Love Letters

Copyright 2011 Lori Brighton

www.LoriBrighton.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced , stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

The Art of Seduction

A Historical Romance by Lori Brighton

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Chapter 1

Clara Cameron was a firm believer that desperate times called for desperate measures. As she stood in just about the worst part of London one could find, she never imagined she’d be this desperate. Still, it could be worse; she could be selling her virginity instead of merely her body.

The hired hack jerked to life behind her, horses neighing. Their eagerness to escape this hell evident in their quick steps. Clara’s heart leapt into her throat. Her only means of escape was currently thundering down the cobbled street without her.

Before she could utter a word of protest, fog enveloped the vehicle and muffled the thump of wheels on rock. Moments later silence settled… cold and chill, much like the weather. She was stuck. Truly stuck. Surely she must be mad to have come here. But what choice did she have?

None.

The word felt as dark and oppressive as the night. The streets void of vehicles, she had no means of getting home without walking. Even though it was the eve of Christmas, in this weather and in this part of town, she hadn’t the slightest desire to stroll unescorted.

“You’ve truly trapped yourself now, you bloody idiot,” she muttered.

Unwillingly, her gaze went to that tall building looming across the lane. Her salvation or her demise? There was no merry Christmas greeting coming from the weathered beast. No wreath, no holly. But then none of the surrounding buildings offered a cheerful greeting. No, here, in this hell, people didn’t have the coins to celebrate the holiday. And there was no snow to cover up the dreariness. Only gray and brown sludge covering gray and brown buildings on gray and brown streets.

Clara took in a deep, trembling breath. Best to get it over with.

Clutching her cloak tightly to her, she darted across the lane, slipping and stumbling across icy stones. Reaching the stoop, she paused, her breath forming clouded puffs of air that hung suspended before her. Up close, the building was worse than she’d expected. Dried ivy crawled up brick as if the monstrous vine was attempting to consume the building. She had no doubt the ivy would win.

What sort of person would reject celebrating the holidays in the warm bosom of his family and instead choose isolation and gloom? Certainly not the man she knew. Had she made a mistake? Was she at the wrong address? She glanced left, then right. An old woman shuffled down the lane, mumbling softly to herself. She didn’t bother to look her way; merely another soul lost in the late night dreariness of London.

Clara pulled her hood lower, attempting to hide her features. She knew, should someone sane pass, that a young woman on the streets at this hour would cause suspicion. She raised a gloved fist, only to hesitate.

I have no choice, she repeated. She lowered her hand. Her knuckles thudded against the wooden panel. Before she lost her nerve, she knocked again, louder, in quick succession. Shivering, from cold or fear, she wasn’t sure which, she stepped back and waited. A bitter drop of rain hit the end of her nose. She swiped at the drop and shifted back and forth in impatience.

“Hurry,” she whispered.

There’d been no heated bricks to keep her feet warm in the hired hack and her toes stung with numbness. Although her skirts were thick, the material did little to keep the wind at bay. She went down a step, peering up at the windows for any signs of life.

Another drop of rain hit her cheek.

“Blast it!”

She was just about to turn away when footsteps thudded from behind the door. Clara’s heart stopped. For one brief moment, she swore her heart actually stopped. She refused to recognize the tremor that rushed through her body as excitement. No. She wasn’t excited, merely relieved. The knob turned slowly. The door opened just a sliver, paused, then opened further. A thin man of plain features peered from the darkness. Not the man she was expecting…not a man she knew. Clara drew back.

“You’re here for the position?” he asked in a refined voice that could rival the best of London butlers.

Of course Brendon would at least have a butler. What a ninny she’d been to think he was a recluse living alone in darkness and poverty.

She nodded, a quick jerk of her head. “Yes, I am.”

“You’re late.”

“I apologize.”

Slowly, he looked her up and down as if judging her worth, his astute gaze taking in every detail. Clara held her breath, waiting for his approval. She hadn’t thought about what she’d do if she was turned away.

