfast will probably last until midnight! It's the event of the season."

"We'll change our clothes, then, and go to the breakfast."

"I've already sent my regrets. And it's in a garden, under a tent. There will be no place to talk privately."

"We could walk with Lady Avonleigh in the garden."

"Any number of people might be walking as well and overhear us."

"Then we could take her into Lady Hartley's house."

"You cannot go into someone's house during a garden party, Griffin. It's not polite to go where you're not invited."

"Juliana went into Lady Hartley's house during last year's breakfast," he pointed out.

"And look what happened! It was the scandal of the season!" When it came to the social niceties, men didn't know anything. She sighed. "We'll come back tomorrow. In the morning."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

As the clock on the mantel struck ten on Sunday night, Corinna dipped her smallest brush in coffee-colored paint and carefully covered the green irises on her canvas. Over the next quarter hour, she added black pupils, curvature, depth and highlights, and glints where the flame of a candle reflected.

Blowing out a breath, she stepped back.

Sean's eyes were brown now, and the portrait was done.

She'd already changed his dark hair to a streaky blond, made it a little straighter and a little longer, made it positively glow in the candlelight. The rest of the picture remained the same—the shockingly sensual pose; the sculpted, faintly stubbled face; the ridged, toned torso; the heart-stopping, contemplative gaze—but she was sure no one would recognize Sean now.

The painting was going to be a sensation.

Blond or black-haired, brown-eyed or green, his image looked compelling. Captivating. Spellbinding. Seductive. Like the man himself.

She'd never completed such a large painting in only two days before, and she could hardly believe she was finished. The hours had sped by in such a frenzy since late Friday night. But done was done, and there was no sense in fiddling with it any longer. She'd be as likely to ruin it as she was to improve it.

Although she couldn't show it to Sean, of course—she wasn't yet ready for anyone, including him, to learn he was her portrait's inspiration—she couldn't wait to tell him it was complete. He'd be so surprised to hear she'd finished half a day early. Bursting with happiness and excitement and energy, she hefted the canvas off her easel and started upstairs, holding it at arm's length, where she could smile at it as she went.

She was hauling it down the corridor toward her bedroom when the door to Griffin's study opened. Whirling to face him, she watched him raise his hands to grip the jamb on either side of his head. Such a casual pose, when she was feeling her heart pound in her throat.

"What are you doing, Corinna?"

"Bringing this to my room. I'm finished."

"Are you?" He looked pleased. Probably because he could get back to shoving men at her now. "Let's see it," he said, moving into the corridor.

"No!" In reaction, she pulled the canvas closer to her body, nearly smearing paint against her apron. She'd have killed him if that had happened, just killed him. "Not yet. It isn't varnished yet."

Artists rarely varnished their paintings before submitting them to the Summer Exhibition. There was a tradition called Varnishing Day, after the selected pictures were hung but before the Exhibition opened, when all the artists came to make last minute changes and coat their works in varnish.

"I don't want anyone to see it until after it's varnished," she added. "If it's accepted, you can see it in the Exhibition."

"Well, that's just silly."

She shrugged. "I'm an artist, temperamental and all that." She began backing down the corridor. "I'm going to put this in my room now, and you'd better not go looking at it."

It was his turn to shrug, as though he couldn't be bothered to walk that far to look at a stupid painting. He backed into his study, and she backed into her room and closed the door behind her. After leaning the painting against a wall, facing in, she covered it with a sheet. Then she balanced a hairpin precariously on the top edge, where it would be knocked off if anyone disturbed it.

There, she thought with a grin.

Impatient to see Sean, she ripped off her apron, smoothed her dress, left her room, and poked her head into Griffin's study. "I'm going to tell Lord Lincolnshire his portrait is finished," she said, although, of course, it wasn't.

Scribbling on some paperwork, Griffin didn't look up. "Lincolnshire will be sleeping now, Corinna."

"Maybe, but maybe not. I won't wake him. If he's sleeping, I'll go back in the morning."

"Take a footman with you. I won't have you walking alone in Berkeley Square in the middle of the night."

Did he really think she'd walk alone in London at night? That much of a rebel she wasn't. A lady could get herself raped or worse, even in Mayfair.

"I'm not the ninnyhammer you seem to think I am," she informed him. "I won't be long." Then she all but ran down the stairs, pausing just long enough to request a footman before she ran all the way to Lincolnshire House. Leaving the footman panting at Lincolnshire's gate, she lifted her skirts, raced up the portico steps, and banged the knocker.

Quincy answered. "Good evening."

"I wish a word with Mr. Hamilton."

"I'm sorry, but he's not at home, milady."

"He isn't? Oh." Disappointment was a sudden ache in her middle. How many hours must intervene ere she could press him to her throbbing heart, as the sweet partner of her future days? she recalled reading in Children of the Abbey. "I'll return tomorrow then, I guess."

She had just started to turn away when Deirdre came to the door. "Lady Corinna?"

Turning back, she dredged up a smile. "I was hoping to see your…your husband, Mrs. Hamilton. I have something exciting to tell him."

"He's been gone all day. A wee bit of trouble with his, ah…his latest painting." Deirdre slanted a glance to Quincy. "Would you care to come in?"

"Is Lord Lincolnshire awake?"

"I fear not." Sean's sister sighed. "He spent the morning closeted with his solicitor yet again. Then he complained of some pain—claimed the Regent was sitting on his chest again or some such thing. He passed out for a moment, then woke and fell asleep. He's been sleeping ever since."

"That doesn't sound good," Corinna observed, the ache of disappointment growing sharper. "I'll return tomorrow, when I hope he'll be better."

Deirdre nodded and took a step back to allow Quincy to shut the door.

"Wait," Corinna said, remembering something. "I've a question, if you wouldn't mind. About a word or a phrase I'm thinking might be Irish."

"Is that so?" Coming forward again, Deirdre looked curious. "What is it, then?"

"Cooshla-macree. Does that mean something? Or is it only a few syllables of nonsense?"

Sean's sister frowned a moment before her expression cleared. "Cuisle mo chroí," she repeated, the words sounding a bit different as they rolled off her tongue. "It means 'pulse of my heart.' Or 'sweetheart,' I suppose you might say."

"Sweetheart," Corinna breathed. "How about creena?"

"Críona, 'my heart.'"

"Ahroon?"

"A rún, 'my love.'" Sean's sister cocked her pretty blond head. "I find myself wondering where you heard these words, I do confess."

"I expect you know." Bursting with happiness once more, Corinna gave a startled Deirdre an impulsive hug before she ran back home.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Sean didn't slam into the breakfast room Monday morning. He was much too drained, much too discouraged for so much emotion. At half past seven, he simply walked in and slowly sat down, feeling brittle, as though his bones might crack in the process.

Deirdre slid his cup of coffee toward him just as slowly. "No good news?"

"No news at all." He reached for the cup but didn't drink from it, just cradled its warmth between his palms. "No helpful news, at any rate. Maybe today."

She sipped her tea, watching him. "Lady Corinna came by to see you last night before you returned. Late, but I hadn't yet gone up to bed. She seemed rather…excited. Out of breath. I'm thinking she must have run all the way here from her house. She said she had something to tell you."

"Her painting must be finished," he said glumly. She'd completed it half a day early, which meant it must have gone well. But it also meant it was time to explain the facts.

"You don't sound happy for her. It's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Sure, and it's excellent." Now he could devastate the love of his life.

They both glanced over as the door opened. "Mr. Hamilton?"

A maid entered. The one who'd shown Sean upstairs the first day he arrived, the little bird of a middle-aged woman who'd informed him Lincolnshire was the most wonderful man in all of England.

Today she looked like an old woman, her face drawn in tight lines. "Nurse Skeffington asked me to fetch you," she said. "Your uncle is dying."

In her family's Lincoln's Inn Fields town house, Rachael was going downstairs to have breakfast when her brother started up. "Oh, there you are," he said. "I was coming to look for you."

"You're up and about early." Pausing on the steps, she noted he was wearing shoes rather than boots, and a double-breasted tailcoat rather than a riding coat. "And isn't it Monday morning, Noah?"

"Of course it is, yes."

"I thought all you horse-mad young bucks met at Tattersall's on Mondays to settle your accounts. Or is Monday an auction day? Either way, you always seem to head for Tattersall's every Monday, but you're not dressed for that."

"Maybe I'm not horse-mad anymore," he suggested, a challenge in his blue eyes.

Hearing a challenge in his voice, too, she wondered if he could possibly be serious. "You're off to your club, then, I expect?"

"No, I'm not." Noah lifted his square chin. "I was hoping you'd come with me to Oxford Street. To Robert Gillow and Company, to be more precise, to pick out a new desk."

"Did you say a desk?" She must have heard him wrong. "What kind of a desk?"

"An oak one, I'm thinking. Something sturdy, in any case, with many drawers. The one in the study seems to be growing rather rickety."

"I imagine it's a hundred years old, at the very least. But however did you come to notice it's rickety?"

He raised his scarred brow. "I used it, Rachael. Is that such a surprise?"

"Frankly, yes." Surprise seemed too mild a word—she was positively shocked. First he'd asked for an inventory at Greystone, and now this. Could it be her younger brother was growing up? At twenty-two, he was looking like a man, but was he actually becoming one?

"Well?" he asked, still looking like a man, but one who was rather annoyed. "Will you come with me or not?"

"Oh, I wish I could." The sight of Noah inspecting desks rather than horseflesh was bound to be a spectacle. But she expected Griffin to arrive in half an hour. "I've other plans for today, I'm afraid, but let me talk to Claire and Elizabeth about going with you to Gillow's instead."

"Lord Lincolnshire!" Corinna called excitedly. "Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton!"

She hurried toward Lord Lincolnshire's bedroom, having been told at the front door that Sean and Deirdre were with him. She'd risen at the crack of dawn this morning and come before even eating breakfast, because she couldn't wait a moment longer to share her news.

"I finished my portrait!" she announced, stopping in the doorway. "I'm going to submit it this…"

The sentence trailed off when she saw her brother-in-law James by the bed, leaning over the earl with his stethoscope. All her excitement dissipated along with the words.

"… afternoon," she finished in a small voice. "How is he?"

Sean rose from where he sat by Deirdre. "I think Lord Stafford is just about finished and ready to tell us."

"I am, yes." James drew the covers up to the earl's chin and straightened, looking grim. "I fear the end is imminent. He may last the night, but not any longer. I don't believe he'll wake, either. He'll likely just continue like this until his breathing and his heart simply stop. I'm sorry," he concluded with a sigh. "We'll all miss him."

Corinna looked back to the huge crimson-draped bed where Lord Lincolnshire slumbered, propped upright against a dozen pillows. When the covers were down, she'd noticed his belly appeared swollen now, along with the rest of him. His skin looked tight and wet, as though it were weeping fluid. Gurgling noises came from his throat.

Her heart sank even lower. "That sounds dreadful. He must be suffering so."

"He sounds like that because his lungs are filling," James explained gently. "But he's sleeping. I don't think he's really suffering in the sense you imagine." He dropped the stethoscope in his leather bag and snapped it closed, looking to Sean. "I can stay if you wish, but there isn't anything I can do. It's only a matter of time now."

"I understand," Sean said. "We won't be needing you to stay, though I appreciate the offer. I'll be with him."

"I'll stay with him, too," Deirdre added softly. "And Nurse Skeffington will be back within the hour."

"All right, then." James moved to Corinna and lightly kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry," he said again, and left.

For a moment, Corinna just gazed at Lord Lincolnshire. Hot tears pricked her eyes. Deirdre rose and came to place a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure he knows you finished his portrait."

Guilt flooded her. She hadn't finished it. But she would. She'd promised to paint his final portrait, and she'd follow through with that. She had only to fix the underlying anatomy, and she knew how to do that now. His portrait wouldn't be exhibited at the Royal Academy, but it would hang here at Lincolnshire House.

Which would be John Hamilton's house, unfortunately. At that thought, a rush of anger tempered her guilt. But it would be Deirdre's house, too, at least until she got her divorce, and that thought was a little mollifying.

She raised a hand to touch Deirdre's on her shoulder. "Thank you for saying that."

"Which other pictures will you submit along with the portrait today?" Sean asked.

"I'm not submitting any other pictures," she told him, turning to him. "I've decided to submit the portrait alone." She neglected to mention it wasn't the one he expected. "It's my best work, the painting I wish to exhibit as my debut. Should it not be chosen, I'll try again next year."

"It's pleased I am to hear you're that happy with the way it turned out," he said.

But he didn't look pleased. Or sound pleased.

At all.

"I'm sorry you're losing Lord Lincolnshire," she said, her heart breaking for him. "I know you've grown close."

He nodded. "I need to talk to you about something. Something important. Not here, though," he said, slanting a glance to his sister. "Later."

"Take her out of the room," Deirdre said. "I'll stay with Lord Lincolnshire." When he hesitated, she added, "Go," and waved a hand. "Lord Stafford said he might last the whole night. Nothing will be happening in a few minutes."

After hesitating a moment more, Sean took Corinna's arm and drew her out and down the corridor. But when he turned to her, he didn't say anything. He just looked at her, his heart in his deep green eyes.

"What is it?" she asked. Remembering he'd called her sweetheart and my heart and my love, she raised a hand to his cheek. "You look so sad."

"I am sad." Turning his face, he raised his own hand to hold hers to his mouth and pressed a warm kiss to her palm before releasing it. "I'm very sad, Corinna. I cannot do this standing outside Lincolnshire's bedroom. Will you meet me at Hamilton's studio one last time?"

"Of course." She'd soothe his sadness then, show him how much she loved him. She'd kiss him and more, and…he was right: None of that could happen here. But sad as she was herself at losing Lord Lincolnshire, her heart started galloping at the thought of meeting him. "What time?"

"In an hour," he said, and then: "No. I need to stay with Lincolnshire right now. I'd never forgive myself if he—"

"I understand." He looked tortured. "James said Lord Lincolnshire wouldn't last the night, and you need to be with him until then. And I need to submit my portrait later this afternoon. How about tomorrow?"

"That's too long…but all right."

"I don't want to wait that long, either." It seemed so very long since they'd last been together. Only two and a half days since he'd last held her in his arms, but it felt like forever.

"Shall we say ten o'clock?" he asked.

"All the ladies are visiting Aunt Frances tomorrow at eleven, but I can—"

"Let's make it in the afternoon, then." He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them with a sigh. "This will probably be best," he said as though trying to convince himself. "I'll spend the morning making arrangements for Lincolnshire's funeral."

"But you won't need to play his nephew once he's gone," she said, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

He glanced quickly around, but fortunately no servants had overheard. Looking relieved, he ran his hands slowly down her arms, then linked his fingers with hers, lacing them together. "I owe him that, Corinna," he said softly. "And who else is going to do it?"

He was such a good man. And he looked even more tortured. The rush of happiness she'd felt at the thought of spending time with him seemed suddenly overshadowed by his distress.

She couldn't kiss him here outside Lincolnshire's bedroom, but she threw her arms around him, holding him tight. "This will all be over soon," she murmured against his chest, thinking much better times lay ahead.

"Yes," he said in a flat tone. "It will."

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Half an hour later, Griffin found himself on Lady Avonleigh's doorstep again. In the morning.

The ancient butler opened the door. "Yes?" he croaked.

"I've come to call on Lady Avonleigh," Rachael said.

He cleared his throat. "She's left the house, milady."

"I don't believe this!" She turned to Griffin. "We should have come earlier."

He'd picked her up at nine o'clock, and now it was half past. "How much earlier could we have come?" He'd been sure they'd be dragging poor Lady A from her bed. In his experience, ladies slept until at least ten. Except Corinna, who slept until at least noon. "What time does Lady Avonleigh rise?" he asked the old geezer at the door.

"Six o'clock," Lady Balmforth said, apparently having overheard them and come to see what was up. She looked curious. "When you get to a certain age, dearie, you won't sleep late in the morning, either."

"Good morning, Lady Balmforth," Rachael said before swinging to Griffin again. "I told you we should have come earlier."

"We'll come earlier tomorrow." With any luck, he wouldn't receive another surprise summons from Lincolnshire.

"I'm not waiting until tomorrow. We'll wait here today."

Yesterday he'd been willing to wait, and she hadn't wanted to. Today he'd assumed she wanted to leave, but she wanted to wait. He would never understand women. "Fine," he said, "we'll wait."

"Well, maybe we shouldn't wait." She turned to Lady B. "When will Lady Avonleigh be back?"

"It was Aurelia's turn to assist our James today at his Institute," Lady B said. "Then she's accompanying Lady Corinna to the Royal Academy this afternoon."

"Oh, damn," Rachael said softly, making the older woman's eyes widen at her language. "I'd forgotten about that. The two of them planned that right in front of me, too, when we were visiting Lady Malmsey and the new baby."

Lady B briefly touched Rachael's hand. "My sister will be at home for a short while in between. She told our nephew she had to leave before luncheon." The skinny lady leaned closer. "Aurelia never likes to miss her luncheon."

Griffin had guessed as much.

"What did you want to talk to my sister about?" Lady B asked, looking very curious. "Is it important?"

Rachael nodded. "Very. But I…well…you're welcome to listen, but I'd rather wait until Lady Avonleigh is here to talk about it."

Lady Balmforth looked even more curious. "If it's that important, perhaps you ought to send Lady Corinna a note, saying she should find someone else to accompany her to Somerset House."

"That's an excellent idea," Rachael said, "but I think you need to write the note. That way Corinna won't be suspicious about what I'm doing with Lady Avonleigh."

"She's not going to be suspicious," Griffin said.

"Yes, she is. Your sisters aren't stupid, Griffin."

"Why don't you just tell them the truth?"

"I'm still not ready," Rachael said.

And Lady Balmforth looked very, very curious. "I think we'd better send for Cornelia, too," she said.

At one o'clock, Corinna came downstairs with a footman carrying her painting, which she'd framed—by borrowing one off a family portrait—and wrapped in brown paper. "I need a hackney coach," she told Adamson, their butler. "My brother took the carriage, and I must pick up Lady Avonleigh."

Though Adamson was a very short man, he prided himself on being quite dignified and proper. "I don't know if that's wise, Lady Corinna."

"It's necessary. Please hail a hackney."

"Lord Cainewood has been gone since the morning. He's likely to be home soon."

She was early, true. It wouldn't take an hour to reach Lady A's house, and the woman had said two o'clock. But she was too anxious to wait. "Hail a hackney," she repeated, and paused before adding, "now."

He hemmed and hawed and clucked his tongue, clearly reluctant to put Lord Cainewood's sister in a hackney coach. Corinna crossed her arms, knowing he would eventually comply. But before that happened, the knocker banged, and Adamson opened the door to reveal a messenger with a letter.

"Ah," the butler said, looking not at all displeased to have an excuse to put off hailing a cab. "It's directed to you, Lady Corinna."

She grabbed it and broke the seal, swiftly scanning the missive.

My Dear Lady Corinna,

I am sorry to inform you that circumstances prevent my sister, Lady Avonleigh, from accompanying you to the Royal Academy this afternoon. Unfortunately, I cannot do so in her place. Please accept my sincerest apologies.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Balmforth

"Circumstances? What's that supposed to mean?" Corinna sighed. "It seems I need paper instead of a hackney. I must send a note to Alexandra."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"I don't know where to begin, Lady Avonleigh."

Rachael hadn't expected to be nervous. But now that Lady A was finally home and they were all seated in her peach drawing room, she didn't know what to say.

Sitting across from her in a peach wing chair, Lady A gave her a kind smile. "Through the years I've learned what's important. Both of my sisters are here, and I just came from seeing James, which means all the people I love most are healthy. I cannot imagine anything you could tell me that could be so terribly bad."

"Oh, it isn't bad." Rachael clenched her hands in her lap. "At least, I'm hoping you won't think it's bad. I'm hoping you'll think—"

"Say it already," Griffin interjected, sitting on the sofa beside her. He'd seemed a bit annoyed that they'd had to wait so long, but that was his fault; if they'd come early, as she'd wanted to, they wouldn't have had to wait at all. "Good God, I've never seen you so flustered. You're always so levelheaded and composed."

Was that what he thought? She'd never felt that way inside. But she rather liked him having that opinion of her. And he was right: She needed to just say it.

"You're my grandmother," she told Lady Avonleigh in a rush. "I'm Georgiana's daughter."

Lady A looked at her. Her face went rather white, and from across the room she just looked at Rachael, making her feel very uneasy. It was rather awkward, really. She'd been picturing Lady Avonleigh welcoming her with open arms. She'd been picturing them shopping together.

Griffin leaned closer. "Maybe she's a bit peeved because she hasn't had her luncheon yet," he whispered.

What a stupid comment. Rachael was about to elbow him when Lady Balmforth finally broke the silence. "You cannot be Georgiana's daughter," she said, not unkindly. "Our Georgiana jumped off the London Bridge."

"She must have pretended to jump off the London Bridge and then run away and married my father. I mean, not my real father, but the man who raised me."

The awkward silence resumed. Rachael glanced back to Lady A, but her grandmother was still just looking at her. No matter how much she wanted to be welcomed with open arms, it was clear that wasn't going to happen. Griffin wrapped one of his own arms around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, taking the comfort he offered, forgiving him for being annoyed and saying the stupid things men often said.

"Who is that, dear?" Lady Cavanaugh asked. "Who was the father who raised you?"

"John Chase," Rachael replied. "The Earl of Greystone."

And Lady Avonleigh suddenly came to life. "What did you say?"

"John Chase, the Earl—"

"Oh, my goodness!" she squealed, and then she rose from her chair and rushed over to the sofa and welcomed Rachael with open arms. Probably the most welcoming arms Rachael had ever felt. They clung together, and Rachael inhaled her grandmother's gardenia perfume, remembering her mother smelling the same.