“Very well.” He stepped aside.

Relief tasted as sweet as peppermints. Giving the man a polite smile, she stepped gingerly across the threshold. Her smile fell. The dingy foyer looked uninhabitable. Only a small table holding a lantern decorated the sparse and dusty space.

“Follow me.” The butler took the lamp by the handle and moved up a narrow set of steps.

Clara rested her hand on the railing and started after him. The steps creaked and groaned under her weight, the only sound in the quiet abode. Each step further up, her heart beat a little faster. She’d refused to let herself think about her situation, but now that she was here…

Light from the lamp slashed eerie shadows that danced and leered against the walls and sent her imagination spiraling. At the second story they didn’t pause. She had only a moment to study the long, dark hall and see that the place was just as dreary as below.

She shivered and quickened her steps, hurrying after the butler. She’d known Brendon had changed, but she hadn’t expected this. Why would a man of his means lease a house among this poverty? Why not merely hide away at his country estate?

They paused on the third floor. The butler glanced at her briefly, his gaze unreadable. “A moment, if you please.” He knocked on the only door at the top of the steps.

Almost immediately a gruff voice responded. “Yes, Smith, what is it?”

Clara studied the tone of that simple question, looking for signs of recognition. But the words had come too fast, leaving her unsure if she knew the voice or not. The butler opened the door. A large, open attic spread before her, a blazing hearth at the far end the only source of heat. The area was occupied by a bed, a settee and shelves lined with paintings and statues. Clara stood frozen on the threshold, her gaze pinned to those pieces of art. Beautiful pieces, talented pieces.

“The model you hired, Sir,” the butler announced.

Sir. Not my lord. How very odd. Footsteps thumped purposefully against floorboards, drawing her attention to the rest of the room. Would Brendon recognize her? Doubtful. It’d been ten years since they’d last seen each other. She’d been a mere fifteen years of age, a child really. He’d been twenty. Too old to notice a doting girl. But she’d noticed him…how often she’d noticed.

Smith quirked a brow, waiting for her to enter and obviously impatient to get back to whatever duties he held. Not cleaning, that was for sure. Swallowing hard, she stepped into the large attic room. The sound of wood creaking underfoot was barely audible over the thundering of her heart. The door shut with a thud. Clara spun around. The butler was gone, leaving her alone…with Brendon. This time more slowly, she turned.

A dark form shifted near a table laden with clay and tools. Her heart warmed, contracting almost painfully. Hungrily, she studied the man. He was tall, taller than she remembered. His broad shoulders were highlighted by the three lanterns placed on tables around the perimeter of the room. What clothing he wore, only trousers and a white shirt, were smudged with charcoal and dust. He was a mess, and he was lovely.

She took a hesitant step closer, narrowing her eyes. At least…she assumed it was Brendon. As his back was to her, she wasn’t positive. Why wouldn’t he turn? His indifference hurt more than she wanted to admit. She took her lower lip between her teeth. The man’s dark hair was overly long, in need of a cut and not bothered by a queue. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows, showing sinewy, muscled forearms.

He lifted a chunk of gray clay to a table, letting it fall with a thud that sent a puff of dust into the air. As Clara coughed he shifted and a pistol came into view. A small gun gleaming on the tabletop, reminding her of what part of London she stood. Clara sucked in a breath. Why would he hole himself up in a place so dangerous? As if sensing her nervousness, he pulled open a drawer and pushed the weapon inside.

“Undress.” His deep voice shocked and warmed her with recognition.

She’d known her old feelings would resurface in his presence. Known her heart would thunder madly. But she’d never guessed how painfully wonderful it would be to see him once more. It was him, after all. She’d recognized the voice anywhere, had heard it many nights in her dreams. Just as quickly as her excitement came, it dissipated as the meaning of the word he’d spoken settled into her fuzzy mind.

Undress? Heat shot to her cheeks. She’d been fully aware of what her position entitled. The letter she’d received upon applying stated quite clearly that she would be nude. Now that she was here…the realization of what she was about to do fell into her gut like a stone.

“W..w..where?” She waited, breath held, to see if he’d recognize her voice.

He waved his hand dismissively. “Where you stand. Hurry now.”

Blast, but she couldn’t see his features. For some insane reason she needed to see his face just once before she undressed. He moved across the room, his strides long and purposeful. That confident stroll was so familiar, that memories assaulted her, rolling through her mind bittersweet. For a moment she thought she was fifteen again and anything was possible.

Even from afar, Brendon reeked of power. Deftly, he lit two more lanterns. It was only when he glanced back at her that she realized she was staring. She jerked her focus down and reached for the clasp on her cloak. Same square jaw, same lovely lips, same intense blue eyes.

With fingers that trembled, she managed to slip the sodden material from her shoulders and settled the cloak upon the back of a chair. Her gloves followed.

“Your hair down,” he demanded unapologetically.

If he was always this curt, no wonder why he needed a new model. They’d be running out the door the moment he spoke. What had happened to the charming man she’d known? Quickly, before she lost nerve, she pulled the pins from her hair. The thick tendrils fell in dark waves down her back and around her shoulders. She slipped the pins into her skirt pocket and paused, unsure how to continue. Slow and seductive, or fast and sure?

“Hurry,” he snapped, his voice less than pleasant.

She frowned, reminding herself there was nothing to fear from this man. She knew Brendon. Had taken tea in his parlor almost every day that summer ten years ago. At least, she’d known him at one time. Now…well, now she wasn’t sure.

Bemused, she settled on the chair closest and pulled off her boots. She paused as she reached for her stockings. He’d seen her bare feet before, that day he’d stumbled upon her wading in the creek. There’d been no embarrassment then, only shyness, nothing erotic in the sight of her fifteen year old toes. Slowly, she dragged the rough wool down her legs. Her attention slid to that large bed settled so comfortably in the corner of the room. Was the attic where he slept, ate, worked? Like an animal trapped in a prison? Her stockings dropped to the floor. Her feet bare, she paused once more, wiggling her toes against the chill boards.

She had lovely, slender feet, or so Mama had said. As if it was something to be proud of, as if she could land the match of the season by the shape of her toes alone. She quirked her head, wondering if Brendon would think they were lovely.

He cleared his throat, startling her. Clara snapped upright and reached for the buttons of her bodice before thinking twice. But as she met his gaze, she paused, her hands at her throat. He was watching her through narrowed eyes, studying her in a way that made her feel hot and chilled at the same time. Her breath caught and held. Had he finally recognized her?

His hooded gaze slowly traversed her body, starting at her head and working its way down her form. Did he study her as an artist did a subject, or as a man did a woman? Vaguely she was aware of the last button of her bodice coming undone under her nimble fingers. The material parted, leaving her corset and shift exposed. Beside her mother and maid, no one had ever seen her in a state of such undress. The realization made her feel oddly seductive, wicked even.

He tore his attention away, focusing on the table in front of him. “I’ll do a clay model first.”

“Of course.”

He’d given up everything to become a reclusive artist. Yet…it fit him somehow. Those lovely, long fingers. Those emotional eyes. That brooding, romantic man she’d fallen in love with. Yes, he could be happy as an artist…but he obviously wasn’t. Sorrow hung around him as thick and heavy as her woolen cloak.

Elizabeth’s letter shifted through her mind. Clara could still remember every word of that missive sent to her over a year ago.

My brother has given up on life, I fear. The death of his wife destroyed Brendon’s spirit. He’s holed himself into a shack to practice art…art for Heaven’s sake. Mother is appalled and has claimed father is turning over in his grave…

Only a man who’d loved his wife well would mourn this hard. Part of her adored him for that, part of her hated him. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Clara dropped her bodice to the chair, hoping the movement might shock him from his solitude.