Griffin moved to Lady A's chair so she could share the sofa with her granddaughter. Tears ran down both their faces, and they just held on to each other for a good long while. Until Lady B leaned over and tapped her older sister on the shoulder.

"What convinced you?" she demanded.

"My daughter was in love with John Chase," Lady A said tearily. At last she released Rachael and held her hand tightly instead. "My husband and I wouldn't let her marry him."

"That's right!" Lady C exclaimed. "I'd forgotten."

The whole story came out.

John Cartwright had been a second son. While a young man in the army before his marriage, a soldier named Thomas Grimbald had saved his life on a battlefield in Germany during the Seven Years' War. Cartwright had granted the man a boon, and Grimbald wanted his newborn son married to the aristocrat's firstborn daughter. After Cartwright's older brother died, he'd sold out of the military and become the Earl of Avonleigh and married Aurelia. They'd had a daughter, Alice, who was promised to Grimbald's son. And a son, who'd sadly drowned at twenty-one, and another daughter, Georgiana.

"How did Georgiana end up married to Grimbald," Griffin asked, "if Alice was promised to him?"

"Alice fell in love with her cousin," Lady A explained. "Her father forbade her to marry him, but they eloped to Gretna Green. Then my husband cut her out of our lives. I've heard she eventually died, but I've never really known what happened to her—"

"I know!" Rachael said. "I knew Aunt Alice. We saw her all the time. I know what happened to her. She had a child before she died, a little boy named Edmund." She wouldn't tell Lady A that the child had been crippled and unable to talk. Not now, at least. "After that, Mama raised Edmund, but he, too, died a few years later."

Her grandmother's eyes glazed with tears. "Was she happy in her marriage, my Alice?"

"I think so. I was young when she passed away, but she never seemed unhappy to me." Even though having Edmund must have been heartbreaking. "She and Mama visited often. They loved each other very much. And I loved Aunt Alice, too." She squeezed her grandmother's hand. "Go on, please."

But it seemed Lady A couldn't. "I'm so happy to know Alice and Georgiana were together," she whispered, and waved her free hand toward her sisters.

With a teary smile, Lady C took over the story. "After Alice failed to follow through with the betrothal, Georgiana was next in line. When she turned eighteen, she begged for one London season before marrying Grimbald—"

"I never had been able to deny her anything," Lady A interrupted. "Georgiana was the sweetest child."

"I'm sure she was," Rachael said. Maybe Georgiana had lied to her—a lie by omission—but she'd loved Rachael and her siblings dearly. Georgiana had been a wonderful mother. In the past months, it seemed she'd forgotten that. "She loved you, too, Lady Avon—"

"Grandmama. Please call me Grandmama."

Rachael's heart swelled. "She loved you, too, Grandmama. She always wore gardenia perfume. I think that must have been because she missed you. Did she meet my father that season?"

Her grandmother waved a hand again, overtaken by emotion.

"That's when she met John Chase, yes," Lady B said. "She begged to marry him, but my sister's husband wouldn't hear of it. He'd made a promise and had no other daughters left to satisfy his debt to the man who had saved his life. Georgiana hadn't seen her sister in seven years, and she didn't want to disobey her parents and end up estranged like Alice. So she reluctantly agreed to go through with the ceremony."

"That sounds like Mama," Rachael said. "What happened then?"

Her grandmother was recovered enough to continue. "Like his father, Grimbald was an army man. He took a leave of absence to wed Georgiana and got her with child right away. Then he went back to his regiment, and she came home to London to live with us." Her voice dropped. "She didn't love him, so she didn't mind, really, and she was so looking forward to having her baby."

"Me," Rachael whispered.

"Yes. And then she received a letter saying her husband had been executed for treason. No details. She was furious with us, I'm afraid, for making her abandon her love and wed a traitor. She wrote a suicide note and jumped off the London Bridge, taking her baby with her. Her body was never found."

"Because she didn't jump off the London Bridge," Griffin said, "no matter that the note said she would. She ran to the countryside and married John Chase instead."

They could only guess what had happened after that. She hadn't wanted her child to grow up as the son or daughter of a traitor. She'd claimed she was Georgiana Woodby, a commoner, and stayed far away from London in order to avoid ever seeing her parents. Far away from any social situation, to avoid running into anyone she might have known in her previous life.

"Did she have asthma?" Rachael asked.

"Not at all," Lady Avonleigh said. "She was the healthiest of all my children."

"I thought so," Rachael said with a sigh. "So no one ever learned what had become of my real father. How he came to be labeled a traitor." She sighed again, but supposed it wasn't all that important. She'd been making much too much of the whole thing. Her mother had only wanted to protect her from being tainted by her father's shame, and she had new family now, and—

"Oh, I know what happened," her grandmother said. "After my younger daughter's death, I paid a visit to Grimbald's father."

"My grandfather? I met him at the Royal Hospital. But—"

"He's lost his mind, poor man, yes. But I talked to him a long time before that." Lady Avonleigh—Grandmama—shifted on the sofa to face Rachael and took her other hand. "It wasn't all that bad, my dear. If Georgiana had known, she might have forgiven him. Although I suspect she would never have loved him. She was in love with the Earl of Greystone."

Rachael's parents—the two she'd grown up with—had been very much in love. No matter how angry she'd been with her mother, she'd never forgotten that. "What did Grimbald do?" she asked. "What did he do that wasn't so bad?"

"It was during the war against the colonies in North America, just six years after Georgiana was born. He was much older than she was, you see—probably another reason she preferred the earl. In any event, he and a fellow soldier, one William Smith, killed a British officer to keep him from murdering a number of American civilians. They managed to convince the authorities that the man was shot by a revolutionary. And all was well for twelve years, until Smith fell ill in 1792 and revealed in a deathbed confession that the two of them had killed the officer."

"But if they killed him to save innocent people," Rachael said, looking to Griffin, "the officer might have been a bad man. They might have done a good thing."

"That officer probably was a bad man," Griffin said sympathetically. "But that wouldn't matter. If Grimbald killed a superior, he'd have been arrested, court-martialed, and convicted—regardless of how bad the man had been."

"It doesn't signify," Lady A said. "Not now. Instead of being sorry for everything that happened, let's just be glad we've found each other." She squeezed Rachael's hands, and her smile reminded Rachael of her mother. "I have a granddaughter."

"You have three granddaughters," Rachael said. "Don't forget Claire and Elizabeth. They're Georgiana's daughters, too." Watching her grandmother's soft blue eyes widen, she added, "And you've a grandson as well. Our brother, Noah."

Lady A was holding Rachael's hands so tightly, her own were beginning to hurt. But she didn't care. Her mother had only wanted to protect her, and her father most likely hadn't really done wrong, and Grandmama had welcomed her with open arms.

"I cannot wait to see your sisters and brother again." Lady B's smile resembled Georgiana's, too. Rachael wondered how she'd never noticed. "I'm their aunt, you know," Lady B added. "And yours. And so is Cornelia."

Lady C, being the youngest, looked closest to her mother of all. "I never had a daughter," she said. "I'm so happy that now I'll have nieces again. And a nephew, too. Oh, my."

"My sisters are out with Noah at present," Rachael told her new family. "They're helping him choose a new desk. But they should be at home later, so we can go tell them our good news."

There were numerous murmurs of agreement to that plan.

"Maybe we'll all go shopping," Grandmama suggested. "I want to spoil my grandchildren. But first, let's have luncheon."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Corinna paced the foyer, watching the clock tick toward the hour when it would be too late to submit her painting. Two hours earlier, the messenger she'd dispatched to Alexandra's house had returned with the news that her eldest sister wasn't at home. Corinna had then sent a desperate note to Juliana and another to Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth.

Since then she'd heard nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all.

"What is taking them all so long?"

"Pardon, my lady?"

"Nothing, Adamson." She paused midpace. "No, not nothing," she revised, glancing at the tall-case clock once again. It was four o'clock, and she had to get to Somerset House by five, or she'd have to wait a whole year for another chance to submit to the Summer Exhibition. "Hail a hackney now, please. I shall have to take a footman. I cannot wait any longer."

Adamson opened his mouth to protest, but the knocker banged once again. He opened the door to reveal another messenger with a note—and Juliana out in the street, just alighting from the Stafford carriage.

"Thank God," Corinna breathed. "I won't need a hackney after all. Adamson, do please see my painting put in the Stafford carriage immediately. And carefully. The paper shouldn't be allowed to touch the paint, because it isn't dry yet."

The butler handed her the note. "It's for you, Lady Corinna. Surely you want to read it?"

"Oh, very well." She broke the seal and scanned it as Juliana joined her on the doorstep. "None of the cousins are at home, either," she reported with little surprise.

"Either?" Juliana echoed.

"Alexandra wasn't home, and neither is Griffin. And Lady A and Lady B are both busy this afternoon. And apparently Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth are all busy, too. I'm grateful you could accompany me. Let's go."

"Everyone else was busy? Everyone? Dear heavens, what are the odds of such a coincidence?"

"I don't know, but I can't think about that now. We'll find out what everyone was doing tomorrow when we all visit Aunt Frances and the baby." She ushered her sister toward the carriage, where the painting was already tucked inside. "I must get to the Royal Academy before five o'clock."

They settled against the squabs, side by side facing forward, with the painting leaning against the other seat. As the carriage lurched into traffic, Juliana patted her sister's knee. "You aren't nervous, are you?"

"No," Corinna lied. "Just rushed. I feared no one would get here in time to accompany me. You weren't arriving, and the cousins live all the way in Lincoln's Inn—"

"Mr. Delaney is right nearby, along with his sister. Did you think to ask them?"

"I couldn't."

"Why is that?"

"Lord Lincolnshire is dying, and they have to stay with him. And besides, I couldn't let them see the painting."

"Why is that?"

Holy Hannah, Corinna thought, why had she said that? The frustrating afternoon had evidently robbed her ability to think straight.

"Why?" Juliana demanded. "You're hiding something, Corinna; I can tell."

There was nothing for it. Her sister would never give up badgering her, and if her painting was accepted, everyone was going to see it in the Summer Exhibition, anyway.

Corinna drew and held a breath. "Have a look," she finally said, reaching across to tear off the brown paper. Or rather, to tear a corner. She seemed to have trouble doing any more. "It's not varnished," she said.

Juliana shrugged. "All right."

"If it's accepted—if it's hung—I'll get a chance to make last minute changes and then varnish it right there on the wall."

"All right," Juliana repeated, and then, when Corinna failed to respond, she added, "So…?"

"Very well," Corinna said, and ripped the rest of the paper off.

Juliana's eyes widened. "Oh, my goodness."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"It's…well, it's different." She stared at the painting. "Nudes of women are fairly common, of course, but not of men."

"He's not nude," Corinna pointed out, feeling a bit queasy. "He's wearing trousers."

"Very tight ones," her sister agreed. "He's absolutely…" She blinked. "Dear heavens, don't you just want to take a bite out of him?"

Well, yes, as a matter of fact…but Corinna wasn't sure she liked her sister speaking of biting the man she loved.

And Juliana was still staring.

"He's compelling," Juliana murmured now. "I cannot seem to take my eyes off of him." But she did, finally meeting Corinna's. "It's magnificent, Corinna. You've always done good work, but this is spectacular."

Corinna's breath went out in a rush. "Do you really think so?"

"I know so. It's groundbreaking." She shifted her gaze back to the painting. "Why didn't you want Mr. Delaney to see it?"

"Does it perhaps…remind you of anyone you know?"

Juliana tilted her head. "Blond hair and brown eyes. That's an unusual combination, isn't it? I don't think so."

Corinna had counted on no one looking past the coloring, but she must not have been completely confident, because relief sang through her veins now. "I feared Mr. Delaney would find it shocking, that's all. His father was a vicar, you know."

"Really? I know very little about him."

"I don't know much about him, either," Corinna said, averting her gaze.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

In the wee hours, the earl died.

He slipped off peacefully, leaving the world in his sleep as Lord Stafford had said he would. One instant his breathing rattled noisily; the next he went eerily silent.

Sean and Deirdre both held their breaths for a tense moment, then turned to each other, embracing and holding tight. Deirdre's tears wet her brother's shirtfront, but they were quiet tears. Tears born of grief mixed with relief.

Sean felt exactly the same.

He sat by the earl's side the balance of the night, because it seemed like the right thing to do. And because he wasn't ready to begin what he needed to do next. Because eventually he would finish with that.

And then…

Dawn was a faint glow through the bedroom window when the household stirred to life. Mrs. Skeffington appeared on the threshold, holding an ewer of fresh water. "Is he…?"

"Gone," Sean said quietly. "With the angels."

A sound of sorrow escaped her throat, and she turned and fled, returning a few minutes later with Higginbotham.

"My lord," the steward said, "what shall we do?"

For a moment Sean was nonplussed. He wasn't a lord; he didn't belong here. But Higginbotham didn't know that, of course, and no one else at Lincolnshire House did, either. The lot of them wandered at loose ends, passing by the earl's chamber as though they were all ghosts themselves.

When Sean failed to respond, Higginbotham released a shuddering breath. "There must needs be funeral arrangements, and—"

"I'll see to everything," Sean assured him.

It would be a busy morning.

And then…

"Thank you, my lord earl." Higginbotham forced a wan half smile of gratitude. "I fear I am…numb."

Sean wished he could say the same. He wasn't numb. Pain suffused every fiber of his being. He had to force himself to move, to do what needed to be done.

And then…

Then his empty life stretched ahead.

Seemingly forever.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

ORANGE CUSTARD

Boil a pint of Cream with a little sack. When it be cold, take four Yolks and two whites of Eggs, a little juice of Orange and peel of Orange and Sugar to your palate. Mix them well together, and bake them in cups. Before serving, put your cups on ice.

This custard tastes lovely, and it brings love as well. My sisters and I each made this when we were looking for love, and we all found it.
—Anne, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1772

Excitement still simmered in Corinna on Tuesday when she arrived to visit Frances and the new baby. Her submission had gone even better than she'd hoped. Though she'd half expected to be asked what made her think she, Corinna Chase, was worthy of submitting to the Summer Exhibition, nothing of the like had occurred. No one had looked askance. Not only had her painting been accepted for consideration, but Henry Fuseli, who'd taken possession of it, had exclaimed loudly over its brilliance.

She supposed she shouldn't be surprised that a man who painted weird, erotic pictures might approve a portrait like hers.

She wasn't sure whether Lord Lincolnshire had died yet or not, but she knew he probably had, and that was the only thing that marred her happiness. And she was very much looking forward to this afternoon, when she would meet Sean at Hamilton's studio.

When she entered Aunt Frances's drawing room, Ladies A, B, and C were the only ones there, and they were chattering enthusiastically. Corinna wondered what could possibly have happened to make them babble like that, but when she appeared in the doorway they all fell silent. She saw the three of them exchange meaningful glances before Lady Avonleigh met her gaze.

"Oh, my dear!" she cried. "I'm so sorry I couldn't accompany you to Somerset House yesterday. Did you manage to submit your artwork?"

"Yes, I did," Corinna assured her. She was about to excitedly explain what had happened, but then Aunt Frances came slowly downstairs, supported by her maid and a footman, followed by a nurse with the baby. It took quite some time for her to get settled on her chaise longue with Belinda in her arms. Then Alexandra arrived with her baby, and Juliana showed up with a huge, flat basket filled with cups of orange custard, which she claimed would assist Corinna in finding love with a "certain someone."

"Which will make my sister's life complete," she added with a smile, handing the basket to a maid so the cups could be taken down to the basement kitchen and put on ice, "because her new portrait, which I have had the pleasure of seeing, is going to be the sensation of the Summer Exhibition."

"I cannot wait to see it," Lady A declared, which made Corinna a little nervous. She was grateful when the talk turned to Belinda's first smile—which Alexandra claimed could be caused only by indigestion—and on to Juliana's burgeoning belly. Not that Juliana's belly was actually protruding yet, but she kept rubbing it as though she could feel the baby inside, which made Corinna pine once more for a baby of her own.

She wondered how long it would be before Griffin talked to Sean, before she could broach the subject of their marriage. Her stomach fluttered at the thought, with both excitement and a touch of nerves.

Soon Rachael arrived with her sisters, the three of them chattering enthusiastically as they made their way through the foyer. Corinna wondered what could possibly have happened to make them babble like that, but at the drawing room's doorway they all fell silent. She saw the three of them exchange meaningful glances before Lady A exchanged meaningful glances with her sisters…

And even distracted by all her excited and nervous thoughts, Corinna couldn't help thinking something mysterious must be happening under her very nose.

"Good afternoon," Rachael said, breaking the silence.

"Good afternoon," Corinna returned. She watched Claire and Elizabeth make their way to two chairs and sit down, clucking over the new baby. And then she watched Rachael choose a seat on the sofa beside Lady Avonleigh.

Rachael paid no attention to the new baby. Instead she leaned close to Lady A, breathing in the kind lady's scent. She closed her eyes momentarily, and a faint smile curved her lips as she sighed a contented sigh, even though that odd mixture of camphor and gardenias couldn't possibly be pleasing.

And then something happened that was odder still: Lady A smiled a matching faint smile and sighed a matching contented sigh. And then she leaned so close to Corinna's cousin that the two of them were all but mashed together.

Lady C pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes and nose. "Oh, dear. I seem to be coming down with the sniffles."

"Me, too," Lady B said, although she looked perfectly fine. In fact, she and Lady C were both smiling. And so were Claire and Elizabeth. And they weren't faint smiles. They were smiles a mile wide.

"Would anyone care for some orange custard?" Juliana asked, rising from her seat. "Corinna, could you come with me to the kitchen to fetch it? And Claire and Elizabeth? I cannot carry ten cups all by myself, and James said that I shouldn't overexert myself in my delicate condition."

Juliana could certainly carry all ten cups in the same basket she'd brought them in, Corinna thought, and she hadn't seemed to overexert herself doing so earlier. But she rose and followed her sister anyway.

With a decided lack of regard for her delicate condition, Juliana hurried Corinna and their cousins from the drawing room and through the foyer. Halfway down the steps to the basement, she turned to them. "What in heaven's name is going on here? What on earth am I missing? Something has happened between Rachael and Lady Avonleigh. Something significant. I can tell."

A blind and deaf woman would be able to tell, Corinna thought.

Elizabeth coughed a little sniffly cough. "Lady A is Rachael's grandmother."

"What?" Juliana and Corinna burst out together.

Claire elbowed her sister in the ribs and sighed. "Rachael is Lady Avonleigh's granddaughter. And we're her granddaughters, too. It seems our mother was Lady A's younger daughter—the one who jumped off the London Bridge. Only she didn't, not really. She married our father and moved to Greystone instead. And she never went back to London, because she was afraid someone there would recognize her, and her family would know she was alive."

This was what had happened to make the two sets of sisters babble like that, Corinna realized. And no wonder—the six of them turning out to be related was a positively astounding coincidence. Even more astounding than everyone's being too busy to accompany her to Somerset House at the same time.

"That's why everyone was busy yesterday," Juliana marveled. "You two and Rachael and Ladies A, B, and C were all together, discovering all of this."

"Brilliant deduction," Corinna muttered sarcastically before turning to her cousins. "Your mother didn't have asthma, then."

"No, she didn't. That was just an excuse." Claire pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and blew her nose—because she was overcome with emotion, not because she was coming down with the sniffles. "Please don't tell Rachael you know. She'd be mortified."

"Why?" Corinna asked. "None of this is any fault of hers. Does she think so little of us that she believes Aunt Georgiana's deception would change our feelings toward her?"

"I fear she's not thinking at all right now." Claire crossed her arms over her amethyst bodice and leveled a familiar glare at her sister. "Much like Elizabeth. Again."

Elizabeth sniffled, too. "I'm sorry."

"We promise not to tell a soul." Corinna turned to Juliana. "Don't we?"

Juliana reached to touch both her cousins' arms reassuringly. "We love Rachael, and we're thrilled that she's found more family to love. And do you realize my husband James is your first cousin? How amazing is that?"

Juliana sounded sincere, but Corinna couldn't help noticing that she hadn't actually promised not to tell. She suspected her sister had her fingers mentally crossed. There was something in her tone, a frisson of glee, perhaps, that made Corinna sure she was already plotting her next move.

Juliana was a born meddler, after all, and no doubt she thought this news wonderful for all concerned. For their cousins, of course, and also for Lady A, who'd sorely missed her younger daughter and now had grandchildren at long last. But mostly for Griffin and Rachael, because Rachael's newfound happiness put Juliana that much closer to her goal of seeing the two of them together as a couple.

Corinna had no doubt Juliana would accomplish that goal, because her sister wasn't only a born meddler, she was an annoyingly good one—and anyone with two eyes in her head could see that Rachael and Griffin did belong together. Just like she, Corinna, belonged with Sean.

Sean, of course, was the "certain someone," because Juliana believed they belonged together, too. She'd made orange custard to bring them love. Regardless of the fact that it would be ineffective, that was a meddlesome thing, and Corinna was certain Juliana had plenty more meddling planned.

But for the very first time in her life, she found herself hoping Juliana's meddling would work.

Juliana would be smug beyond belief, of course, but it would save Corinna from having to reveal that Sean had posed for her, which would be totally worth putting up with a slew of smugness.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

An earl's funeral bore little resemblance to the simple ceremonies performed by a country vicar like Sean's father. Lord Lincolnshire was to be buried in Westminster Abbey on Friday, and Sean had also arranged for a reception at Lincolnshire House afterward.

Getting everything in place took the better part of the day, and it was late afternoon by the time he trudged up the steps to the garret studio, hoping Corinna wasn't already waiting. A small part of him couldn't wait to see her, but most of him dreaded her arrival. He wanted a few minutes to prepare himself, to steel himself for what lay ahead.