She was more than pleased when his shoulders stiffened. Her skirt followed in a swoosh that had him jerking his head upright. Suddenly, she found herself in only her shift and corset and yet no shyness prevailed. Only a thrilling sense of victory pulsed through her veins. She would gain his attention one way or another.

“Can you…” She paused, wondering how far she could tempt the beast.

He lowered his gaze and for a brief, embarrassing moment she thought he’d refuse. Finally, he looked up. “Yes?”

“Can you help?”

He sighed, as if annoyed. Yet, with quick and sure steps he came closer. Clara’s heart pounded. The urge to run, to stand her ground, to hide…all flew through her mind at once. Instead, she froze and waited for him to see her for who she really was. His sister’s friend, his peer, his love.

He paused only a few feet away. Those brilliant blue eyes pierced hers but no recognition warmed his gaze. Instead, a reluctant smile lifted the left corner of his mouth, a smile that hinted of youth and days of old. A smile that tore at her heart.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” he asked.

She shook her head. Heat moved from her neck into her cheeks. He didn’t recognize her. Yet, he was close, so close she could see the gray flecks in his eyes. The sudden sting of tears burned, but she would not cry. Those harsh planes, the dark scruff on his chin and cheeks that said he hadn’t shaved in days…it was Brendon, her Brendon. The man had haunted her dreams for years, but he didn’t recognize her. Had she meant so little to him?

“Turn around.” His voice was gruff again.

She turned on unsteady legs, and the room wavered before her. Determined not to do something ridiculous, like faint, she focused on the chill breeze seeping through the cracks in the windows. Perhaps she’d made a mistake coming here. But the moment he stepped closer all concentration fled. A warm and welcoming heat radiated from his body. When his fingers actually rested against the nape of her neck, she jumped, the feel shockingly intimate.

“It’s all right,” he murmured softly, his breath a promise across her neck.

Clara closed her eyes, her body trembling in delight, begging for more even as her sensible mind told her to return home immediately. His hands brushed her hair over her shoulder, lingering in the strands longer than necessary. Why did he pause?

Just as suddenly as he had stopped, he started again. His fingertips skimmed down the arch of her neck, sending shivers over her skin. She closed her eyes, resisting the urge to sink into his warm body. How often had she dreamt of him touching her? But never like this…no, her dreams had been childish dreams of holding hands and sincere kisses. But now…the inside of her body seemed to have melted and she wouldn’t have been surprised if she fell into a puddle at his feet.

Deftly, he worked the clasps down her back until the corset parted and her lungs had room to expand. He tossed the stiff material to the chair. Free, she had to resist the urge to rub her tingling breasts.

He wondered to the windows, dismissing her. “There. Now come. No need to be nervous. I won’t bite.”

No, he wouldn’t apparently. But she just might.

“Remove your shift and we’ll get started.”

Remove your shift. Bold words that frightened and thrilled her. But she was merely a stranger…he didn’t recognize her. He’d probably seen hundreds of women naked. To him, she was no different. But to her…to her she would not be naked in front of a stranger, but the man she’d dreamt about for ten years now. Clara’s fingers bunched around the material at her hips.

Modesty fought with desire. Could she do it? She’d come so far, risked so much… how could she not? Swallowing hard, she slowly pulled at the soft shift. The hem brushed her calves…higher to her knees…higher to her thighs. Her heart pounded. Clara froze.

He’d barely gotten a look at her face. What if she turned and he recognized her? Why had she believed she could take this position and keep her emotions contained? She’d been fooling herself. A stupid, stupid girl.

But she needed the coins. She needed her freedom. She had no choice. Brendon was paying well and she knew he’d be discreet, a gentleman…at least he had been. Was that gentleman still there, lurking underneath the gruff exterior? She could only pray he was. Taking in a deep breath, she pulled the shift over her head and dropped it to the chair.