He didn't have to do this, he knew. There were other, easier ways out. Soon the truth would be revealed, as Hamilton was due in town for the judging and would waste no time claiming his new title. Once that happened, society would make it clear to Corinna that Sean was unacceptable. Or he could allow her brother to explain the facts. But he wasn't a man who expected others to do his dirty work. He still picked up a hammer if he saw the need on a construction site, and he wouldn't leave this task to others, either.

And he had to say good-bye. He needed to tell Corinna just how much he wished things were different. He'd brought something to give her to remember him by, and he'd do that first, while she was still clearheaded enough to be capable of understanding what it meant. He wanted one last kiss, and he wanted, one last time, to hear her sweet feminine voice.

Reaching the top of the stairway, he opened the door to the garret and heard a harsh masculine voice instead. "Go away."

"I beg your pardon?" Thinking for a moment that he must have entered the wrong building, Sean took a step back. Then he blinked as the man turned to face him, paintbrush in hand. "Hamilton? What are you doing here?"

"Working. I'd planned to lease this space, if you'll remember, so I consider it mine." He gestured to a large canvas on the easel, where the essentials of a scene were already taking form. "The falls, with the Lady of the Waterfall visible in the towering gush. Inspired, isn't it? What do you think?"

Sean shut the door behind him. "I think you were due back weeks ago."

Hamilton merely shrugged. "I arrived earlier today, in time to vote on the submissions for the Summer Exhibition." He turned back to his canvas and began adding mist rising at the bottom of the falls. "I told you I would."

"You also told me your uncle would die within days."

"He didn't?"

"Not until this morning."

Unsurprisingly, Hamilton displayed no emotion at the news of his uncle's passing. But he wouldn't stay calm for long—not once he heard what had transpired since he left the country.

Having long since resigned himself to the fact that this entire exercise had been for naught, Sean's main regret was that he'd been unaware of Hamilton's arrival—that he'd failed to speak with the man before the Summer Exhibition selection. He hadn't realized it would take place the very day after the submissions were due. "Did you vote for Lady Corinna Chase's painting?" he asked with a sigh.

"Who the hell is Corinna Chase?"

"The woman we met in the British Museum. The one who said she wanted to paint portraits."

"I don't remember her. And I haven't the slightest idea. As usual, I voted for my favorites without looking at any artists' names." He added more mist. "The entire proceeding proved very tedious. No less than fourteen rounds before the final selection was decided on, and all the while all I wanted was to work on this picture."

"It was a portrait of Lincolnshire. Seated on a bench in Berkeley Square, holding a book—"

"I don't recall anything like that. Not that I would have recognized the old bastard in any case. I haven't set eyes on him since I was a babe—"

"Sweet Jesus, he was your father's identical twin. And she painted him looking younger, probably very much as you remember your own father."

"I didn't see any portraits of my father, Delaney. And I voted for very few portraits overall—you know I prefer landscapes." Having finished adding the mist, he deftly painted some water spraying back up. "My favorite canvas, however," he mused contemplatively, "did turn out to be a portrait. I'm not sure whether it made the final cut—it may not have, because it was very unusual. A sensual study of a golden-haired man, rather scandalously undressed and bathed in candlelight. Henry Fuseli was quite taken with it as well."

That certainly wasn't Corinna's. Which meant Sean was finished with this discussion. "Nothing went the way you said it would, Hamilton. Nothing went as planned."

The man cocked his head, then added a wee smidge of white to a brown blob on his palette. "What could possibly have gone so wrong?" he asked, mixing the colors together idly.

"Everything," Sean said in clipped tones. "To begin with, all of London believes I'm you."

"What?" His attention finally snagged, Hamilton whirled to face him. "How the devil did that happen?"

"Lincolnshire asked me to take him to a ball, promising to keep my identity a secret. My identity as you, you understand. Once there, however…"

It took a good five minutes to explain everything—five minutes during which Hamilton put down his palette, dropped heavily to the threadbare sofa, and finally, inevitably, exploded.

"You bloody son of a bitch! You were instructed to keep the old man happy and stay out of society entirely! Given that you didn't keep your end of the bargain, I'll be damned if I'll keep mine. Deirdre will never see her divorce. She'll bear the next Lincolnshire earl if it's the last thing she does—and with any luck, she'll die in childbirth, so it will be."

Sean had expected no less. Neither was he surprised when Hamilton stalked out of the studio.

Resigned, he drew off his coat and cravat, unfastened the top button on his shirt, and slowly lowered himself to the sofa to wait for Corinna to arrive.

CHAPTER FIFTY

"Corinna," Sean said when she walked in.

Just Corinna. Nothing else. He rose from the battered sofa and walked toward her, and she could see the sadness etched in his face, the weariness in his eyes. He looked battered himself, his coat off, his shirt negligently unbuttoned, his hair disheveled as though he'd run his hands through it over and over.

"Lord Lincolnshire is gone, isn't he?" she said quietly, but it wasn't really a question. "Did you stay up all night with him before he passed?"

Sean's answer was physical, not verbal. He stepped closer and gathered her into his arms. They stood there like that for a very long while, Corinna's eyes closed, her ear pressed to his chest where his heart beat steadily through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"I don't know what happened with your painting," he said at last in a bleak tone of voice.

"Something happened?" she asked, confused.

She felt rather than saw him shake his head. "Hamilton returned and voted before I could speak to him, so he didn't speak to any of the other committee members about you, either. And he said he mostly voted for landscapes."

She opened her eyes, her gaze falling on a large canvas propped on the easel, a scene of a waterfall. Proof of Hamilton's return. Unfinished though it was, the painting was impressive…but the selfishness of its creator made it ugly to her.

And she couldn't care how the vote had turned out, not now. Maybe tomorrow it would matter to her, but right now all that mattered was here in her arms. The man she loved was hurting.

"It's not important, Sean. Whatever happened will be." She sighed and pulled away. "It's all over. I know you're sad that Lord Lincolnshire is gone, and I am, too. But you can reclaim your life now, and that's good, isn't it? The sadness will pass, and you'll be able to return to what needs to be done, and…"

She couldn't bring herself to say that now they could take steps to be together. Sure as she was that he wanted her, he hadn't asked her to marry him yet.

"Corinna. Críona. I need to talk to you. But first I want to give you something," he said, reaching into a pocket. He pulled out a fine link chain with a pendant attached, but she didn't get a chance to see what it looked like before he took her hand and put the necklace in her palm, folding her fingers around it. "It's only silver. My family could never afford anything made of gold. I've the money now to have bought you something more suited to your own family's position—gold and diamonds, rubies or pearls—but I wanted you to have this."

He still held her hand with both of his wrapped tightly around it. His hands felt warm, and whatever was inside her fist felt hard but delicate. "This belongs to your family?"

"For a hundred years or more." His lyrical words came slower than usual, and his voice was a bit rough, the sound of it making her heart hitch. "It was my mother's, and my grandmother's before her, and so on going back for generations."

"Oh, then it should be Deirdre's now, shouldn't it?"

"I want you to have it," he repeated, releasing her. "Have a look at it, Corinna."

Slowly she opened her hand and drew out the necklace, raising it by the chain so the pendant dangled at the bottom. A symbol. Two hands holding a stone heart, surmounted by a crown studded with a few tiny gems.

"They're not diamonds," he told her, "only marcasite. I cannot tell you what the heart is made from, because I don't know."

"It's green," she said with a soft smile. "Like your eyes."

"Is it? I never knew that. But I can assure you it isn't an emerald."

"No, it wouldn't be, because it's opaque. And I don't care what it's made from, anyway. It's beautiful. And it's from you." Anything Sean had given her would have been beautiful to her, of course, but it really was a very pretty thing. "Does it have any special meaning? Beyond the fact that it's been passed down?"

"It does, aye. It's called a claddagh. The hands signify friendship, the crown loyalty, and the heart love. All the things I feel for you, a rún, all the things in my own heart."

A rún meant my love—she remembered that—and he'd said love in English, too. "Oh, Sean. It's perfect." Tears welled in her eyes. "So much better than diamonds or gold." He loved her. She'd thought so for some time now, but hearing the words made it more real. "I love you, too. I love you so much I feel like I might burst, like I cannot hold it all inside me. Will you put this on me?"

She turned around, and he clasped the chain around her neck, his warm fingers brushing her nape. When she turned back, he cradled her face in his hands and lowered his lips to meet hers. It was a long kiss but a gentle one, heartfelt and deep, the tenderest kiss she'd ever received, and she didn't push it to be anything more, because she knew he was hurting.

When he drew back, his eyes burned into hers so intently she caught her breath in reaction. "We need to talk now," he said. "Let's sit down."

"All right." Suddenly feeling apprehensive, she walked the few feet to the sofa and sat. He sank down beside her, angling himself so he could see her. "What is it?" she asked.

He took both her hands. "Corinna. Críona." His voice broke on the Irish word, and she watched him swallow hard. "Lincolnshire told me a story last Friday. That seems so long ago, doesn't it?"

She nodded, her heart pounding with love or trepidation, or maybe a mixture. Today was only Tuesday, yet Friday night, the night she'd spent in his arms, seemed such a long time ago.

"It was a story about his twin brother, Hamilton's father, and why he sent him to Ireland," he began.

And then it all poured out.

She listened silently, taking it all in, until he finished. Until his hands squeezed hers hard, so hard her own hands hurt. "Corinna. That will happen to me now. Having impersonated Hamilton, there's no chance I will ever be accepted in society."

"Oh, God." She knew he was right. The ton wouldn't look kindly upon a man who had tricked Lord Lincolnshire. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"I didn't think of it, either. I knew all along that, by perpetrating this hoax, Hamilton was risking his reputation as an artist. I even warned him of that, and I feared that if it happened he'd retaliate by refusing to release Deirdre. But I never considered how it would affect me personally. Maybe because I didn't think it would matter. Not being part of society, I cared nothing for what they thought of me—not until I fell in love with you."

"Oh, Sean." She leapt the small distance between them, wrapping her arms around him, burrowing her nose into the crook of his neck where she could inhale his warm male scent. "I love you, too," she told him again, the words muffled against his skin. "I was waiting to tell you. Everything was so complicated. But now it's over, and we'll work this out. It will be difficult, but—"

"Corinna. You don't understand." He unwrapped her arms and set her away, far enough to meet her eyes, to capture them with his compelling emerald gaze. "I cannot marry you. There isn't anything I want more in the world, but it's impossible."

"No." That couldn't be. "This wasn't your fault. You didn't even want to do it. You did it for your sister, and for Lincolnshire—you made him happy. You shouldn't have to suffer—we shouldn't have to suffer—because you did the right thing."

"I'm not saying I did the wrong thing. I did the only thing I could. But no one ever promised life would be fair. The people in your social circle aren't going to countenance my lying to such a well-respected man; nor will they ever forgive me for fooling them."

"I don't care. I don't need the people in my social circle. I love you. I want to be with you. If they won't forgive you, if they make our life here too uncomfortable, we'll go to Ireland—"

"Your art would be shunned no matter where you made it. You'd never be admitted to the Royal Academy."

"Sharing my life with you is more important than the Royal Academy. I don't care about that, either."

"I care." He caught her close again and captured her gaze once more. "And should you marry me, Corinna, you and I aren't the only ones who would be shut out of society. Your family would be ostracized as well."

A hole opened up inside her, robbing her of breath.

Alexandra and Juliana, Griffin and Rachael, Frances and the cousins…should she stay with Sean and bear the consequences, they, too, would be rejected by all of society.

She couldn't do that to them.

She was willing to give up her personal dreams in trade for Sean, to condemn herself to a life apart from all she'd known. That would be artistic…wild, passionate, romantic. But she couldn't take her family with her.

She'd be more selfish than Hamilton should she do that.

Her heart cracked, and she could see in Sean's eyes that he felt the same. His overwhelming sadness, his staggering weariness, his battered appearance…understanding all of that now, feeling it herself, she moved into his arms.

They clutched each other, held each other close for a long, long time, wrapped in a cocoon of anguish while sobs racked her body and despair claimed her soul.

And then, when she'd cried herself dry, when there was nothing left inside her but a vast, aching emptiness, he walked her home in silence.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

As Friday afternoon slid into evening, Corinna stood alone in Lincolnshire House's yellow drawing room, wearing a black dress that matched her mood.

Excited voices drifted from the crowded salon, where a reception was being held following Lord Lincolnshire's burial. More babbling came from the entrance hall, where the crowd spilled out. Ladies very rarely attended funerals, so Sean had arranged the reception to allow the women in the earl's social circle a chance to pay their respects.

She'd wager he hadn't anticipated such a crush. He wasn't part of the crush, of course, and she'd been told he hadn't attended the ceremony, either. The reception should have been a polite gathering, the guests soft-spoken and sober rather than excited. But tongues had been wagging ever since this morning, when John Hamilton had shown up at Westminster Abbey and announced he was the next Earl of Lincolnshire.

As she was female, Corinna hadn't been present to witness that, but she'd heard all about it. The men at the funeral had been astonished, to say the least. The new Lord Lincolnshire had informed them that his impostor's name was Sean Delaney, and Sean's reputation had been torn to threads before the reception even began.

Just as he'd predicted, she thought now with a heavyhearted sigh.

For the past two days, lines from Minerva Press novels had run through her head annoyingly, unceasingly. Pamela thinking life is no life without you, and Ethelinde deciding hope seemed to be excluded from her heart, and how, in Children of the Abbey, Amanda had cried, the hand of fate is against our union, and we must part, never, never more to meet!

But although she'd known Sean was right and there was no way they could be together, some small part of her must have been holding out hope, because somehow she'd managed to get through those two days without completely falling apart.

She'd buried herself in her art, locked herself in her room and fixed Lord Lincolnshire's portrait. That had kept her from thinking too much and from facing her brother or anyone else. The picture was finished, and she'd brought it over this morning while Griffin was away at the funeral.

Lord Lincolnshire's house steward, Mr. Higginbotham, had praised the portrait mightily and promised to find somewhere to hang it immediately. Unaware at the time of the trouble brewing in Westminster Abbey, he'd also praised "Mr. Hamilton," telling her each of the staff had received letters that morning with details of their new assignments, to begin Monday.

After she'd left, Mr. Higginbotham had hung the portrait in the yellow drawing room, on the wall behind the armchair where Lord Lincolnshire had been sitting when Corinna first offered to paint it. She gazed at it now, thinking it seemed the right place for it. Above the chair like that, it almost seemed as though the dear earl were still sitting there.

The portrait was mounted beside a Rembrandt, and it should have been a thrill to see one of her own paintings next to an old master. But she hadn't the capacity to feel thrilled when everything else had gone so very wrong.

Even Mr. Higginbotham was scandalized now. A few minutes earlier, when she'd asked him where to find the painting, he'd been sputtering with indignation. From this day forward, Sean would be shunned by society, and that meant she could never see him again without ruining her family. That seemed the only thing that mattered. She didn't know yet whether her picture had been accepted for the Summer Exhibition, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

"Corinna?"

Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to see Griffin enter the room, holding a glass of liquor the color of raw sienna pigment.

"What are you doing in here all alone?" He came to a stop before her, his gaze drifting up to the painting over her head. "Isn't that the portrait you did of Lord Lincolnshire?" When she didn't answer, he looked back down to her. "I thought you submitted it for the Summer Exhibition."

"Obviously I didn't. I submitted something else."

"Really?" Sipping, he looked curious. "What?"

A picture of the man she loved, the man she'd lost. That thought brought a flood of pain. As she couldn't tell her brother she loved Sean, instead she lashed out at him. "Why should you care what I submitted? All you're concerned with is getting me married off!"

"That's not true, Corinna. All I'm concerned with is your happiness. I want to see you happy."

He looked hurt, and that made her hurt even more. "Well, you have an odd way of showing it," she cried, tears flooding her eyes.

She couldn't take this anymore. Not any of it.

Pushing past him, she ran from the room and out into the entrance hall. The grand, pillared area was crowded with people dressed in black—people gossiping—people drinking up the contents of Lord Lincolnshire's liquor cabinet while vilifying the man she loved.

Their faces blurred as she headed for the front door, her brother at her heels.

"Griffin!" Rachael said as he shoved a glass at her. "Where are you going?"

"After my sister!" Having passed Rachael already, he wove through the mass of guests. "I'm going home," he called back.

Rachael watched him follow Corinna at a run, then just stood there for a moment, feeling a bit dazed. She raised the glass to her lips and took a sip, hoping whatever was in it would be bracing.

Brandy. It burned a path down her throat and felt warm in her stomach.

She sipped again.

Juliana walked up. "Where did Griffin go off to?"

"He went after Corinna. I believe he was concerned for her well-being. He seems more responsible than I remember."

Her cousin smiled. "You seem to like him much more than you used to."

Rachael shrugged a shoulder—casually, she hoped. "I guess he's changed over the years."

"Yes, he has. He'd make an excellent husband now, don't you think?"

"For someone else," Rachael said warily.

"For you. I think you two would rub along wonderfully together."

"He's my cousin. You know I won't marry a cousin."

"Rachael…"

Juliana glanced away, her gaze sweeping the thronged entrance hall. Her husband was talking to Alexandra and Tristan, and Rachael's sisters and Noah were in the salon. Apparently satisfied that no one important was watching, she took Rachael's arm and drew her into the room Griffin and Corinna had vacated.

"I know your secret," she said in a low voice.

Feeling blindsided, Rachael struggled to look normal while she sipped more brandy. "What secret?"

"I know John Chase wasn't your father," Juliana said gently. "And I know you're Lady A's granddaughter."

Rachael relaxed a little, and not just due to the brandy. Apparently her cousin didn't know her real father had committed treason, or surely she would have mentioned that, too—because if there was one thing Juliana loved, it was a juicy secret like that.

And she supposed it wasn't all that dreadful for people to know the rest. Her mother had been married when Rachael was conceived, after all—it wasn't as though Georgiana had been carrying a bastard child when she married the Earl of Greystone. And while not being John Chase's blood daughter was a disappointment, being Lady A's granddaughter was a joy.

Still and all, it had been a secret. "Who told you?" she asked.

"It doesn't signify. It was an accident, not intentional, and the person I learned it from wished you no harm. But, Rachael, I…well, I realize you wanted it kept secret, but I thought it best to reveal I know, because there's something you apparently don't know. Or haven't realized yet."

Juliana paused for effect, or maybe to give Rachael a moment to absorb what she'd already said. Because what she said next seemed somewhat confusing.

"You're not Griffin's cousin."

Rachael hadn't thought much about that, but it was true, of course. "I know we're not blood related, since I'm not really a Chase, but…"

"But what?"

"He's still family. Griffin is Griffin. My cousin. We grew up together."

"Why should that matter? There would be no risk of you two conceiving a damaged child like your cousin Edmund, and that was your issue, wasn't it? You wouldn't have to worry about having a child like that with Griffin."

She'd never thought about that, either. Two years ago, when Griffin had first come home from the cavalry, she'd found herself stunned by how much he had changed. Handsome as sin personified, she recalled thinking. The reckless, gangly youth she'd remembered had grown tall, dark, and sleekly muscled, and she'd been shaken by the sudden force of attraction she'd felt. But she'd told herself he was her cousin—not knowing any different at the time—and that had been that.

That wasn't that, though, was it?

"Oh, damn," she finally said softly. "I've been such a bloody idiot."

"We all are sometimes," Juliana soothed.

But Rachael wasn't listening. She'd shoved the glass at Juliana, her black skirts rustling as she ran from the room.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

"Can I not just be sad over the loss of Lord Lincolnshire?"

"Not this sad. You've been hiding in this room since Tuesday." Griffin gazed down at his sister lying on her bed, her back to him. Her knees were hugged to her chest. He couldn't see her face, but she didn't strike him as sad.

More like devastated.

"I'll miss the old man, too," he added, "but it has to be more than that."

She heaved a sigh so pathetic it broke his heart. "All right, it's more than that," she admitted, tears in her voice. "The Summer Exhibition committee did the judging on Tuesday, and my painting wasn't accepted."

"Have you received a letter saying so?"

"No. Not yet. The Exhibition won't open until the first Monday in June, and until the Hanging Committee has finished arranging all the selections on the walls, a few pieces may be in question. So I wouldn't expect a letter yet."

"That's good news, then," he told her, trying to cheer her. "Acceptance must at least be a possibility. Surely they'd have sent a letter by now if the answer were a definite no."

"You don't know that. And I've heard that Mr. Hamilton—I mean, Lord Lincolnshire"—this pronounced with a plethora of disgust—"didn't vote for any portraits."

"He's not the only man on the committee."

"No, there are eight others, two of whom abhor female painters. Another three didn't like my portrait of Lord Lincolnshire, and two more gave me no opinion at all."

"So you'll try again next year." Griffin sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her back. "Maybe you should sign a man's name next time."

She rolled over, and the glare she gave him convinced him it had been a poor time to jest.

"I'm sorry," he muttered quickly.

Now that he could see it, her tear-streaked face made him feel like a complete failure as a brother. He'd known her art was important to her, but he honestly hadn't known it meant so much that she'd be so crushed by a temporary setback. He couldn't remember her ever being this distressed before, not even the two times he'd taken short leaves to come home when their parents had died.

"I know this is important to you," he said carefully, "and I'm sorry if you've felt I've discounted your art while trying to find you a husband. That wasn't my intention. I've just been a little…focused. Apparently too focused. I promise not to do that from now on, all right? I won't push suitors on you. When you see a man you're interested in, just let me know, and—"

"Leave me alone, Griffin," she growled.

"But—"

"Now."