Chapter 2

Dark clouds hovered above crumbling buildings that would do little to keep the weather at bay. Leaky roofs, broken windows…should it rain, the occupants would be chilled and soaked within minutes. Brendon stared unblinkingly at the grim scenery below. For days it’d been dreary, matching his mood.

In the months of solitude, he’d drank himself into a stupor, he’d slept the hours away, he’d worked on his art… he’d done everything possible to forget his previous life. A life he didn’t deserve. And now, because of a blushing, innocent beauty it all came rushing back.

She reminded him of the milkmaids back home, their sweet innocence so refreshing. Or the debutantes at their first ball, nervous yet excited. Or a wife on her wedding night, eager and tempting. He flinched at the comparison and raked his hands through his hair. He would not remember.

At least twenty females had come and gone as he searched for the perfect muse. He’d wondered if he’d ever find someone to inspire him, or perhaps he was doomed to a life of emptiness. And now with one look, he was terrified he’d found her. Perhaps it was her scent, sweet and clean, like dew on a country morning. Or perhaps it was her eyes, a particular shade of hazel that reminded him of spring fields in Devon. Or perhaps, it was the mere fact that she stood half-naked in the middle of his room.

A stab of loneliness clenched his gut. It had been months since he’d had the pleasure of a woman. She was lovely. Beautiful. What man wouldn’t be attracted to her? Dark hair that caught the firelight and glistened, beautiful breasts that stretched the bodice of her gown. Smooth skin that flushed pink like the inside of a shell…

He stiffened. Bloody hell, that flush couldn’t be from embarrassment, could it? He’d told his butler to find him someone a little more inexperienced, yet he hadn’t expected a virgin. Gads, just the thought made him blanche. He shook off the feeling. There was no possible way an innocent had come to this part of town for a few measly coins.

Still, curious, he started to turn toward her when a carriage rolled to a stop across the street. Brendon paused, his gaze narrowing. He couldn’t say why the vehicle caught his attention, other than the fact that the black lacquer and gold finish proclaimed the vehicle belonged to one of wealth and stature and therefore obviously not from the area.

A gent looking for a whore? Or something worse? He’d witnessed just about every vile thing one could possibly imagine while residing here. Repulsive acts that made a person’s blood curl. And that’s why he’d picked this place, knowing the destitute area would match his mood. Knowing he didn’t deserve to live the life of a wealthy gent. A punishment… and it was.

Depression threatening once more, he turned away. He didn’t get far before he froze in midstep. The woman stood naked in front of him…completely and utterly devoid of clothing like an angel dropped in all her glory to hell. Perfect porcelain skin, aglow as if lit from inside. Heat burst through his body; carnal and pulsing. He wanted to touch every inch of her; run his hands down her curves and study her form. He wanted to paint her. He wanted to carve her likeness from marble so that she would be remembered forever. Hell, he wanted to taste her, touch her, breathe in her feminine scent.

An uncomfortable tightness rushed to his groin. Slowly, his gaze lowered from her face to her breasts. Soft, lovely mounds that would fit perfectly into his palms. His mouth went dry. Mauve colored nipples that were peaked hard, begging to be kissed. His fingers curled. Narrow waist, hips that flared into long legs…legs made for wrapping around a man. This was no whore. This was a goddess.

Brendon sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, his gaze jumping back up to her face. She was boldly watching him, yet underneath that sharp gaze, an innocence lingered. He’d told his butler to find him an experience, yet more genteel woman, and he had. But at what price? Why was she here? A widow down on her luck? His gaze dropped to her belly. Then, up to her breasts.

There were no signs that she’d had a babe. He’d spent time with widows…women who’d had children. Their breasts had enlarged, marks across their belly and thighs from the skin stretching. How old was she? Twenty, perhaps more? There was something about her that screamed youth and vitality. Something that made him want to pull her into his arms, if merely to soak in her essence and forget the ugliness that surrounded him.