"Very well." He rose and backed away, his hands held up defensively. "I'm sorry, Corinna, truly I am. But I wish you would believe me when I say I want to see you happy."

Rolling to face away from him again, she said, "I know that," in a wan little voice.

He supposed it was the best he could expect for now.

He'd done all he could, he told himself as he left, softly closing the door between them. Too bad it wasn't good enough. Turning to face the door, he banged his forehead against the polished wood, pressing hard.

He would never understand women, never figure out what made them tick. Never be able to decipher their moods. He felt bad that he'd made light of Corinna's art, and he would pay more attention in the future. Make more of an effort to show her he cared and help advance her career, if he could find a way to do that. But he was also certain that finding her a husband to love would improve her disposition.

Or at the very least, make someone else responsible for dealing with it.

He banged his head against the wood again.

"Griffin," he heard nearby. "Are you all right?"

A low, sultry voice that was all too familiar.

He straightened and turned to see its owner, finding her standing there in a black dress that should have made her look drab, or at least less alluring than usual. But it didn't. It had a wide neckline, revealing a good deal of her shoulders, and it rustled as she moved closer, the bodice hugging her seductive curves. Her hair had been done up formally for the reception at Lincolnshire House, leaving just a few loose chestnut tendrils that fell in soft waves around her face.

He swallowed hard and took an uneasy step back, bumping against Corinna's door.

"May I have a word with you?" Rachael glanced around the corridor. "In private?"

He nodded shortly and led the way to his study, aware all the while of her come-hither scent following behind him. Would this torture never end? He'd found her grandmother, hadn't he? He'd tracked her mysterious origins, discovered what had become of her father. What more did she want from him? Why wasn't she with Lady Avonleigh over at Lincolnshire House, together with her happy new family?

After ushering her into the study, he shut the door and turned to her. "What do you want, Rachael?"

She blinked, no doubt taken aback by his unintended harshness. But she recovered her composure quickly. And when she answered him, it was in a tone that made a ball of heat smack him in the gut and spread down.

"I want you to kiss me."

His pulse hammering, he hesitated…until she licked her lips.

"Corinna?

A knock sounded on her closed door.

"Are you all right?" Juliana called.

Corinna might have ignored anyone else, but there was no putting off Juliana. "I'll live," she muttered, rolling over and levering herself to sit on the edge of the bed. Realizing she was clutching the claddagh necklace, she shoved it under her pillow, and, with the back of a hand, mopped the last of her tears off her face. "Come on in."

Juliana did, holding up a piece of heavy cream-colored paper with a large, broken red seal. "A letter came for you."

Just what she needed now, the news of her rejection. Well, at least the suspense would be over. "From the Royal Academy?"

"From the former Lord Lincolnshire's solicitor. Addressed to 'The Marquess of Cainewood.' And then inside it says, 'My Lord Marquess and Lady Corinna Chase.'"

"What does the solicitor want?" Not that Corinna really cared.

"You're requested to attend the reading of the late earl's will at Mr. Lawless's Queen Street offices on Monday at noon."

Corinna shrugged. "Lord Lincolnshire probably left us a trinket. One of his four hundred Ming vases or some such. For being kind through his last few days."

"I don't think he'd leave you and Griffin one vase. Two, maybe." Juliana smiled, a transparent effort to raise Corinna's spirits. "I'm famished. The reception at Lincolnshire House is winding down, so I walked over here to ask the staff to serve a family dinner before the rest of us go home. Will you come down and join us? And where's Griffin?"

"How should I know?" Corinna paused. "And how did you come to read a letter addressed to Griffin if you haven't seen him?"

"Well, obviously," Juliana said airily, "I opened it."

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Griffin had kissed Rachael in his study. He'd kissed her across his study. He'd kissed her as he'd eased her down to a long leather sofa, and now, a good thirty minutes later, he was lying half on top of her, still kissing her.

She'd been kissed before, but not by anyone who kissed anything like Griffin. He put his entire heart and soul into a kiss. When Griffin was kissing her, she was wholly convinced his mind was on nothing but that. On nothing but her. Which made it difficult to think about anything but him, either.

In fact, he made it difficult to think at all.

His kisses went from sweet to warm to burning and back again. From gentle to deep, from rushed to unhurried to frantic. Her senses were reeling, and her mouth seemed filled with the taste of him—hot male and brandy. Her blood seemed filled with him, too, coursing through her veins and beating a seductive rhythm in her ears.

When he finally drew away, when he struggled to his elbows and gazed down at her, she still found it hard to think. His eyes were so very intense, his dazed smile a little crooked, looking delicious. Placing a hand behind his neck, she pulled his mouth back down to hers and kissed him again.

A long while later he drew away once more, and her head finally cleared.

A little.

"You're not my cousin," she murmured.

"I know."

"That means we can marry."

He was off of her like a shot. "Oh, no."

"Oh, no?" Shoving herself to a sitting position, she decided she'd probably shocked herself as much as him by saying that. But it was true.

She wanted to marry Griffin.

She loved him.

She wasn't sure when she'd fallen in love, because she'd never admitted that to herself before—she hadn't been able to, having never overcome thinking of him as a cousin. But she knew she could lean on Griffin; she knew she could depend on him. He'd always be there for her—he'd shown her that, hadn't he? And wasn't that the most important quality for a husband?

And it didn't hurt that he was so handsome he made her breath catch. So tall and lean, so virile and masculine, so well built. His eyes such a pure leaf green, his jaw so strong and square, that slightly crooked smile so engaging.

"Oh, yes," she said, "I want to marry you."

"You don't want to marry me," he returned flatly, a hint of panic in those green eyes. "You think I'm an irresponsible scapegrace."

"Not anymore." Or not exactly. Yes, he said stupid things, and he did stupid things sometimes, too. He had his flaws. But what man didn't? At least she knew Griffin's flaws—she knew what she was getting into with him.

And she'd never felt that powerful force of attraction with any man but Griffin.

She loved him just as he was, flaws and all.

"I do want to marry you," she disagreed, "and, really, how can you refuse me? You've been kissing me for half an hour."

He shifted on his feet, glancing away from her. "They were only kisses, Rachael. And you invited them. You cannot expect a man to turn down an offer like that."

He hadn't kissed her only because she'd invited him. She might be a bloody idiot for not realizing there was no reason she couldn't marry him, but she wasn't so bird-witted she didn't know when a man wanted her.

Griffin had been wanting her for two years, at the very least. A man didn't look at a woman the way he looked at her—or kiss her the way he just had—unless he wanted her. And he loved her, too. She was sure of it. Look at all the trouble he'd gone to in order to find her family. A man didn't go to such trouble for a woman he didn't love.

She couldn't let him get away with saying the time they'd just spent in each other's arms had been only kisses. "Are you telling me all those kisses meant nothing?"

He looked back to her. "That's what I just said, isn't it?"

Oh, that had come too easily. She'd asked the wrong question. "You didn't enjoy them, then? Not at all?"

He hadn't an answer for that, which didn't surprise her. He'd be lying if he claimed he hadn't enjoyed himself.

"Tell me, Griffin," she drawled, rather amused by his increasing discomfort, "would you approve of a man kissing Corinna for half an hour if he had no intention of marrying her?"

He couldn't say that without lying, either, of course. To his credit, he didn't. "No, I wouldn't approve. But she's my sister."

"Well, I think I deserve the same respect as your sister." Rising from the sofa, she reached for her reticule. "So unless you change your mind and declare your intentions, I trust you won't ever kiss me again."

Her lips still felt tender from tonight's kisses, and she wanted more. But she wasn't worried she wouldn't get them. Another of Griffin's flaws was resisting change, but he'd come around eventually.

She figured he'd be kissing her inside of a week.

He jumped to avoid her as she headed for the door. Reaching it, she placed her hand on the knob and glanced over her shoulder. "Will you be attending Lady Hammersmithe's ball tomorrow night?"

"I'm planning to bring Corinna."

Deliberately she licked her lips, watching for a reaction, hiding a smile when she saw that reaction in his eyes. "I'll see you there, then," she practically purred as she opened the door and waltzed out.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The atmosphere in Hampstead was very thick that Friday evening. So thick it seemed an effort to breathe. Just drawing air in and out of his lungs seemed to take everything Sean had.

Sitting opposite Deirdre in his dining room, he shoved his plate across the mahogany table. "I'm not hungry. I haven't eaten in three days, and I'm not hungry."

His sister knew what he'd lost. When he'd asked her where he could find the claddagh necklace, she hadn't asked why. "It's sorry I am for you, Sean," she said softly, her eyes flooded with sympathy.

He didn't want sympathy—he wanted the calendar flipped back to April, to before he'd received that damned letter from Hamilton. Shifting his gaze away, he stared at a blue wall. "I'm not the one who has to go back to a husband I despise."

"At least the man I love isn't forbidden to me entirely, as Corinna is to you. I'll give John a son and then I'll move in with Daniel."

Skeptical, he looked back to her. "You'd leave your child?"

Her chin in the air was so familiar. "Rather than stay with John, yes."

"If you say so," he murmured. But he knew she wouldn't. Once she had a son or a daughter, she'd change her mind. Hamilton would banish Deirdre and their offspring to the countryside, and she'd live there, bored out of her mind, for the rest of her life.

And even should she find the will to leave her child, would Daniel Raleigh wait a year or two or more while she made a son with Hamilton?

He doubted that as well.

"Two letters, sir." A footman walked in, holding them out. "One for you and one for the lady."

With its large red seal, Sean's letter looked important. As the servant left, he cracked the wax and unfolded the paper.

"Who is it from?" Deirdre asked.

"A solicitor on Queen Street in Cheapside. A Mr. Peregrine Peabody. He's wishing to meet with me Monday at noon."

"Regarding what?"

"He doesn't say." Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. "I assume I will finally learn who's been poking around in my business, and what he's managed to trump up to ruin me or put me in prison. And what it's going to take to prove him wrong." He glanced at the folded paper Deirdre held, recognizing the scrawl on the outside as the same on the damned letter he'd received back in April. "What does your husband want now? His uncle isn't in the grave even half a day. Is the rotter summoning you to his bed already?"

She broke the seal and scanned it. "He isn't, no. Not yet. He says I'm to attend the reading of the late Lord Lincolnshire's will on Monday. He's sending a carriage to fetch me at eleven o'clock."

"Where is the reading being held?"

"John doesn't say. Just that the carriage will come in the morning." She glanced up from the paper, looking nervous. "Remember that ball Lord Lincolnshire took us to? What if someone who was there recognizes me as the woman introduced as your wife?"

Sean reached to lay his hand over hers on the table. "I don't expect the Billingsgates' guests will be at the reading, Deirdre. It will likely be just you and Hamilton and that lawyer named Lawless."

"I'm not sure that lawyer ever got a good look at me. We were never formally introduced."

"You've nothing to worry yourself about, then." He patted her hand. "Even should Lawless recall seeing you at Lincolnshire House, you are Hamilton's wife. Lincolnshire's niece by marriage. It's not unbelievable you'd be at the man's deathbed."

"That's right." He saw her relax a little. "I wish you could come with me, though."

"I wish I could, too," he said dryly. "I also wasn't formally introduced, but I've no doubt Lawless saw me. And should he not remember me, I'm certain Hamilton would be happy to remind him. And in any case, I cannot go with you because I'll be busy Monday at that time."

Feeling yet more incapable of breathing than earlier, he heaved a sigh. The atmosphere seemed to be getting even thicker.

"The way my luck has been going lately," he ground out, "I'll probably be busy getting arrested."

When Rachael and her siblings returned home from the reception at Lincolnshire House, their butler handed a folded paper to her brother. "A letter, my lord."

With its large red seal, it looked important. "What does it say?" Rachael asked as the butler closed the door.

Pausing in the foyer, Noah raised the letter to his forehead. "Hmm. I'm getting a vision. I think it says—"

"Noah." She whacked him with her reticule, feeling giddy. She was in love, and she was going to get married. Griffin was going to be kissing her inside of a week. Maybe tomorrow night. "Open it, you fool."

"If you insist." He broke the seal and scanned down the page. "It's from a solicitor in Cheapside, Mr. Lawrence Lawless. He wants us to attend the reading of Lord Lincolnshire's will Monday at noon."

"Us?" Elizabeth slid off her pelisse. "What do you mean by us?"

"All of us." Shrugging, Noah looked up. "It's addressed to all four of us."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

"You're late," Juliana said when Griffin arrived at Lady Hammersmithe's ball Saturday night.

"Fashionably late," he corrected, spotting Rachael talking to her sisters. She was wearing another clingy dress, a sapphire blue one with a wide, low neckline and tiny sleeves that left her shoulders and most of her arms bare.

"Where's Corinna?"

"Still in the doldrums." He looked back to Juliana. "You can blame her for making me fashionable. She refused to leave the house."

"Yet you came anyway," she said, appearing speculative. "Why is that?"

He wasn't about to tell her he'd come to see Rachael. Juliana meddled enough without him encouraging her. "Am I not allowed to socialize without an agenda?" Since she looked even more speculative, he changed the subject. "I expect tonight's buzz is still all about yesterday's revelations?"

"Mr. Delaney, you mean? Actually, no. The chitchat tonight is about how everyone's been invited to the reading of Lord Lincolnshire's will on Monday."

"Everyone?"

"When James and I arrived home last night, there was a letter waiting. Alexandra and Tristan got one, too. As did every other household in Mayfair, if one can believe the talk."

"I've never heard of such a thing."

"The reading is going to be a shocking squeeze." Juliana sounded thrilled at the prospect. "Lord Lincolnshire cannot have left bequests to everyone, so I wonder what could be the reason."

"You'll know soon enough." He looked over toward Rachael, only to find she was gone. "Have you seen Noah or any of his sisters?"

"Last I noticed, Rachael was talking to Claire and Elizabeth." She glanced around. "Oh, Rachael's dancing now. And Noah just walked into the refreshment room." That speculative look came into her eyes again. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering if they received a letter, too," he said casually. "I'll go ask Noah."

Leaving Juliana, he ambled toward the refreshment room—then went right past it. And around to the far side of the ballroom, where she couldn't see him. He couldn't care less whether his cousins had received a letter. But Rachael dancing…

Well, that was another matter altogether.

He shifted uneasily, watching the rake Rachael was dancing with pull her closer, watching him run a hand slowly down the back of her clingy dress. When the music ended and she curtsied to the rake, Griffin moved quickly to block her path off the dance floor.

"What are you doing, Rachael?"

"What do you mean, what am I doing?"

"Why are you dancing?"

"I'm at a ball, if you haven't noticed. What else should I be doing but dancing?"

"I don't recollect you dancing at a ball in the last two seasons, except with me. You told me you didn't like men pawing you."

"Well, I thought I didn't, at the time." Watching him, she licked her lips. "But a certain experience last night changed my mind."

"I didn't paw you last night," he protested, fighting an urge to paw her now. He'd wanted to paw her last night as well, but he'd managed to control himself then, too. She was Rachael, for God's sake. He'd known her since she was in the cradle. She'd asked only for him to kiss her, and he wouldn't have presumed to do anything more.

"Maybe I wanted you to paw me," she suggested. "It crossed my mind that might have been enjoyable."

Clenching his jaw, he looked away. Bloody hell, she'd accused him of disrespecting her and all he'd done was kiss her for half an hour. After she'd asked. Now he wasn't allowed to kiss her again unless he proposed first, but it was all right if another man pawed her?

In the distance, Juliana caught his eye. Standing in a clutch of jabbering chatterboxes, she glanced between him and Rachael and raised a speculative brow.

"Instead of dancing," he gritted out, "why don't you just gossip like every other female?"

Rachael followed his gaze. "I'm not Juliana, if you haven't noticed."

Now, that he'd noticed. He'd never once been tempted to stick his tongue in his sister's mouth.

"I prefer dancing to gossiping," Rachael informed him archly. "Especially now, since I'm looking for a husband."

"You're doing what?"

"You heard me. Since you don't want to marry me, I've decided to find someone who's ready to make me his wife." The lips he'd kissed last night curved into a satisfied smile. "Stop gaping, Griffin. You look better with your mouth closed. Not that I care what you look like anymore," she added, and sailed off.

Three minutes later Griffin was still standing there, and Rachael was dancing with another man. Another rake. This one seemed to be whispering secrets in her ear.

Ten minutes later, another rake was holding her too close.

Ten minutes after that, another rake was making her laugh. Had Griffin ever made her laugh? With him, that was, not at him?

It stuck in his gizzard, seeing her in the arms of other men. When she came off the dance floor for the third time, he pulled her aside again. "Why all of a sudden do you want to get married?"

"I'm twenty-four years old, Griffin, and I wasted two seasons chasing down my father. I'll be on the shelf if I don't marry soon. That's what decided me."

"You don't just decide to find a husband, Rachael."

"Odd statement, coming from you. Is that not what you've decided for Corinna?"

"I've changed my mind. I'm thinking it would be better to wait until she falls in love. I'd suggest you do the same yourself."

"I have fallen in love," she informed him. "But since it took twenty-four years to happen, I don't think I can afford to wait for it to happen another time. Your mouth is open again," she added before she turned in a swish of clingy skirts and walked away.

Not a minute later, she was dancing once more.

Griffin's mouth remained open for quite a while.

She loved him? Hardly a word passed her lips that didn't disparage him. And if she loved him, why the devil was she dancing with yet another rake? One with the gall to put a hand on her luscious derrière, no less? Just for a split second, but Griffin had seen it. He wanted to strangle the man.

Juliana sauntered by. "Close your mouth, Griffin," she said as she passed, her voice filled with speculation. She turned to walk backward, a smug smile emerging as she studied him. "You look jealous," she said before turning again and walking away.

Now he wanted to strangle her.

Was he jealous? Could he possibly love Rachael back? He'd thought what he felt for her was just lust, but mere lust shouldn't incite jealousy. It was easy enough to find someone to satisfy lust, after all. Women did tend to throw themselves at him.

And if this was what jealousy felt like, he didn't care for the emotion one bit.

By the time Rachael curtsied to the rake who'd touched her luscious derrière, Griffin was standing next to her. "You must have misunderstood me yesterday, Rachael."

She turned to him. "How is that?"

"It isn't that I don't want to marry you. I just don't want to marry you now. I'm not ready to take on a wife. At the moment, I've too many other responsibilities. I'm quite concerned about Corinna. Before I even think about settling down myself, I need to concentrate on getting her married. To a man she loves."

"I'll tell you what you need to concentrate on, Griffin, and that's growing up. You're thirty years old. For God's sake, Noah's growing up, and he's only twenty-two. If I wait until you're ready, I'll be waiting forever."

"I'm not asking for forever, Rachael. Just until Corinna's married."

"Corinna won't be married for another year at least. The season's more than half over, and she hasn't shown interest in any man yet. In fact, your sister seems rather wed to her art career, which means she may not ever marry. Have you considered that?"

He hadn't, and the thought struck terror in his heart.

And Rachael wasn't finished. "If I agree to wait until she's married, I could end up a shriveled old lady, and you'll still be asking for time." She shook her beautiful head. "Thank you for the offer, but no."

"But I love you."

He couldn't believe those words had come out of his mouth, but even more than that, he couldn't believe her response.

"I know that, Griffin. But I want children. I'm going to find someone who's willing to marry me while I can still bear them." She rose to her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll see you at Lincolnshire's solicitor's office on Monday."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

When Sean arrived in Queen Street on Monday at noon, he found it clogged with traffic and pedestrians. Having never seen any street in Cheapside so busy, he considered himself lucky to find a place to leave his curricle in a mews only two blocks away.

Walking back, he mentally rehearsed what he might say in the meeting. At the bottom of the three steps that led to the solicitor's office, he stopped to check the plaque mounted by the building's door to make sure he was in the right place.

88 QUEEN STREET
PEABODY & LAWLESS
ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW

Mr. Peregrine Peabody being the solicitor he was supposed to meet, he nodded to himself and started up.

Then stopped again, ignoring a steady stream of people pushing past him up the steps.

Peabody and Lawless?

Lincolnshire's solicitor?

His first thought was to slink away. A summons issued by Lincolnshire's solicitor was potentially much worse than being summoned to discuss supposedly nefarious business dealings. He knew all his business dealings were on the up-and-up, after all. No matter who accused him of what, he ought to be able to prove his innocence, even if doing so might prove a grand piece of work. When he'd told Deirdre he might be busy getting arrested today, he hadn't really meant it.

But had impersonating Lincolnshire been an actual crime?

Had he been summoned here to be arrested?

"Sean!" Coming up the steps, Deirdre looked astonished to see him. "What are you doing here?"

"I wish I knew." He gestured toward the plaque. "These are Peregrine Peabody's offices, too."

Another woman mounting the steps did a double take, then turned to face him. "Mr. Delaney, isn't it? You have quite the nerve showing up here. Hmmph," she added, pushing through the door, no doubt to spread the news that he'd arrived.

There was nothing for it. There would be no slinking away. "Come along," he muttered, taking Deirdre's arm and steeling himself to face the fire.

But instead he came face-to-face with Corinna.

At first, Corinna thought Sean was a figment of her imagination. She wasn't ever supposed to see him again, and he especially didn't belong here. But then their gazes met and held, convincing her he was real, and something disturbing shuddered through her.

A mixture of love and anguish and regret.

Seeing him made her happy and sad and excited and apprehensive, all in a single instant. Her hand went up to touch the necklace he'd given her, but it wasn't there, of course. She could wear it only in her room at night, where no one would see it and ask questions.

She started toward him.

"You need to come inside now, Corinna." Griffin appeared, giving her no choice as he took her arm and began weaving her through the crowded corridor. "Mr. Lawless is about to begin, and you've been commanded to sit in the front."

She looked back, but Sean was already lost in the crowd. She could only hope he was following.

When Griffin had told her that everyone they knew had been asked to attend the reading, she'd figured he'd been exaggerating. She'd had no concept of just how many people would show up. They crammed the large chamber where the reading was to be held and spilled out into the corridor, filling the building all the way back to the front door. With all the bodies in the way, she and Griffin barely managed to squeeze into the room.

Mr. Lawless was a very tall, very serious-looking man. Over a sea of chattering heads, Corinna could see him from where she was stuck in the back. "Ladies and gentlemen," he called. "I beg your attention! Will the following individuals please make their way to the front row. John Hamilton, the ninth Earl of Lincolnshire. His wife, Deirdre, the ninth Countess of Lincolnshire. Lady Corinna Chase. And Mr. Sean Delaney."

The crowd suddenly parted like the Red Sea, letting Corinna through. Griffin followed and went to stand at the left end of the front row, against the wall. Corinna noticed that the rest of her family already waited there. Four chairs at the front sat empty save for small signs set upon them that said RESERVED. Corinna dropped gratefully onto one of them, and a moment later the new Lord Lincolnshire lowered himself to the chair on her left, and Sean took the seat to her right.

Deirdre sat beside Sean rather than her husband.

"Why were you asked here?" Corinna whispered to Sean.

He looked pale. "I wish I knew. I assumed—"

"Ladies and gentlemen," the solicitor interrupted. "Although the eighth Lord Lincolnshire requested your presence, I feel compelled to inform you at the outset that you did not all receive bequests. Alas, while he was well-known for his generosity, Lord Lincolnshire's largesse did not extend quite that far." He paused while an amused titter ran through the room. "Rather, Lord Lincolnshire asked you here to stand as witnesses to his final wishes."

Now a speculative murmur circulated the room instead. Mr. Lawless waited for that to die down before continuing.

"Let us begin." A suspenseful hush fell as he raised a large document. "'I, Samuel Hamilton, eighth Earl of Lincolnshire, being of sound mind and failing body, declare that this is my last will and testament. I revoke all prior wills and codicils. I wish to thank everyone who has assembled to bear witness to my wishes. I have instructed Mr. Lawrence Lawless not to schedule the reading of this will until my nephew, John Hamilton, has arrived in London and presented himself as my heir, which I hope will prove to be sooner rather than later. I assume that doubtless scandalous event has by now taken place.'"

Shocked whispers buzzed around the room, accompanied by a few more titters. Corinna and Sean exchanged wary glances.

"'I imagine it came as a surprise that an impostor has been posing as my nephew. It certainly came as a surprise to me. What may come as a larger surprise indeed is that I also discovered my true nephew, John Hamilton, was responsible for the deceit. He demanded another man impersonate him and made certain said man did so by means of blackmail.'"

Gasps filled the room, and John Hamilton jumped from his seat. "I object to that slander!"

Griffin stepped forward. "This isn't a trial. You have no right to object to anything." He shoved the man back down. "Stay, Lincolnshire," he ordered as though the new Lord Lincolnshire were a misbehaving dog.

Which he was, of a sort.

Mr. Lawless cleared his throat and continued. "'Needless to say, I was disappointed to learn my nephew is as immoral as the reputation that precedes him. For him I wish all the censure he deserves. Contrarily, I wish everyone to know that his impostor, whom I am now identifying as Mr. Sean Delaney, proved one of the best men I've ever had the privilege to meet. He treated me better than an uncle—indeed, better than a father—and were I to be granted one impossible wish, it would be to have had such a man for my son.'"

Corinna's heart had stuttered when Sean's name was read off, and it was racing now. An expectant silence filled the room as Mr. Lawless lowered the document and looked around as though making sure everyone had heard his words. He nodded slowly before raising the will once more.

"'And so, my dear friends, I have summoned you to this event in order to beseech you to treat Mr. Delaney as I believe he deserves to be treated. Rather than persecuting the man, I beg you to accept him into our circle. I will remind you that you've all claimed numerous times that you'd do anything for me, and this is my most fervent request.'"

The solicitor glanced up again, this time looking directly at Corinna and Sean.

"'In addition…'"

At the significant pause, everyone sat up straighter.

"'In addition, although I will not put any conditions in this will stipulating the matter, as I believe such decisions are best left to those whose hearts are involved, I wish to publicly convey my hopes that Mr. Delaney will propose marriage to Lady Corinna Chase.'"

If Corinna thought everyone's gasps were loud before, the ones they emitted now sounded like nothing less than a roar. And the loudest gasps of all came from her family. Meeting Griffin's eyes first and then those of her sisters, she reached for Sean's hand.

"And now, for the bequests…"

She hardly heard what came next, at least not at first. She felt faint. Her blood was thundering in her ears. Sean's hand felt warm in hers, and when she squeezed it and he squeezed back, she feared her heart might burst.

She glanced back to her family. Griffin's mouth was open in shock, Alexandra nodded approvingly, and Juliana's grin was smug beyond belief.

The last, at least, was no surprise.

And the reading wasn't yet finished.

"'… only my title as required by law and the small amount of entailed property that goes along with it,'" Mr. Lawless was saying. Given the indignant huff to Corinna's left, she guessed that was the new Lord Lincolnshire's punishment. "'The balance of my fortune will be held in trust, the income to go to charity. I name Mr. Sean Delaney as trustee to oversee all investments and distribution, because I know him to be a man who has no need for the income himself, a man with an excellent head for business, and most important, a man who is eminently fair and makes decisions for the right reasons.'" The solicitor paused for effect. "'Unless…'"

Skirts rustled and shoes shuffled. Everyone sat on the edge of their seats.

"'Unless,'" he repeated, "'my errant nephew, John Hamilton, grants Deirdre Hamilton a divorce, in which case he shall receive half the income of the trust in perpetuity.'"

John Hamilton stalked out of the room as Deirdre collapsed in a swoon.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Still holding Corinna's hand, Sean walked with her and Deirdre toward Mr. Lawless, who stood by the door where he'd been busy ushering everyone out. Although Sean's little party was the last to leave the chamber, excited chatter could be heard from the corridor. The reading of Lord Lincolnshire's will would doubtless be talked about for weeks.

"I'll be setting up the trust in the next few days," the solicitor said. "I'll need to meet with you to go over the details. Shall we say next Monday, at the same time?"

Sean nodded. "Agreed. But I've one question I'd like answered today."

"I have lots of questions," Corinna said.

"I'm thinking your brother can answer most of them," Sean told her, and looked back to Lawless. "Why did the letter I received requesting my presence here come from your partner rather than yourself?"

"Those were Lord Lincolnshire's instructions. He didn't want my name on the letter. He thought you might not show, fearing arrest."

"Lincolnshire was a clever man," Sean said, as arrest was exactly what he'd feared on seeing Lawless's name. "My thanks." He held out his free hand, and the solicitor gave it a firm shake. "I shall return a week from today."

As Sean, Corinna, and Deirdre stepped into the corridor, the chatter ceased. Apparently a nosy lot, most of the people followed them outside, where Corinna's family waited bunched together on the pavement.

Sean tried to drop Corinna's hand as they approached, but she tightened her grip. Lady Stafford, Corinna's middle sister, elbowed their brother when she noticed the two of them walk up.

Cainewood turned. "Ah, there you are, Corinna. Due to the atmosphere here on Queen Street"—he waved a hand, indicating all the busybodies—"we've decided to discuss these developments at home." He looked to Sean. "If you could follow us there, I'd appreciate your participation in the discussion."

"I'm riding home with Sean," Corinna announced.

"Sean? Since when do you call the man Sean?" Glancing down to their clasped hands, her brother's eyes widened. "It isn't proper for you to ride alone with an unmarried man."

"Sean has an open curricle, so I can assure you nothing improper will happen."

Snickers came from all around them, this sort of exchange being exactly what nosy busybodies loved to overhear. Cainewood's jaw seemed to be clenched. Suspecting none of this boded well for the man's approval of his suit, Sean looked to Corinna. "I need to take Deirdre with me, a rún," he told her apologetically. "The curricle seats only two."

"Your sister is welcome to ride with my husband and myself," Lady Stafford piped up at the same time Cainewood said, "What did you just call my sister?"

Deirdre smiled. "A rún. It means 'my love.'" She didn't seem to notice Cainewood's reaction as she turned to his middle sister. "And I would be pleased to ride with you, Lady Stafford. Thank you for the offer."

"I think you should call me Juliana," Lady Stafford told her. "I've a feeling we'll be related soon."

The buzz around their little group was becoming deafening. Cainewood's next words came from between his teeth. "I think—"

"Oh, let them ride together, Griffin," Corinna's eldest sister interrupted, wheeling a squeaky perambulator back and forth. "My goodness, what do you think could happen in an open curricle? There's my carriage now." A large vehicle crept to a stop in the snarl of traffic. "Let's all go," she said, pushing the perambulator toward it.

Her husband followed. Lady Stafford took her own husband's arm and smiled at Deirdre. "Our carriage is this way, Lady Lincolnshire."

"Call me Deirdre," Deirdre said. "I won't be Lady Lincolnshire for long."

As the three of them walked off, a lovely young woman moved to stand squarely before Corinna's fuming brother. "It seems your sister may be getting married a lot sooner than you expected, hmm?" she all but purred.

"Good God," Cainewood said, and walked off, too.

A delighted smile on her face, the woman joined three other young adults that looked like they might be her sisters and brother. "I want you to drop me off at Griffin's house," she said as they all departed.

Leaving Sean and Corinna alone.

Well, except for the dozens of buzzing busybodies.

"Who was that?" Sean asked.

"My cousin Rachael. I think Juliana is about to get even more smug. Where is your curricle?"

"In a mews about two blocks from here." Still holding her hand, he drew her in the right direction. The crowd parted to let them through, but Sean felt at least a hundred eyes on his back.

"Am I dreaming?" Corinna asked, seemingly oblivious to all the curious gazes. "Just an hour ago, all was lost. Now suddenly your reputation is restored—no, more than that, it's golden—and we can get…"

Her voice trailed off, as though she were afraid to say what came next.

"Married?" Sean supplied.

"You never actually asked me." They turned a corner, and she threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Sean, I've never been so happy!"

He held her tight and risked a short kiss, since they'd escaped the prying eyes. She tasted better than forbidden sin, and she felt divine pressed against him. But he couldn't bring himself to share in her happiness quite yet.

"Let's not count our chickens before they're hatched," he advised, remembering Cainewood's clenched jaw. "Lincolnshire's endorsement notwithstanding, your brother may not approve."

"Oh, don't worry about Griffin," she said gaily, rising to her toes for another quick kiss. He obliged her, of course. "I have a plan to persuade him."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind." A bounce in her step, she turned and resumed walking. "We're all going to live happily ever after, just like in Minerva Press novels."

"Not all of us," he pointed out. "Not Hamilton."

"No one will buy his paintings now, will they? He's going to need half the income from his uncle's trust."

"Very clever, that stipulation." They turned into the mews where his curricle was waiting. "Lincolnshire knew it would get him to free Deirdre."

"She looked so happy, Sean."

"Believe me, she is." Digging a coin from his pocket, he handed it to one groom as another helped Corinna climb up. Sean walked around to the driver's side and swung up beside her. "And I'm relieved to know she won't be living in sin," he added as he lifted the reins. "Or at least, not for long."

As the horses clip-clopped out of the mews, Corinna snuggled against him. "What do you mean?"

"Deirdre won't be waiting for the divorce to come through before she moves in with Raleigh," he said with a sigh, turning onto the street. "That will take a long while, and she won't be patient. Impulsive, my sister is, not to mention a wee bit wild."

"I guess that wildness runs in your family," Corinna said, grinning up at him. "Her brother posed naked for an artist."

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

A short time later, Griffin found himself seated on a sofa in his drawing room, surrounded by members of his family and a couple of near strangers with Irish accents. And each and every one of them—except for the baby—wanted something.

His two brothers-in-law wanted to go home. That he could understand. If he weren't already home, he would want to go home now, too.

Alexandra wanted to know how Lincolnshire had come to learn everything his will had revealed. He couldn't blame her for that, as he'd be clamoring for the information himself if he didn't already have it.

Juliana wanted Corinna to marry Delaney. Corinna wanted to marry Delaney. Delaney's sister wanted Delaney to marry Corinna. And Delaney wanted to marry Corinna.

These four people were responsible for half of the new cracks in his teeth.

And then there was Rachael, sitting beside him on the sofa, enveloping him in her come-hither scent. She wanted to marry him.

Which made her responsible for the rest of the cracks.

The beginnings of a headache pulsed in his temples. Alexandra wasn't seated. Holding little Harry, she was bouncing him unceasingly in a rather frantic, rhythmic fashion. While it worked to keep the baby from crying, Griffin's headache escalated just watching her.

"How on earth did Lord Lincolnshire learn everything?" she asked for the third time.

He decided to give her what she wanted first.

But before he could unclench his jaw to do so, Delaney answered. "I'm thinking Lincolnshire got the facts from your brother," the man told her. "A mere two days before he died." Sitting on a sofa across the drawing room, with Corinna beside him—right beside him—he looked to Griffin for confirmation. "That morning he summoned you…it wasn't to say good-bye, was it?"

"No, it wasn't," Griffin said. "He wanted information. I take it he asked you to find future employment for all of his staff?"

"He asked me to continue employing them all at Lincolnshire House, which I knew Hamilton wouldn't do. So I offered to find alternative employment for them instead."

"Well, you did too good a job of it, raising his suspicions. He subsequently requested that Mr. Lawless hire someone to investigate the various concerns where his servants would eventually work, to make certain they all existed and his people would be treated well. In the process, Lawless discovered all of the establishments were owned by a single man, a certain Mr. Sean Delaney." Griffin paused, feeling rather awed despite his suspicions that this man had kissed his sister. "You own a lot of property, Delaney."

"Among other things. You needn't worry that your sister might ever want for anything."

Griffin snorted. "You'll keep her in dresses, I expect—should I agree to let you have her." When Corinna opened her mouth to protest, he forged ahead. "From there, Lawless made further inquiries and learned you were posing as Hamilton, and furthermore, that Hamilton was your brother-in-law. Feeling you were a good man"—this uttered with more than a little irony—"Lincolnshire summoned me to ask if I knew why you might have done such a thing."

"And you confirmed his suspicions?" Corinna asked.

"He was close enough to confirming them for himself. I told him Delaney agreed to the hoax for his sister's sake and attested that Hamilton was quite deserving of his less-than-stellar reputation. Lincolnshire seemed especially incensed that his nephew had refused Mrs. Hamilton the divorce she wanted." He looked to Delaney's sister. "He was quite taken with you, if you didn't know."

"I loved him, too," she whispered, tears in her eyes.

"He considered your brother a saint, and he compared you to the angels. He wanted you happy. And he requested that I not reveal what he knew. He wanted to settle everything his own way. I expect his will was rewritten that very afternoon."

"Didn't you think we'd have wanted to know?" Corinna asked rather indignantly. "I was devastated, and Sean thought he was being set up to take a fall—"

"I agreed to keep Lincolnshire's secret in order to make the old man happy. The exact reason you kept secrets, if you'll recall. I followed through after his death because I like to think I'm a man of my word. I felt Lincolnshire deserved to resolve the matter as he wished. And furthermore"—he glared daggers at her—"I had no knowledge the two of you were involved, so I had no reason to worry for your happiness should Delaney be discredited. You denied any interest in him, and you told me you were saddened over the loss of Lord Lincolnshire and because your painting isn't likely to be accepted for the Summer Exhibition."

That tirade rendered his youngest sister speechless, a rare state for Corinna. Griffin found a measure of satisfaction in that.

He was going to allow her to marry Delaney, of course. He was thinking a late summer wedding at Cainewood Castle, after the season ended, would be perfect. While he wished he knew Delaney better, he liked what he'd learned of the man thus far. Lincolnshire had considered him worthy, and Griffin trusted the earl's judgment. Most important, Corinna was in love, and Griffin wanted to see her happy.

But he was sick and tired of being manipulated by all the people he loved.

Before he granted his permission, he was planning to make everyone else squirm for a change. And he planned to enjoy it.

"Do you not like Sean?" Corinna finally asked.

"I would like to have his skill for investing," Griffin said dryly, leaving it at that for now. He shifted to look at the man in question. "Given Lincolnshire's attitude, I suspected he wasn't planning to make you pay for your deception. But I felt no responsibility either way. As far as I was concerned, you had dug your own grave."

Slowly Delaney nodded. "And now I expect I have to lie in it."

"No, you don't," Corinna disagreed heatedly. "Griffin will allow us to marry. I have a secret that will ensure it."

"Another secret?" Suddenly Griffin wasn't finding this so enjoyable. His headache was getting worse. "What the hell sort of secret?"

"Maybe he kissed her for half an hour," Rachael suggested sweetly.

Griffin cracked another tooth.

"Open your eyes, Griffin," Juliana put in. "A blind man could see they belong together."

"I see they seem to be glued together," he said darkly.

Delaney immediately put space between himself and Corinna, and Corinna immediately scooted right back against him. Griffin found that slightly amusing, which worked to calm him down a bit.

Delaney's pretty blond sister cleared her throat. "Lord Cainewood, you admired Lord Lincolnshire, didn't you? I'm thinking you should trust his judgment regarding my brother."

"I'm thinking this is none of your concern," he said, thinking she was the only one with an intelligent argument.

Unsurprisingly, Juliana wasn't ready to give up. "What do you think, James?"

Her husband looked at her as though flowers had just sprouted from her ears. "I think I'm staying out of this."

"Alexandra, Tristan?"

They both shook their heads, Alexandra doing so while still maniacally bouncing the baby.

Crossing her arms, Juliana looked back to Griffin. "You have to let them marry."

"I don't have to do anything."

"They can elope to Gretna Green," she pointed out with more than a little smugness.

"I won't do that," Delaney put in quickly. "I won't go behind her brother's back."

"I knew you'd say that," Corinna said. "That's why I'm prepared to use the secret."

Griffin swung back to her. "What secret?"

"Maybe he kissed her for more than half an hour," Rachael suggested.

Which made Griffin wonder if maybe things had gone beyond kissing. "Did he paw you, Corinna?"

She looked confused. "Did he what?"

An awful thought occurred to him. "You aren't in the family way, are you?"

"No, I'm not in the family way! He didn't do anything that could get me in the family way. Sean's much too honorable to even consider such a thing. He's the son of a vicar, if you didn't know."

Griffin hadn't known, and he was rather pleased to hear it. "So, then, what's the secret? What did he do?"

She hesitated, her gaze darting about the room. She appeared to be holding her breath. Beside her, Delaney looked like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him. Alexandra stopped bouncing, and the baby began crying.

Griffin saw Corinna's breath rush out, saw her suck in another one—a single, shuddering, ragged breath—and then she opened her mouth—

"You know what? I don't want to hear it." Suddenly, he didn't. He was absolutely certain it was something that would make him furious, something that would make him demand Delaney marry his sister immediately.

In fact, he was going to do just that, just in case.

So much for a late summer wedding at Cainewood.

"You two will be married tomorrow."

Corinna finally left Delaney's side, rushing over to smother Griffin in a hug. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you for not making me use my secret. You won't be sorry."

"I'm sorry already," he muttered. "It's a miracle I have any teeth left in my mouth."

"They cannot marry tomorrow," Juliana said. Smugly. "They'll need a special license. And she'll need a dress."

"She has dozens of dresses. I know, because I paid for all of them." Griffin disentangled himself from his sister and set her away. "Very well, then, you have until Friday to get a license and pick a dress. Not a day later. And you and the vicar's son will not be alone together until then." The baby was still bawling, a racket loud enough to rattle his aching teeth. He had a raging headache. "Leave, all of you, please. Except for Corinna. Now."

Most of the family shuffled out. Mercifully, the baby's cries faded away with them, and as they left the house, the noise ceased altogether.

"I'm going to walk Sean and Deirdre to the door," Corinna said quietly. "I'm not leaving." The three of them walked into the foyer.

Rachael had stayed put, naturally. Now she moved closer, enveloping Griffin in her damned come-hither scent again. Against his better judgment, he shifted to face her.

"I've reconsidered your offer," she said in her low, sultry voice.

"What do you mean?" he asked, fearing he knew what she meant.

"I said I wouldn't wait until your sister married. But as I can wait until Friday without becoming a shriveled old lady, I've changed my mind."

She moved closer, so close her mouth was a whisper from his.

And she licked her lips.

"Do you want to kiss me, Griffin?"

His head hurt. He felt beaten down. And he was being manipulated again, damn it.

But he very much wanted to kiss her.

He loved Rachael. She was so open and refreshing, so competent and levelheaded. Having run an earldom for a number of years, she would be a fine helpmate. He didn't want to lose her to a rake with the gall to touch her luscious derrière.

The next man to touch her luscious derrière was going to be him.

Her sweet breath washed over him, tantalizing him, making his own breath catch. Her mouth was so close he could taste her already. Struggling for control, his heart pounding double-time, he leaned in. She met him halfway and nipped at his bottom lip, and he yanked her close, feeling his control snap, crushing his mouth against hers.

A bloodcurdling scream came from the foyer.

His heart pounding triple-time, he leapt to his feet and rushed out to see who was being murdered.

No one was dead. But it was difficult to be thankful for that when he saw the way Corinna was wrapped around Delaney. No man should ever see his sister in such an embrace. She was literally hanging on the fellow, her arms around his neck, her legs all but around his waist.

She was sobbing, and she clutched a crumpled letter. Delaney's sister plucked it out of her hand and brought it to Griffin.

Somerset House, Monday 26 May

Lady Corinna Chase:

The Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition Committee is pleased to inform you that your painting has been accepted for our 1817 Exhibition. Please be advised that Varnishing Day will take place Friday 30 May in preparation for the Exhibition's opening on Monday 2 June.

Congratulations,

Benjamin West

President

"I cannot believe it," Corinna choked out through a sob.

"I'm not at all surprised," Griffin said.

She slid off Delaney, thank God, and dashed the tears from her face. "You're not?"

"You're very talented, Corinna." He was pleased as punch for her. "Since Varnishing Day is Friday, we'll move the wedding to Saturday."

"And make it a double wedding," a sultry voice added behind him.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

The Great Room, which housed the Summer Exhibition, had been built at the very top of Somerset House so it could be illuminated by skylights. It was accessed by a wide, winding staircase that seemed endless. Corinna's knees trembled as she climbed up it on Friday afternoon, gripping her paint box like a life preserver.

"Are you getting tired?" Sean asked, taking her arm to steady her.

"A little," she said.

She was glad Griffin had relented and allowed Sean to accompany her. But unfortunately, he'd done so only after extracting a solemn promise from the "vicar's son" that he would bring her here and straight back, and she knew Sean was so honorable he'd stick to that promise.

Which meant this would be another day without kisses.

The four days since Griffin had agreed to their marriage seemed the longest four days of her life. Two special licenses had been procured, and the minister booked, and nothing much more had happened. The double wedding tomorrow was going to be a very quiet affair, even smaller than Lady Cavanaugh's. Besides the two brides and grooms, only Corinna's family and Deirdre, Rachael's siblings, and the ABC sisters would be attending. Aunt Frances couldn't come, as she was still in confinement—new mothers stayed at home for the first month.

The wedding would take place in the afternoon in the Berkeley Square house's drawing room, and then they'd have a little dinner, and then everyone would go home.

Juliana was very disappointed. She'd wanted more of a fuss made about everything. But Corinna didn't care about the wedding, just like she didn't care that she didn't have a new dress to wear for it. The wedding was only something to get past.

The wedding night, however…

"I'm a little tired and a little nervous," she admitted, still climbing.

"About our wedding night?"

"No." The thought of that was just exciting. "What if my painting is hung up very high? Or down near the floor?"

"Why should it matter where it's hung? It's an honor just to be in the Exhibition, isn't it?"

"The room is designed with a line going around it, a strip of molding mounted eight feet above the floor. The pictures placed with the bottom edges of their frames along the line are considered the best. It's an extra honor to be hung not high or low, but right there in the middle. I'm afraid to look."

"Well, I don't see how not looking is going to change anything. But if you want, I'll look for you and let you know."

"You can't." On the landing, she stopped before the Great Room's open door to catch her breath. "You won't recognize my painting." That was another thing she was nervous about. "It's not Lord Lincolnshire's portrait."

"It's not?" He looked totally nonplussed. "Well, what is it, then?"

"My secret," she said and stepped in, hurrying to the center of the room.

Varnishing Day seemed to be chaos. Artists were everywhere, on chairs and ladders and their knees, blocking Corinna's view of all the pictures on the soaring walls. They hung frame-to-frame, fitted like puzzle pieces floor to ceiling. She turned in circles, frantically searching for her own.

"Sweet Jesus," Sean burst out.

"Where? Where is it?"

He took her by the shoulders and swung her around. "There. And it's quite some secret."

She stared at it, feeling breathless, and not because she'd climbed a hundred stairs. "They liked it."

"They wouldn't have accepted it had they not liked it, críona."

"But it's on the line. In the place of honor. They really liked it."

"Hamilton loved it," he said dryly. "He described his favorite submission to me precisely. 'A sensual study of a golden-haired man, rather scandalously undressed and bathed in candlelight.' I had no idea the scandalously undressed man was me."

"And neither did he, a man who's known you since childhood. No one will recognize you, Sean." Tearing her gaze from her picture, she turned to him. "I changed your coloring."

"But Deirdre will want to come see it, and your brother—"

"I didn't end up telling Griffin my secret," she reminded him, thanking God she hadn't needed to. "It won't occur to them it could be you. You're not angry with me, are you? No one here is recognizing you, either. And it's not because they haven't noticed the painting." Indeed, several artists not involved in their own work stood before it, discussing it, a sight that made her heart sing. "Why didn't you tell me Hamilton liked it so much?"

"When he described it, I was certain it wasn't yours. I saw no point in mentioning he loved someone else's work."

He shook his head in apparent disbelief, but she was thankful he didn't seem upset. Her hand went up to touch her necklace. She was so lucky to have found such a tolerant man.

"Are you going to varnish it now, then?" he asked.

"In a minute." She wanted to let it all sink in for a while first. She shifted her paint box to her other hand, looking around. "Sean," she whispered, thrilled. "It's J.M.W. Turner. There, in the top hat and tails. I've heard he always dresses like that."

"His painting doesn't look finished."

The artist had hung an all but monochrome canvas. "You're color-blind. How can you tell?"

"It's a landscape, and the sky isn't even blue. How the devil did it get accepted?"

"Academicians are allowed to hang six paintings each without going through the selection process," Corinna explained in an undertone. "And Varnishing Day isn't just for varnishing; it's also for fixing little things. Turner is rather famous for this trick. While his fellow artists—"

"That's you," Sean interrupted.

"Oh, God, it is, isn't it?" She felt her heart might burst. "While the rest of us struggle to fix some tiny mistake, he practically paints an entire picture."

"Thus proving his technical virtuosity?"

"And awing everyone else in the process." She watched the dull painting blaze to life as Turner swiftly transformed it with glorious chrome and brilliant vermilion and costly ultramarine. He stood so close to his canvas he appeared to paint with his eyes and nose as well as his hands. "He's legendary," she whispered. "They call him the painter of light. He first exhibited here at the age of fifteen."

"While you're an ancient twenty-two?"

"I suppose I should feel lucky you're willing to marry such an old hag."

"We'd best wed quickly, a rún, before you get any older."

"Is tomorrow soon enough?"

"An hour from now wouldn't be soon enough."

She laughed, a joyous sound that warmed Sean's heart. "I don't know how Turner does it. He's been known to produce two hundred and fifty pictures in a single year. It takes me at least two weeks to complete a painting."

"Not that one." Sean gestured to his image on the wall.

"That one just flowed out of me," she admitted. "I guess I'll varnish it now."

She looked nervous as she walked toward it, paint box in hand. Sean followed, moving a step stool so that she could reach it.

"Is that yours?" someone asked as she climbed up, setting off a volley of comments.

"She's unknown!"

"A female painted that?"

"A genius."

"I think it's shameful," a disgruntled man disagreed.

Through it all, Corinna held her head high, nerves notwithstanding. She made her own way in the world, just like Sean did. That was why he loved her.

Well, that and because she made his blood surge with just a look.

Only one more day until he made her his forever. Standing back, he smiled as she dipped her brush in varnish and began swiping it over his bare chest.

CHAPTER SIXTY

"Well," Griffin said. "That's it." Upstairs in the Berkeley Square town house, he shut the master bedroom door and leaned his hands against it. "Corinna is on her way to Hampstead, to a house I've never even seen."

"You'll see it soon," Rachael said behind him, where he knew she was slipping off her shoes.

He heard the soft give of the mattress as she sat on the bed across the room, and he imagined her rolling down her stockings. To torture himself just a bit, he remained facing away, the sound of swishing silk making his body stir, making his blood heat.

"And I'm sure it's a fine house," she continued, her sultry voice sliding into him. "Deirdre told me it's enormous, and set in acres of gardens and woodland, and it was built by Robert Adams. She said her brother has more money than a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow."

"That man could eat a pot of gold for breakfast and never notice it was missing. I swear, Rachael, I didn't know it was possible for one man to have so much. It boggles the mind. But it doesn't matter. He has Corinna now, and that's all that counts. Corinna wanted him, and I wanted her happy."

"You did the right thing, Griffin. She loves him, and he loves her. And I love you."

"I love you, too." He straightened and turned, feasting his eyes on her. She rose and took a few steps toward him, barefooted and gorgeous. Hopping on one foot and then the other, he pulled off his own shoes and stockings, then ripped off his tailcoat and waistcoat, leaving it all littering the floor as he went to her.

He couldn't believe he'd wed Rachael. He couldn't believe anything that had happened this week, all the incredible events that had led to him marrying his sister to a man he hardly knew and to getting married himself.

And he couldn't believe he still hadn't touched his wife.

She was beautiful inside and out, the most beautiful thing in his life. And all he'd ever done was kiss her. For just half of one hour. For all his bluster about men keeping their hands off his sisters, he'd never imagined marrying a woman he'd barely kissed and never really touched.

"You're wearing your mother's wedding dress," he said, walking toward her, remembering her pulling it out of the heavy oak trunk, and how he'd thought it looked lacy and beautiful. It fit her perfectly, as he'd known it would. Rachael was all willowy, graceful curves, and the sight of her in his bedroom, in the white dress, made his throat ache. It made his palms itch.

He couldn't believe she was his and he still hadn't touched her.

"You look lovely," he told her, walking closer.

"You look better." He was standing before her now, so close they were only a breath apart. "I'm a Chase now," she said.

Her come-hither scent was overwhelming him, making him dizzy. "Is that why you wanted to marry me? So you could think of yourself as a Chase again?"

"No, that's just a bonus. I wanted to marry you because I love you. I want to make children with you."

Hearing that spiked his lust, kicked his pulse up a notch or two or three. He very much wanted to make children with her.

And he still hadn't touched her.

Her face was raised, her cerulean eyes fastened on his. Her breath washed over him from between her parted lips. Slowly, very slowly, she licked them. "Do you want to kiss me, Griffin?"

"I do," he said.

But first he wanted to put his hands on her luscious derrière.

He did that, and then he used his hands to yank her against him, and after that a fever seized him, raging in his blood. Now that he'd touched her, he had to touch her everywhere. His hands skimmed her hips, her sides, her breasts, and he was kissing her. Kissing her mouth and nipping at it, claiming her with lips and teeth and tongue. He was mad for her. He'd always been mad for her, it seemed, but now she was his, and he was going to have all of her.

Somehow they made it to the bed and rolled there together. Somehow the wedding dress came off, and Rachael was tearing at Griffin's clothes, frantic to get her hands on bare flesh. She'd thought she'd been in control of this relationship, but something had been unleashed in the man she loved, unleashing a wildness in her, too. She wasn't surrendering herself to him, not exactly. Maybe they were surrendering to each other. It didn't signify, and she didn't care.

She ran her hands all over him, feeling his muscles jump beneath her fingers. Then she used her lips and her tongue, tasting his skin, savoring his flavor, warm male with a hint of salt. He dragged his own mouth over every inch of her, her neck and shoulders, her breasts and belly, taking what she was furious to give.

She'd always been destined to be with him. Realizing that now, she cursed herself for all the wasted time, all the months she'd spent suppressing her feelings, thinking of him as a cousin or a brother and concentrating on things that didn't really matter. Happy as she was to have discovered new family, the person most important to her had been by her side all that time, and she was grateful beyond belief that she'd seen the truth before it was too late.

He was poised above her now, his intense green gaze burning into hers. What she saw there made her heart squeeze. Passion and desire, yes, but also devotion and understanding. And bountiful, beautiful love.

"This might hurt," he whispered.

"I don't care," she said, and she didn't. She wanted to join with him. She wanted to belong to him, and she wanted him to belong to her, pain be damned.

She wrapped her legs around his lean, bare hips, pressing herself closer, feeling an incredible urgency where he was ready to enter her. Slowly he lowered his head, and when he kissed her, she tasted her future. A future filled with possibility and wonderful days and endless, blissful nights.

She felt glorious, and he felt hot against her hands, against her body. His mouth felt feverish and sent a matching fever singing through her. Her world narrowed to one of pleasure and give and take, and when he finally slid home she held tight and knew she would never let go.

Although Sean's house was but a few minutes' walk from Hampstead Heath and the High Street, Corinna found herself amazed when the curricle started up the long, serpentine drive. The property seemed in a different world, the setting idyllic, a picturesque, pastoral landscape. As they approached the classical villa, the sun was setting low on the horizon, its last rays glinting off many glossy arched windows in the creamy white building.

"Oh," she breathed, "it's beautiful."

"It's glad I am it pleases you, a rún."

Sean's melodic Irish lilt went right through her, and her veins thrummed with anticipation. She snuggled against him with a happy sigh. "We're almost there. You'll be able to touch me."

His arm tightened around her shoulders. "I'm touching you now," he pointed out.

"Not where I want."

"My straightforward Corinna." His low laugh rang into the night as he slid his hand down her arm, stopping at her elbow. "Here? Is this where you want me to touch you?"

"Not quite," she breathed on a frustrated sigh.

He slid down to her hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb on her sensitive palm. "Here, then?"

"Sean…"

His fingers brushed along her side and down her hip to the outside of her leg. Liquid heat pooled in her middle. "Closer?"

"Oh, yes," she said.

He shifted to rest his hand atop her thigh.

"You're getting closer," she whispered. His palm felt warm through her thin dress, and at the teasing sensation her stomach did a flip-flop. "I feel like I've been waiting forever."

His hand went to the reins as he pulled the curricle to a halt. "Well, you're going to be waiting a lot longer, críona."

"What?" She watched him agilely leap down and come around to her side.

"I want this night to be perfect," he said, reaching up for her. "I won't be touching you anywhere more intimate for quite a while."

It sounded like a promise or a threat, but he had to be fooling. Knowing he wanted her as much as she wanted him, she laughed when he scooped her into his arms rather than setting her on her feet. "Put me down."

"Oh, no," he said, striding toward the house. "They say the husband must carry the bride over the threshold to protect her from evil spirits."

She marveled that he carried her so easily. He was so strong, so masculine, so muscular. Feeling the heat radiating from his body, she linked her arms about his neck. "Do you believe in evil spirits, Sean?"

"I believe they're a good excuse to carry you." He pressed a warm kiss to her mouth as the door opened, revealing a portly, gray-haired servant. "Good evening to you, Simpson," Sean said, stepping inside. "This is your new mistress, Lady Corinna Delaney."

Simpson kept an admirably straight face as he shut the door. "Welcome, my lady."

"I'm pleased to meet you." Corinna glanced around the entrance hall, a square room with a polished wooden floor and pale blue walls trimmed in white. "Put me down, Sean."

He didn't. "If the bedroom is ready, Simpson, I'll thank you to make yourself scarce and see that everyone else does as well." While the man walked off in one direction, he carried Corinna in another. "You'll meet the rest of the staff tomorrow, mo chroí."

She wondered what he meant by the bedroom being ready. "We're inside now, so you can put me down."

"I think not." Holding her close, he carried her through a dining room with blue walls and a crystal chandelier. "I'm finding I rather like carrying you."

In truth, she rather liked being carried. No one had carried her since she was a child, and the pure romance of it made her head swim. It made her heart sing. It made the blood pump through her veins at an alarming speed.

Sean swept her through a drawing room carpeted in blue with blue sofas. "I don't want a tour," she said breathlessly. "Just take me to your bedroom."

"Our bedroom," he corrected in a tone deep with meaning. He carried her past a library with white columns and plush ultramarine-blue velvet chairs, and on into a small, cobalt-blue lobby. "There's another wing and two more levels you can see tomorrow."

"I expect all of those rooms are blue, too?"

"Except for Deirdre's. I don't know what color it is. Maybe you can tell me."

"Not tonight," she said, thankful his sister had gone to Daniel Raleigh's house.

"I haven't any paintings," he said apologetically as he started up a grand staircase with a blue runner. "You can buy any paintings you want and hang them wherever you'd like."

She turned her face into his neck, inhaling his clean, soapy scent. "I don't care about paintings, Sean."

"And everything doesn't have to stay blue. You can have the rooms repainted any colors you'd like. You can have the furniture reupholstered or buy new."

"I don't care what color the rooms are." She was melting. His heat seemed to penetrate her skin, making her liquefy in his arms. "All I care about is you," she told him as they finally reached the master bedroom.

Set before a huge blue-toned tapestry, the bed was covered with a plush, sapphire blue counterpane and piled with lighter blue pillows. He walked to it, laying her upon it so gently, so reverently, that every bone in her body seemed to dissolve.

When he stepped back, her breath caught. He was so very male, so strong and toned, so darkly handsome. He looked better than a Greek god, but even better than that, he was the best man she'd ever known.

And she saw what he'd meant by ready. Candles flickered everywhere—on the windowsill, along the marble mantel, atop every piece of furniture—bathing the room in shadows and dancing light. Dozens of them. He must have set them about before leaving to marry her, must have instructed a servant to light them when they arrived. Like a Minerva Press hero, she thought, her heart doing a slow roll in her chest.

"Oh, Sean," she breathed. "It's a wonderland."

"Every bride should have a wonderland, mo chroí."

Sean thought she was a wonder herself, a vision in a simple white dress, those brilliant blue eyes hazy with desire. His necklace glimmered silver against her skin, and he found himself staggered by the raw possessiveness he felt at the sight. He couldn't believe everything had worked out so he could have her—it seemed a miracle, and much more than he deserved.

He planned to go slowly and savor every moment. Before he touched her where she wanted, he intended to drive them both completely senseless.

He wanted this night to be perfect.

He slipped off her shoes, untied her garters, drew her stockings down, a sensual slide of silk. Slowly, watching her watch him, he removed his own clothes. Slowly he lowered himself to meet her, slowly he cradled her face in his hands, slowly he kissed her. Just a taste, a slow brush of mouths before it deepened and became long and slow and languid.

Slowly, slowly, he reminded himself, maneuvering his hands to unbutton her dress. Slowly he nudged it off a shoulder. Slowly he tasted her there, nuzzled her warm skin, breathed in her fragrance, heady and overwhelming.

He had such a need for her, a terrible hunger that made it hard to stay gentle. Through her dress he felt every tantalizing curve. He felt her quickening, felt her trembling, flooding his senses. He would never get over the wonder that a simple man like him had been gifted with such perfection.

I won't be touching you anywhere more intimate for quite a while, he'd said, and Corinna's husband was a man of his word. In his quest to make this night perfect, it was a very, very long time before he touched her where she wanted.

For forever, it seemed, he just kissed her. Kissed her mouth and her cheeks and her chin, trailing down to her throat. His utter lack of urgency proved transfixing. Feeling dreamy, feeling his slow pace drizzle into her, she tilted her head back in surrender and allowed him to take her where he would.

Sweet torture it was, sweet torment. Sliding her dress off, he teased through her chemise, rolling her over, rolling her back, searing heat following his fingers. He drew her chemise off and explored her bare skin, his hands and his mouth and his tongue going everywhere but where she wanted them most.

Every place he touched her she felt a glow, a swath of sensation that claimed her body and robbed her mind. Murmured endearments tumbled off his tongue while his hands went between her thighs, stroking and caressing everywhere but where she wanted.

Candlelight danced as pleasure mounted, becoming unbearable, unendurable, unbelievable. Trembling with need, she reached down to give him the same. Stroking gently, she felt steel sheathed in silk, learning the length of him and the breadth of him and imagining him inside her. A glimmer of excitement darted through her, and her hands grew bolder.

Slow down, Sean mentally ordered as she drove him to distraction, threatening to shatter his resolve. Wanting to make this night perfect, he struggled to center himself, tried to pull back, pressing his mouth to the delicious curve where her neck met her shoulder in an effort to find calm. But the rising need raged out of his control. It had always been this way between them, and he knew it always would be, and he thought perhaps he should be thankful for that…and then he ceased thinking at all.

The world slipped away, leaving nothing but sensation and the passion that raged between them, powerful, fierce, and violent.

And he touched her as she'd wanted.

A slide of fingers, a slick caress, and she was arching helplessly against him. "Here?" he whispered. "Or…here?"

"Oh, there!" she cried as he found a spot so exquisite a skittering of heat flashed through her. "Now, Sean," she breathed, arching again. "Take me now."

She was shimmering, she was throbbing, and he was moving over her, nudging her entrance. Wrapping her legs around him instinctively, she sucked in a breath as he slipped inside her. A tiny burst of pain went as quickly as it had arrived, leaving her astonished at the wonder of being filled, of being possessed, of being utterly one with the man she loved.

He was hers, and she was his, and nothing had ever been so right.

And then he moved in her, and nothing had ever been so sublime.

She raised her hips, straining to be closer to him, and together they sought a rhythm. Together they were lost, together they found oblivion, together they soared. They caught cries of pleasure in each other's mouths and, washed in candlelight, stayed locked together while the world slid back into place.

And it was perfect.

Thank you for reading The Temptations Trilogy!

If you enjoyed reading The Temptations Trilogy,
please post a review.
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If you'd like to learn more about the real
people, places, and events in
The Art of Temptation,
read on for my Author's Note.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear Readers,

During the Regency, a female artist like Corinna might have had her picture accepted for the Summer Exhibition—but it's a sad truth that she probably never would have been elected to the Royal Academy of Arts. In 1768, the founding membership did include two women, Angelica Kauffmann and Mary Moser. However, ladies weren't admitted to the Royal Academy schools until 1861, and the next female Academician, Dame Laura Knight, wasn't elected until 1936.

Although we think of art from Corinna's era as classic, it was the contemporary art of its time, and the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition is the largest contemporary art show in the world. Held every year since 1769, the Exhibition is and always has been the place to see a wide range of new work by both established and unknown living artists. Admission cost one shilling in the nineteenth century, and the exhibit has been extraordinarily popular all along. Attendance grew from 60,000 in 1780 to 390,000 by 1879. In 2006, the show drew over 150,000 visitors (including me and my family!), and more than 1,200 works were included.

The Summer Exhibition Selection Committee members who attended Lady A's reception were the actual committee members in 1817, with the exception of Thomas Phillips. I removed him to make room for the fictional John Hamilton. I do apologize to Mr. Phillips, but I had to choose someone, and he was the man with the least biographical information to draw on.

It's been said that the modern novel was born in 1740, when Samuel Richardson wrote Pamela or Virtue and Reward. A tale of frustrated sexuality, it sparked controversy that created a thirst for more of the same. As a result, reading Gothic and romance fiction became a decades-long craze. Or maybe it still is a craze…as a romance reader, what do you think?

In about 1790, an Englishman named William Lane saw an opportunity and established Minerva Press. For a number of years, Lane dominated the novel publishing industry. Over half the popular books were printed by Minerva Press, and Lane reportedly made a fortune. According to the poet Samuel Rogers, Lane was often seen tooling around London in a splendid carriage, attended by footmen with cockades and gold-headed canes. All of the lines from books that Corinna recalls in The Art of Temptation are real quotes from Minerva Press novels that Corinna could have purchased in 1817.

Most of the homes in my books are inspired by real places. I modeled Lincolnshire House on Devonshire House, which was designed by William Kent and served as the London residence of the Dukes of Devonshire for nearly two hundred years. Because I wanted Lord Lincolnshire to live in Berkeley Square, I turned this house around—in reality, the house fronted on Piccadilly Street and its gardens backed up to the square. Devonshire House is no longer standing, but before it was demolished in the 1920s, many of the interior furnishings were moved to Chatsworth, the duke's residence in the countryside. You can still see some of them there.

Sean's house was inspired by Kenwood House in Hampstead. Set in an idyllic landscape beside Hampstead Heath, the house was expanded by Robert Adam between 1764 and 1779. Although Sean didn't have any paintings, the real house is a veritable gallery. Edward Cecil Guinness, brewing magnate and first Earl of Iveagh, bought Kenwood House in 1925, and when he died in 1927, he bequeathed the estate and part of his art collection to Britain. The house is open daily all year round, and if you visit you will see important paintings by many great artists including Rembrandt, Vermeer, Constable, Turner, Reynolds, and Gainsborough. I like to imagine that, with Sean's vast fortune at her disposal, Corinna might have put together such a collection!

The Chases' town house at 44 Berkeley Square has been described as "the finest terrace house of London." It was designed in 1742 by William Kent for Lady Isabella Finch. Unfortunately, you cannot visit, because the building is currently being used as a private club, but if you go to Berkeley Square, you can see it from the outside. Look for the blue door.

Stafford House, Juliana's home in St. James's Place, is based on Spencer House, one of the great architectural landmarks of London. Built in the eighteenth century by John, 1st Earl Spencer (an ancestor of Diana, Princess of Wales), it was immediately recognized as a building of major importance. Should you ever find yourself in London, I highly recommend a visit. Spencer House is open to the public every Sunday except during January and August.

To see pictures and learn more about the real people and real places featured in The Art of Temptation, please visit my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com, where you can also find modern versions of all the recipes in this book, sign up for my newsletter, and enter a contest to win Corinna's claddagh necklace. If you try any of the recipes, I hope you'll e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com and tell me whether you enjoyed them!

If you'd like to read about earlier generations of the Chase family, check out my book Amethyst, the first title in my Jewel Trilogy. You'll find an excerpt in the back of this book. Amethyst, set in 1666, features Colin Chase, an ancestor of Rachael's brother and sisters. And the second Jewel Trilogy book, Emerald, is the story of Jason Chase, an ancestor of Griffin and his sisters.

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 The Art of Temptation—thank you for reading!

Till next time,

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks:

To this book's editor, Laura Cifelli, for her unfailing insight.

To my critique partner, Terri Castoro, for her patience and talent.

To Deborah Alexander, MD, for helping me choose an appropriate illness for Lord Lincolnshire and spending much precious time describing all the pertinent details. (For anyone who may not know, dropsy is currently called edema and in Lord Lincolnshire's case was caused by heart failure.)

To Andrew Potter, research assistant at the Royal Academy Library, for the list of Academicians on the 1817 Selection Committee and historical information on the selection process.

To Devonie Royal-Gordon (best daughter in the world), for reading bunches of old Minerva Press novels and pulling out quotes for me.

To Brent Royal-Gordon (tied for best son in the world), for designing my website and developing an awesome Mac app (Novelty Press, coming soon to the Mac App Store) to format my ebooks.

To my husband Jack, for maintaining my website and updating it whenever I ask (which is way too often).

To Jack, Brent, Blake, and Devonie, for putting up with hearing, "Not now, I'm writing," way too many times.

To the Jewels of Historical Romance for all the wonderfully heartwarming support.

To my official First Readers—Ken and Dawn Royal, Herb and Joan Royal, Taire Martyn, and Karen Nesbitt—for invaluable feedback.

To my incredible, hardworking Street Team (many more names than I can list, but they're all on the Street Team page on my website), for their ongoing enthusiasm and support.

And, once again, to my readers, because I do this for you.

Thank you, one and all!

BONUS MATERIAL

Books by Lauren Royal
Contest
Excerpt from AMETHYST
A Gift for You
About the Author
Contact Information

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

ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN

The sterling silver claddagh necklace Sean gave Corinna in The Art of Temptation!*

To enter, visit the contest page on Lauren's website at
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.

Excerpt from
AMETHYST

Book one of the
Jewel Trilogy
by Lauren Royal

London
April 22, 1661

The last time Amethyst Goldsmith saw her king, she was five years old and he was about to have his head severed from his body. Now, twelve years later, she sincerely hoped his son would have better luck.

She shouldered her way through the crowd, her parents and aunt murmuring apologies in her wake. "Here, there's room!" Finally reaching a few bare inches of rail, she clasped it with both hands and turned to flash them a victorious smile. "Come along, it's starting!"

Hugh and Edith Goldsmith joined her, shaking their heads at their daughter's tenacity. Hugh's sister Elizabeth squeezed in behind. Ignoring the grumbling of displaced spectators, Amy spread her feet wide to save more room at the front. "Robert, over here!"

Robert Stanley tugged on her long black plait as he wedged himself in beside her. She shot him a grin; he was fun. Although he'd arrived just last week to train as her father's apprentice, Amy had known for years that she was to marry him. So far they'd gotten along fine, although he'd been surprised to find she was far more skilled as a jeweler than he. Surprised and none too pleased, Amy suspected. But he would get over those feelings.

She might be female, but her talent was a God-given gift, and she'd never in this lifetime give up her craft. Robert would have to learn to accept that.

With a sigh of pleasure, Amy shuffled her shoes on the scrubbed cobblestones. "Look, Mama! Everything is so clean and glorious." She breathed deep of the fresh air, blinking against the bright sun. "The rain has stopped…even the weather is welcoming the monarchy back to England! Have you ever seen so many people? All London must be here."

"These cannot all be Londoners." Her mother waved a hand, encompassing the crowds on the rooftops, the mobbed windows and overflowing balconies. "I think many have come in from the countryside."

A handful of tossed rose petals drifted down, landing on Amy's dark head like scented snowflakes. She shook them off, laughing. "Just look at all the tapestries and banners!"

"Just look at all that wasted wine," Robert muttered, with a nod toward the fragrant red river that ran through the open conduit in the street.

Amy opened her mouth to protest, then decided he must be fooling. "Marry come up, Robert! You must be pleased King Charles will be crowned tomorrow. Twelve years of Cromwell's rule was enough. Now we have music and dancing again." She felt like dancing, like spreading her burgundy satin skirts and twirling in a circle, but the press of the crowd made such a maneuver impossible, so she settled for bobbing a little curtsy. "We've beautiful clothes, and the theater—"

"And drinking and cards and dice," Robert added.

"That too," Amy agreed, turning back to ogle the mounted queue of nobility parading their way from the Tower to Whitehall Palace. Such jewels and feathers and lace! Fingering the looped ribbons adorning her new gown, she pressed harder against the rail, wishing she too could join the procession.

"Where did they possibly find so many ostrich feathers in all of England?" she wondered aloud, then burst into giggles.

Her aunt laughed and wrapped an affectionate arm around her shoulders. "Where do you find the energy, child? You must come to Paris. Uncle William and I could use your happy smiles."

Feeling a stab of sympathy, Amy hugged her around the waist. Aunt Elizabeth had lost her three children to smallpox last year.

"We need her artistry here," Amy's father protested, poking his sister good-naturedly. "Your shop will have to do without."

"Ah, Hugh, how selfish you are!" Aunt Elizabeth chided. "Hoarding my niece's talent for your own profit." She aimed a mischievous smile at her brother. "No wonder we moved to France to escape the competition."

Amy grinned. Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle William had been forced to move their shop when business fell off during the Commonwealth years. But they'd flourished in Paris, becoming jewelers to the French court, and wouldn't think of returning now.

"I'm glad you came for the coronation, Auntie. It wouldn't be the same without you."

"I wouldn't have missed it," Elizabeth declared. "Old Noll drove me out of England, so my home is elsewhere now. But it's God's own truth that no one here is happier than I."

"Listen!" Amy cried. A joyous roar rolled westward toward them, marking the slow passage of His Majesty in the middle of the procession. "Can you hear King Charles coming? There are his attendants!" The noise swelled as the king's footguards marched by, their plumes of red and white feathers contrasting with those of his brother, the Duke of York, whose guard was decked out in black and white.

All at once, the roar was deafening. Amy grasped her mother's hand. "It's him, Mama," she whispered. "King Charles II." Glittering in the sunshine, the Horse of State caught and held her gaze. "Oh, look at the embroidered saddle, the pearls and rubies—look at our diamonds!"

Amy didn't care for horses—she was terrified of them, truth be told—so she paid no attention to the magnificent beast himself. But three hundred of her family's diamonds sparkled on the gold stirrups and bosses, among the twelve thousand lent for the occasion.

"Oh, Papa," she breathed, "I wish we could have designed that saddle."

Aunt Elizabeth's hand suddenly tightened on Amy's shoulder. "Charles is looking at me," she declared loudly.

Amy's father snorted. "Always the flirt, sister mine."

Amy's gaze flew from the dazzling horse to its rider. Smiling broadly beneath his thin mustache, the tall king waved to the crowd. His cloth-of-silver suit peeked from beneath ermine-lined crimson robes. Rubies and sapphires winked from gold shoe buckles and matching gold garters, festooned with great poufs of silver ribbon. Long, shining black curls draped over his chest, framing a face that appeared older than his thirty years; the result, Amy supposed, of having suffered through exile and the execution of his beloved father.

But his black eyes were quick and sparkling—and more than a little sensual. Some women around Amy swooned, but she just stared, willing the king to look at her.

When he did, she flashed him a radiant smile. "No, Auntie, he's looking at me."

Before her family even stopped laughing, the king was gone, as suddenly as he had arrived. But the spectacle wasn't over. Behind him came a camel with brocaded panniers and an East Indian boy flinging pearls and spices into the crowd. And then more lords and ladies, more glittering costumes, more decorated stallions, more men-at-arms, all bedecked in gold and silver and the costliest of gems.

Yet none of it mattered to Amy, for there was a nobleman riding her way.

It wasn't the richness of his clothing that caught her eye, for in truth his garb was rather plain. His black velvet suit was trimmed with naught but gold braid; his wide-brimmed hat boasted only a single white plume. He wore no fancy crimped periwig; instead his own raven hair fell in gleaming waves to his shoulders.

Deep emerald eyes bore into Amy's, singling her out as he angled his horse in her direction. His glossy black gelding breathed close, but she felt no fear, for the man held her safe with his piercing green gaze. It seemed as though he could see through her eyes right into her soul. Her cheeks flamed; never in her almost-seventeen years had a man looked at her like that.

He tipped his plumed hat. Flustered, she turned and glanced about, certain he must be saluting someone else. But everyone was laughing and talking or watching the procession; no one focused their attention his way. She looked back, and he grinned as he passed, a devastating slash of white that made Amy melt inside.

Long after he rode out of sight around the bend, she stared to where he had disappeared.

"Amy?" Robert tugged on her hand.

She turned and gazed into his eyes: pale blue, not green. They didn't make her melt inside, didn't make her feel anything.

Robert smiled, revealing teeth that overlapped a bit. She hadn't really noticed that before. "It's over," he said.

"Oh."

The sun set as they walked home to Cheapside, skirting merrymakers in the streets. Her father paused to unlock their door. Overhead, a wooden sign swung gently in the breeze. A nearby bonfire illuminated the image of a falcon and the gilt letters that proclaimed their shop GOLDSMITH & SONS, JEWELLERS.

There came a sudden brilliant flash and a stunned "Ooooh" from the crowd, as fireworks lit the sky. Amy dashed through the shop and up the stairs to their balcony.

Gazing toward the River Thames, she watched the great fiery streaks of light, heard the soaring rockets, smelled the sulfur in the air. It was the most spectacular display England had ever seen, and the sights and sounds filled her with a wondrous feeling.

If only life could be as exhilarating as a fireworks show.

When the last glittering tendril faded away, she listened to the fragments of song and rowdy laughter that filled the night air. Couples strolled by, arm in arm. Robert stepped onto the balcony and moved close.

His voice was quiet beside her. "This is a day I'll never forget."

"I'll never forget it, either," she said, thinking of the man on the black steed, the man with the emerald eyes.

Robert tilted her face up, bending his head to place a soft, chaste kiss on her lips. It was their first kiss; she was supposed to feel fireworks.

But she felt nothing.

Five years later
August 24, 1666

"Are you telling me you made this bracelet? A girl? This shop is Goldsmith & Sons, is it not?" Robert Stanley puckered his freckled face and made his voice high and wavering. "Where are the sons?"

From where she stood by the stone oven, Amethyst Goldsmith's laughter rang through the workshop. "Lady Smythe! A perfect imitation."

"Well done, Robert." Her father smiled as he brushed past them both and through the archway into the shop's showroom.

Robert's pale blue eyes twinkled, but he stayed in character, cupping a hand to his ear. "Imitation? Imitation, did you say? I was led to believe this was a quality jewelry shop, madame. I expect genuine—"

"Stop!" Amy fought to control her giggles. "You'll make me slip and scald myself."

Robert's gaze fell to Amy's hands. As he watched her pour a thin stream of molten gold into a plaster mold, his expression sobered. "I like Lady Smythe," he muttered. "At least she buys the things I make."

"Oh, Robert." She sighed. "Why should it matter who made something, as long as we're selling a piece?"

"I'm a good goldsmith."

"You're an excellent goldsmith," Amy agreed. Although she also thought he was a bit unimaginative, she kept that to herself. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You're a woman."

She clenched her jaw and tapped the mold on her workbench, imagining the gold flowing to fill every crevice of her design. "I'm also a jeweler," she said under her breath.

"Never mind." He walked to his own workbench and plopped onto his stool, lifting the pewter tankard of ale that sat ever-present amongst his tools.

Ignoring him, Amy picked up a knife and a chunk of wax, intending to whittle a new design while the gold hardened. The windowless workroom seemed stifling today—hot, close, and dark. She dragged a lantern nearer, but the artificial, yellowish glow did little to lift her mood.

Five years she'd lived and worked with Robert Stanley, and he still didn't understand her. She couldn't believe it. She was marrying him in two weeks, and she couldn't believe that, either.

Once it had seemed like a lifetime stretched ahead of her before she had to wed. She'd put it off, and put it off, then last spring her father had announced she was twenty-two and it was time to get on with it.

He'd set a date, and that had been that. No matter that Robert thought his wife should stay upstairs and mend his clothes; no matter that he resented it when her designs sold faster and she received more custom orders than he did.

No matter that she didn't love him. Not the way a wife should love a husband. Not the way it was in the French novels she read. Not the way she had felt, five years ago at the coronation procession, when that nobleman's emerald eyes had locked on hers.

She'd never forgotten that feeling.

She would learn to love Robert, her father said. But it hadn't happened—not yet, anyway. Not even close.

Amy sighed and lifted the plait off her neck, rubbing the hot skin beneath. She'd set out to talk to her father dozens of times, but her courage always failed her. Since the death of her mother in last year's Great Plague, it seemed she could take anything but her father's disapproval.

When the casting was set, Amy plunged it into the tub of water by Robert's workbench. She rubbed the mold's gritty plaster surface, feeling it dissolve away in her hands, watching Robert's knife send wax shavings flying as he sculpted a model.

She scowled at his curved back. "I believe I fancied you more as Lady Smythe."

Robert turned and stared at her for a moment, then hunched over suddenly. His face transformed, taking on a Lady Smythe look. "Are you certain, madame?" he asked in that high, wavering tone. "I hear tell you've had dancing lessons and speak fluent French. Such pretensions. I don't hold with women reckoning account books, you know. Not at all." His voice deepened into his own. "Or making jewelry, either."

Amy flinched. She pulled the casting from the water and carried it to her workbench to brush off the remaining bits of plaster.

He rose and came up behind her, tilting her head back with a hand beneath her chin. "Two more weeks, and a proper wife you'll be." With little finesse, his mouth came down on hers.

The faint scent of his breakfast had her squeezing her eyes shut and praying for the end to this torment.

"Part your lips, Amy," he demanded against her mouth.

She didn't. She wished he'd use one of those newfangled little silver toothbrushes Aunt Elizabeth had sent from Paris.

Finally he raised his head. "Two weeks," he repeated.

Her eyes snapped open and burned into his. "Papa would never allow you to keep me from making jewelry." Looking down, she brushed at the casting harder.

"Hugh Goldsmith won't be here forever." His hand moved to snake down her bodice.

Amy's gaze flickered toward the showroom in warning.

Wrenching away, he strode back to his workbench, back to his ale. "At least soon he won't be able to threaten me with bodily harm for sullying his virginal daughter," he spat, raising the tankard in a salute. "Two weeks," he added with a grin.

A grin that Amy had once thought boyish, engaging…but of late had made her uneasy.

They both turned as the bell on the outside door tinkled. Amy stood and whipped off her apron. "I'll get it."

"Your father is out there," Robert reminded her. "He can handle it."

She paid him no mind, but smoothed back a few damp strands that had escaped her plait. Pausing to straighten her gown, she put a shopgirl smile on her face before heading through the swinging doors into the cool, bright showroom.

"A locket," a young woman at the far end of the L-shaped case was saying, smiling up at a gentleman with his back to Amy.

Deep red curls draped to the lady's scandalously bare shoulders; her lavish golden brocade gown had a neckline much lower than Amy's father would ever allow. The man's mistress? In the years since the Restoration, the nobility had taken King Charles's lead as far as morals were concerned, which was to say they had very few.

The tall man addressed Hugh. "My sister would like a locket." He urged the lady—his sister, not his mistress—forward. "Go on, Kendra, see what you fancy."

Though the gentleman seemed determined to work with her father, Amy stepped closer, poised to turn the corner and help close the sale. Hugh glanced at her, then smiled. "Have you a style in mind, or a price, Lord…?"

"Greystone." His back still to Amy, he waved an impatient hand. "Whatever she likes."

Hugh cleared his throat. "Perhaps my daughter can help you decide. Amethyst, please show Lord Greystone the lockets."

She took a tray from the case and moved to set it before the man's sister instead.

"They're all so pretty!" Lady Kendra exclaimed in delight. When she bent her head to look closer, her beautiful red curls shimmered to rival the glitter of jewels in the case.

Amy's hand went reflexively to her own head, as though she could rearrange her hated black hair into something more fashionable than her serviceable plait. Resisting the urge to sigh, she lifted an oval locket with tiny engraved flowers.

"See the gold ribbons forming the bale?" As her father had taught her, her voice was sweet and confident, reflecting her certainty of both the quality of the piece and her ability to sell it. She snapped open the locket and extended it, looking from Lady Kendra to Lord Greystone. "It's—"

Her voice failed her.

Hugh nudged her, frowning. "Amy?"

"It-it's quite feminine," she stammered out, telling herself Lord Greystone couldn't be the man she remembered.

But then his emerald green eyes locked on hers—as they'd done five years earlier. He was the man she remembered, the man she'd been unable to forget…

The nobleman from the coronation procession.

Her heart seemed to pause in her chest, and for a second she thought she would drown in those eyes; then she looked away, with an effort, and down to the locket she was holding.

Lady Kendra reached to take the locket from Amy. "Oh, look how pretty it is, Colin." She held it up to her bodice, turning to model it for her brother.

With seeming reluctance, Lord Greystone swung his gaze toward his sister's chest. "I'm not sure I care for it."

"Notice the fine engraving, my lord," Hugh rushed to put in. "Truly first quality."

Lord Greystone ignored him and looked back to Amy. When his eyes narrowed, Amy found herself studying him in return. Classic symmetrical features: a long, straight nose, sculpted planes, a slight dimple in his chin. His clean-shaven complexion appeared more golden than was the fashion.

God in heaven, she'd never seen such a handsome man.

When he finally spoke, his voice, smooth and deep, sent a shiver down her spine. "Have you a locket with…amethysts?"

Amethysts…

She opened her mouth to answer, but the words refused to come out.

"No, my lord, we don't," Hugh said. "But emeralds would suit the lady—"

"Yes," Amy interrupted, finally finding her voice. "Yes, we do have amethysts! If you'll but wait one moment." She reached to grab the key ring off her father's belt, then turned and bolted for the workshop.

"What are you in such a rush for?" Robert asked as she jammed the key into the first padlock on their iron safe chest.

"Customers are waiting." Having removed the second padlock, she knelt on the floor and began working the twelve bolts in their complicated sequence.

Robert wandered over, wiping blunt hands on his apron, leaving streaks of abrasive gray slurry. "What customers?"

"A gentleman and his sister," she said as the last bolt slid into place, allowing her to access the final lock. She opened it with the largest key, then lifted the lid and rummaged inside.

Luckily, the locket she was after was there in the top tray. "Ah, here it is." Just seeing the piece, the shimmering gold, the sparkling gems, made her smile.

She rose and headed back to the showroom, Robert at her heels. He lounged against the archway and fixed Lord Greystone with a distrustful blue stare.

Well, she would just ignore him.

"I found it," she announced, handing the locket to Lord Greystone. She watched for his reaction even as she plunked the key ring into her father's outstretched palm.

Lord Greystone blinked at the piece in his hand. "Beautiful. It's truly beautiful."

Amy's heart swelled. "It does have amethysts, my lord, and diamonds, too."

"I can see that," he said, staring at the locket. "It's splendid."

It had taken her weeks to make it, so many hours she could still see it with her eyes closed. On top, a cutwork pattern of diamond-set leaves surrounded an amethyst flower. The lozenge-shaped locket dangled beneath, encrusted with amethysts and diamonds, its lid enameled with delicate violets. Swinging from the bottom, a large baroque pearl gleamed.

Lord Greystone finally looked to her father. "It's remarkable."

"I made it." Amy felt a flush blossom on her cheeks.

Lady Kendra's mouth dropped open in surprise. Lord Greystone's startled gaze swung to Amy, over to her father, who nodded proudly, then back to Amy. "I don't believe it. You're—"

"A woman?" She heard the challenge in her own voice.

His grin was a bit sheepish. "However did you learn to make something like this?"

Her father cleared his throat. "We hadn't much to do during the Commonwealth, my lord. I expect you were abroad?"

Lord Greystone nodded.

"Well, jewelry was much frowned upon, other than some mourning pieces. I had time aplenty to train Amy in the arts of goldsmithing." Amy's father placed a possessive hand on her shoulder. "She's a natural—even did the enameling herself."

"I must—I mean, Kendra—must have it."

Hugh shook his head. "I'm afraid it's not for sale. It's Amy's own keepsake."

"Of course it's for sale, Papa." Amy regarded Lord Greystone with a speculative gaze. "But it's very expensive."

"I'd expect so. We'll take it."

Lady Kendra turned to him, a frown creasing the area between her light green eyes. "Are you sure, Colin?"

He looked down at his sister. "Don't you like it?"

"It's lovely, but…"

"I said I would buy whatever you chose for your birthday. I want you to have it." He fished a pouch of coins from his surcoat and handed it to Amy. "Here. Take whatever's fair. Include a chain; I want her to wear it now."

Shocked that he would leave the price up to her, Amy fumbled with the pouch. She drew out a few coins, then a few more. The materials had been costly, and the piece had taken a lot of her time—she didn't want to take advantage of the man, but she wouldn't short herself, either.

"Papa?" Closing the pouch, Amy showed her father the gold she'd taken.

Hugh nodded. "That's fine, Amy." He pocketed the coins and placed a gold chain on the counter.

As she returned the pouch to Lord Greystone, he handed her the locket. His fingers brushed her hand, and a brief, warm shiver rippled through her. Her breath caught; she hoped no one noticed.

Robert sullenly pulled a cloth from his apron pocket and moved from the archway to stand beside her. He polished the glass case as she threaded the chain through the bale on the locket, then held it up for Lady Kendra to see.

"Ooh," Lady Kendra breathed. "Will you put it on me?"

She turned, and Lord Greystone lifted her hair so Amy could fasten the clasp.

Lady Kendra faced Amy and touched the locket reverently. "Thank you so very much. I'll treasure it always."

"Thank who?" her brother prompted with a smile.

"Thank you, Colin," she said and turned to embrace him.

Amy bit her lip, feeling an unexpected twinge of envy for this woman's shiny red curls and low-cut gown. But most of all, she envied the way Lady Kendra was hugging Lord Greystone. She glanced down at the counter, lest Robert catch sight of her telltale eyes.

Lord Greystone ushered his sister outside, then lingered in the doorway, looking oddly reluctant to leave.

"Can…" The long fingers of one hand drummed against his muscled thigh, then stopped. "Can you make a signet ring?"

His question came low across the small shop, to Amy, not her father.

"A signet ring?" she said with a small smile. "Of course, it's a simple matter."

Beside her, Robert stopped polishing.

"Excellent." Lord Greystone paused, frowning a bit. "I'll send a messenger with a drawing of the crest," he said at last. "And my direction to deliver it when you're finished."

Amy nodded, feeling a quick stab of disappointment that she wouldn't be seeing him again. Robert's hand resumed its deliberate circular motion on top of the counter.

"I thank you," Lord Greystone said. Then he melted out the doorway and into the teeming streets of Cheapside.

The bell rang again when the door shut. Amy stared at the solid wood until her father cleared his throat.

"I cannot believe you sold your locket," he remarked. "I thought it was your favorite piece."

"It was," she answered dreamily. "But I can make another one."

Her stomach fluttered with happiness, just knowing Lord Greystone admired her craftsmanship and his sister would be wearing her locket. And soon, he would be wearing her ring.

"If you ask me, it was a clod-headed idea," Robert put in with a shake of his carrot-topped head. "You'll never find time to make another locket with all the custom orders you get."

Amy and her father shared a quizzical look.

"Besides, I didn't like him," Robert added. "I didn't like the way he looked at you."

Amy lowered her gaze and brushed past him into the workshop. She'd liked the way Lord Greystone looked at her, very much.

Very much indeed.

Colin entered their carriage to find Kendra seated inside, her arms crossed. "What took you so long?"

He sat opposite her and looked out the window. The door of the jewelry shop was closed, so he couldn't see the girl named Amethyst, the girl with that long, thick, ribbon-entwined plait his fingers had itched to unravel.

"I ordered a signet ring," he said.

"You what?"

Colin could have asked himself that question. He'd known he was acting out of character, but in all his twenty-eight years he'd never met anyone like the girl who had made that exquisite locket. He'd wanted his sister to own it, and he'd wanted something she'd made for him, too. "I need a signet ring, for a seal."

Kendra shot him a look of patent disbelief. "You couldn't even afford this locket." She shook her bright head. "Something happened in that shop."

"Nothing happened," he said, although he knew very well something had. He'd noticed the way the girl's amethyst gaze had been drawn to his own. She'd felt it, too—that compelling, undeniable attraction. Remembering, he smiled to himself.

It made a man feel good, though nothing would ever come of it.

Unfortunately, his younger sister was observant as hell, a fact that could be deucedly inconvenient at times. "I just thought it was a beautiful piece of jewelry, and I wanted you to have it."

"Od's fish, Colin, you're the one always lecturing us about saving funds…"

He turned off her voice in his head, instead considering the possibility of landing that enticing little jeweler in his bed.

"…planning for the future…"

She was completely off limits, of course. Not a widow, not an actress, not a lightskirt, not a highborn member of King Charles's licentious court.

"And then you ordered a ring. You never wear jewelry!"

A sheltered young woman of the merchant class, she would never bed with any man outside of marriage. And Colin Chase, Earl of Greystone, had no intention of marrying beneath himself.

"I cannot believe you bought this locket in the first place."

Besides, he was already betrothed to the perfect woman.

"I do love it, though."

As they passed Goldsmith & Sons, he glanced out the window. He would never go back there. It had been a harmless flirtation, nothing more. He couldn't remember the last time he'd set foot in a jewelry shop, and…

No, he had no reason to ever return.

"Thank you, Colin. I truly do love it."

He blinked and looked at Kendra. She was sighing, gazing down at the locket and fingering it possessively.

What had she been saying?

Oh, she loved it.

"I'm glad. Shall we go buy our brother that telescope he's been hankering for?"

"Are you sure? Ford will be thrilled." Kendra bounced on the seat, then settled her skirts about her as though she'd just remembered she was grown up. "Can it be from me, too? Sometimes he drives me mad as a Bedlam wench with his scientific obsession, but he is my twin, and I love to see him happy."

Colin gave his sister a fond smile, hoping the man she finally consented to marry would have more energy than he did. "Yes, it can be from you, too. Now, where do you suppose we might find such a contraption?"

"Ring-a-ring o'roses
A pocket full of posies
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down."

"Hold still, if you please."

Amy looked down to the seamstress who knelt at her feet, pinning up the hem of her wedding dress. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cholmley," she said with a sniffle. A tear escaped and splashed on the older woman's hand.

Mrs. Cholmley glanced up, concern in her kind hazel eyes. "Reminds you of your poor mama, don't it? The children playing outside, I mean?"

Amy nodded, blinking back more tears. She concentrated on the gown's wide lavender lace skirt, counting the love knots—small satin bows sewn loosely all over, one for each wedding guest to tear off after the ceremony as a keepsake.

Fifty-eight, fifty-nine—

"It's only a game, dear. Do you think they even know what they're singing?" The seamstress reached absently for more pins, talking to herself, so far as Amy could tell. "Roses, the rash; posies to sweeten the putrid air. The ring is…the plague-token, of course." She sighed. "My Edgar had one—not rosy, but black and filled with pus. He screamed so when the doctor cut into it. Lud, I still hear him in my dreams. Turn, please."

With a sigh of her own, Amy obeyed. She stared out the window at the sky, gray with smoke from the incessant burning of sea-coal.

"And your mama? Did she suffer one?"

Her gaze dropped to Mrs. Cholmley's gray head. "Suffer what?"

"A plague-token."

Would this woman never stop chattering? Amy's fists clenched. "We don't know. At the first sign of fever, she begged us to go to Paris and stay with Aunt Elizabeth." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I was in Paris. I don't know what happened to her. I know only that she's gone."

"Hard to believe a year has passed. It feels like yesterday they painted that red cross on my door. House after house marked for the quarantine and staffed with guards, all up and down the street. I thought I was like to meet my maker, right enough. And the death carts rattling by…'Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!'" Mrs. Cholmley shuddered and pinned. "My Edgar was buried in a plague pit. Your mother, as well?"

Amy shut her eyes and bit a mark into her lower lip. "We think so. We've found no grave." No place to bring flowers, nowhere to go talk to Mama, to tell her about the upcoming wedding and all her misgivings.

The heavy, sweet stench of decaying bodies had hung over London for weeks after Amy returned from Paris. She'd read in the London Gazette that one in five Londoners had died. But that had been months ago, and London had recovered its usual bustle.

Mrs. Cholmley had apparently talked herself out. Beyond the window, the children's voices faded, replaced by the ordinary sounds of busy London. Swiping the tears from her cheeks, Amy listened. Creaking wheels, animal snorts, the familiar din of grumbles, shouts, and the singsong chants of vendors.

She opened her eyes. The remembered reek of decomposing corpses shifted to the scent of new, starched fabric. At a gentle touch on her knee from Mrs. Cholmley, she turned again.

Her fingers worked at the love knots on her dress. She wished she could tear the little bows off now—or better yet, tear the whole gown off and into shreds. Ten more days and she would be Robert's wife.

Ten days! It seemed impossible.

For six months now, her father had gone about making wedding plans, and she'd done nothing to stop him. It had given him something to think about in the wake of his wife's death, and Amy hadn't found the strength to fight him. It had all seemed so very far away.

But now her wedding day was almost here. Every morning she woke up wishing it were no more than a bad dream. She had to find the courage to call off this wedding before it was too late.

Now.

"Are you finished yet?" she asked, her voice sharper than she'd intended.

Mrs. Cholmley sighed and stood up, flexing her arthritic joints. "All done," she said, smiling in a sympathetic way that made Amy feel even more guilty. "You nervous brides." Clucking good-naturedly, she drew off the wedding dress. Amy's maid pulled her periwinkle gown from the wardrobe cabinet.

Underskirt, overdress, laces, stomacher, stockings, shoes…dressing seemed to take forever. At last Amy went down the corridor toward Hugh's room. The closer she got, the faster her heart beat and the slower her feet dragged.

She paused in the doorway and stared at her father's back, struck as always by how empty the room felt without her mother's presence.

"Papa?"

Hugh jerked, startled. He stood slowly and turned to face her. "What is it, poppet?"

A familiar, dull pain briefly squeezed Amy's heart as her gaze dropped to the miniature of Edith, its oval gold frame cradled between her father's work-worn hands. "She was lovely, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was." He smiled down at the picture. "You have her delicate chin and her beautiful amethyst eyes."

"And your unruly black hair." Hugh didn't react to her gentle teasing tone. "Sometimes, Papa…sometimes I think that if you could wear out a painting by looking at it, Mama's image would have disappeared from the canvas months ago."

He looked up, offering her a wan smile. "We shared a rare love, poppet."

It was a perfect opening; she couldn't let her courage fail her again. She lifted her chin. "Papa, I…I always dreamed of a love—"

"Have you seen those ruby earrings your mother wore to see Henry V the week before she—she—"

Amy crossed her arms, sympathy and impatience warring within her. Impatience won. "Papa, I need to talk to you."

"I just want to see them," he said gruffly.

She knew his moods, and there was no arguing with his retreating back. Determined to say her piece, she picked up her skirts and followed him down the two flights of stairs and into the workshop.

While he started unlocking their safe chest, she tied on an apron and sat at her workbench. More to calm herself than to accomplish anything, she unfolded the sheet of paper Lord Greystone had sent her and smoothed it flat against the table. She squinted at the drawing while she steeled herself to broach the subject again.

The last bolt clunked into place, and she heard Hugh throw open the lid and begin removing trays to access his private collection in the bottom. She dragged a candle closer to study the Greystone crest, listening to the soft metallic sounds of her father sifting through centuries of treasures.

She had to just say it. "Papa—"

"Mmm…I've always loved this piece."

Exasperated, she turned to watch her father sit back on his heels and hold up a pendant. It sparkled in the lantern light.

Drawn despite her low spirits, she rose and moved to him. "Let me see. Who made it?"

"Your great-grandpapa, a master with enamel. Look."

"Ahh…" Amy studied the piece, a merman, his torso consisting of one huge baroque pearl. His tail was an enamelled rainbow of colors set with cut gemstones. The merman wore a miniature necklace and bracelets and carried a tiny shield and saber. The entire, elaborate pendant was less than four inches tall, including three pearls that dangled from the bottom. "It's exquisite. I remember it now."

"He was inspired by Erasmus Hornick's design book." Hugh still had the treasured book, an ancient leather-bound volume from Nuremberg that Amy was almost afraid to touch. "But the workmanship was his own. He outdid himself with this one—in nearly a hundred years, no one in the family has ever been able to bring himself to sell it."

"I'm glad."

He replaced the piece and hunched over the chest, resuming his search for the ruby earrings. He was mellow, she thought. Maybe now…

"Papa—"

"Your talent came from him, you know. Through the generations. A gift—and an obligation."

She swallowed and took a deep breath. "Papa, I—"

"I know what you're going to say, Amy." His knees creaked as he stood up. "You think I don't know how you feel? It's naught but nerves. Every bride has them."

Amy shot him a hurt look, shocked that he'd known all along that she wanted to call off the wedding, yet chose to do nothing about it. Her own father.

She returned to her workbench and set Lord Greystone's ring into a clamp attached to the table.

"You bear a responsibility. Here, in this shop, our people have worked for generations, for you. You can do no less for your own children. And you cannot do so as a woman alone."

Amy heard her father's footsteps, then a small clink as he placed the earrings on her work surface.

The pear-shaped, blood-red rubies were bezel set and pavéd with diamonds on long, graceful drops. Amy's heart clenched as she remembered how her mother had protested they were too fancy, but then held her head high that night at the theater, to show them to advantage.

"Life is fragile, poppet." Hugh's voice cracked. "I want to see you settled before something happens to me, too."

The rubies seemed to wink in the candlelight, a poignant reminder of her mother and her mother's expectations. Her throat closed with emotion. She had to force the words out. "Nothing is happening to you, Papa."

Looking away from the earrings, she dug in a drawer for a stick of engravers' wax and heated one end in the candle flame, then rubbed it over the top of the ring.

"This family has hoarded gold, coins and gems for centuries—centuries, Amy—making certain no Goldsmith will ever suffer a moment of insecurity. The shop sold almost nothing during the Commonwealth. Could we have lived through it as we did—with servants, and nice clothes, and good food on the table—without that legacy handed down from our ancestors?"

She stilled, a sharp-tipped tool in her hand. "No." The word was directed toward Lord Greystone's ring, its hard-won shine dimmed by engravers' wax and the blur of unshed tears.

"And now that the good times have returned, we work every day to replace what we were forced to use. It's my responsibility, and one day it will be yours."

With the quick, sure strokes of an artist, she traced a reverse image of the crest into the wax, then lifted the graver. The murmur of Robert assisting two customers came through the arch from the showroom, but Amy and Hugh's silence grew tight with tension.

Hugh sighed. "These marriages—they're the way our trade works. I want your word that Goldsmith & Sons will go on. I need your promise."

"Nothing is happening to Goldsmith & Sons."

Amy started engraving, meticulously carving tiny ribbons of gold from the signet's top. She felt her father's gaze on her and knew he wanted an answer, not a denial. An answer about Robert.

The tool slowed as she focused on the ring—and the man it was for. A hazy image of Lord Greystone's handsome features hovered in her mind. He'd just looked at her with his piercing emerald eyes, and she'd felt warm all over and known that it would never, just never, be that way with Robert.

She hurried to finish, set down the graver and held the ring to the candle, studying the reverse crest for imperfections.

"Promise me," her father insisted. "You have a gift that cannot be wasted, an obligation in your blood. Promise me."

She dripped a shiny blob of red sealing wax onto the design sheet and pressed the ring into it. It made a perfect imprint of the Greystone coat of arms, but she didn't feel her usual surge of satisfaction.

Sighing, she turned to search her father's concerned blue eyes. "It's just Robert, Papa. He…he doesn't understand me."

"He doesn't have to understand you. You were promised to him years ago, and he knows his place. As a second son, he's lucky—very lucky—to be marrying into a wealthy family, with his wife-to-be the sole heir. Without you, Robert has nothing. He knows that. He's the right man for you—the right man for Goldsmith & Sons."

Her father didn't understand her, either. "He scares me when he touches me."

"You know nothing of the marriage bed, poppet. It won't scare you for long."

Tears stinging the backs of her eyes, she sat up straighter. "He wants me to stop making jewelry."

A short, harsh bark of laughter followed that statement. "The man is feeling impotent now. When his apprenticeship is finished, he'll feel differently. He won't care to do without the income from your designs."

He reached for the ruby earrings and turned to put them away. She watched him gaze at the jewels, then kneel to tenderly place them in the bottom of the chest. Her fingers clenched tight around Lord Greystone's ring as the tears that had been threatening welled up, and before she could stop herself, she dropped to her knees beside him.

"Papa, look at me. Me!"

She reached for his hands and grasped them in hers, the ring trapped somewhere amidst the tangle of their fingers.

"Papa! Remember you told me I'd have a love, a love like yours and Mama's? You promised, but it hasn't happened! I don't love Robert!" She felt a tear escape and roll down her cheek as her desperate eyes implored his pained ones. "If something happened to him, I wouldn't gaze at his picture, I wouldn't—"

"Enough!" Hugh stood so abruptly that Amy fell back. Never had he raised his voice to her. Now in his fear, his loneliness, he lashed out. "I loved your mother—I still do—and she's gone! I cannot work—I stare at her painting—I loved her so! Better you and Robert think straight. Not like me!"

His shoulders slumped, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Not like me."

She watched him draw a shuddering breath as he reached a hand to pull her up. "I'm sorry, poppet." His eyes fluttered closed and then open as he ran a shaky hand through the black tangles of his hair. "That it's come to harsh words…I'm sorry. But there's more to life than love. It will be better for you this way. You must see a bigger picture. Tradition, continuity…this is how our guild has survived for centuries."

The hard edges of the heavy ring bit into Amy's clenched fist. She blinked back the tears. Like the vast majority of betrothal agreements, hers was not binding until consummation. No money had yet changed hands. There must be another way for her that would still preserve the business. "Surely there's another jeweler…"

"Ours is a small industry. Others were apprenticed a decade ago. Many died in the plague. These matches are made for children, and you're twenty-two. It's God's own truth I've been patient, but it's past time your future was cemented." He moved to wrap an arm tight around Amy's shoulders, as though willing her to understand, to accept the realities of her life. "Robert is a good goldsmith, a good man. You cannot have everything, Amy."

You cannot have everything.

The words echoed in Amy's head, summing up her destiny. She was stuck, as sure as an insect in amber.

Shrugging out of her father's grasp, she picked up a cloth embedded with reddish rouge powder and rubbed the ring absently, a final hand-polish to make it gleam. It felt solid in her hands, this thing she'd created from nothing more than raw metal and elusive inbred artistry. She could never give up making jewelry. She was born to it.

Her gaze swept the cluttered workshop. Tools, hunks of discarded wax and half-finished pieces of jewelry littered every available surface. A thin veil of the reddish rouge powder dusted the tabletops and stained her fingertips.

This was where she belonged. And if her father said Robert belonged here as well, that was the way of it.

The fire below the oven snapped, and she blinked, then knuckled the last trace of tears from her eyes.

You cannot have everything.

"Promise me, Amy. Promise me that Goldsmith & Sons won't end with you."

"You have my promise."

"I love you, poppet," Hugh said quietly.

He only wanted what was best for her. As she turned into his arms, the ring slipped from her fingers and clattered to the wooden floor.

"I love you too, Papa," she said.

It was a long time before she bent to pick up the ring, an even longer time before Robert came in to find her staring at it.

He stood over her. "You still working on that damned signet?"

She looked up at him, but couldn't find the energy to summon as much as annoyance.

"It's finished," she said. "I'll have it delivered in the morning."

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The rest of The Jewel Trilogy
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Amber
Forevermore (a Jewel Trilogy novella)

The Flower Trilogy
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Lily
Rose

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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, including the New York Times list and the USA Today list, 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!

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