“Where shall I sit?” she asked, her breasts rising and falling so temptingly with each sharp pant. Was it fear that made her voice so breathless, or could it possibly be desire? No, he wasn’t that fortunate.

Brendon forced himself to blink, realizing he was staring. “The settee.”

His voice was gruff with need, and he wondered if she had any idea how much he wanted her. The heat pulsing through his veins demanded attention, demanded he lay her upon the sofa and have his way with her. He’d experienced lust since Eileen had died, but never this strong. With a stiff gait, he moved toward the table, away from the model.

“Here?” She pointed timidly toward the sofa.

He nodded, not daring to look directly at her.

Rarely had he been attracted to one of his models and for the most part had remained quite professional and aloof. He wasn’t going to change today. Brendon settled behind the table and pulled the chunk of clay forward, the texture cold and damp under his hands. Forcing away lustful thoughts, he focused on that chill, gritty feel.

“Today, I’ll merely do a clay model.”

She nodded as she moved toward the sofa. Unwillingly his gaze lifted. Her gait, like a cat, sleek and mysterious. That long, dark hair whispered promises across her back. And directly below those shimmering strands, a round, pert bottom begged to be grasped. Without thought, his fingers curled, digging into that soft clay. But even as he wanted her, there was something more nagging at the back of his mind.

He grimaced and pulled his grip free, shaking off the clumps that stuck to his skin. Was it her looks? Her voice? At the settee, she paused. Brendon could only wait with baited breath to see what she’d do next. She tucked her chin to her chest, then peeked over her shoulder at him. Their eyes locked. His heart stopped for one brief moment. Did she have any idea what an erotic pose she made? The entire room seemed to fade and all that remained was her. Something whispered through his mind … something nagged at his memory. She broke contact by lowering her gaze and settling on the settee. The moment was gone.

“How do you want me?” she whispered.

He had the insane desire to laugh. Her words immediately brought to mind all sorts of nefarious ideas. Where did he want her? He could think of a few places. As if sensing the way of his thoughts, she crossed her arms over her chest, hiding those perfect mounds from view. But her show of modesty did little to quell his intense desire.

“On your side.”

Gingerly she rested on the edge of the settee. Like a woman who knew her value, she lowered slowly, seductively, upon the worn seat. “Like this?”

Laid out like an offering with her lean body stretched across the sofa, the animalistic need within him roared to life. He took in a deep trembling breath, refusing to give into temptation. She was not for him, no one was. “Your back to me. Rest your arm over your head.”

She rolled over, her backside exposed, and raised her arm in the air in a ridiculous pose that spoke more of awkwardness than sexuality. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“No.” He stood and moved toward her, forcing his gaze to remain firmly planted above any tempting body parts.

It was obvious she had little if any experience posing. Hopefully she’d make a quick study. That is, if he decided to keep her on. He knelt by the settee and wrapped his fingers around her narrow wrist. It was only then that he realized his hands were still covered in clay. The contact gave him pause. Her skin was smooth, her touch hot. The clay slid easily over her skin, seeming to melt with the contact. Would he melt as easily?

He finally noticed her stillness and lifted his gaze to her profile, just visible. Her shoulders were rigid, her breath coming out in soft, shallow pants. She stared straight ahead like a doe cornered by a hunter. Those full lips quivered, those high cheekbones flushed enchantingly with color. Her lashes flicked down and up rapidly, as is she feared closing her eyes for too long. Confusion gave way to a rush of familiarity that nagged once again, a sensation he could not ignore.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

She swallowed hard. “I’m no one important.”

Why did he have the feeling she lied? Slowly, he lowered his gaze to her shoulders. Dark bruises marred her upper arms. Injuries he hadn’t noticed before. Anger fought with shock. He would not ask her. No, he wouldn’t care. Unable to help himself, he drew his finger down the side of her face, leaving behind a slash of gray clay across her cheek. She visibly shivered.

“Where have I seen you before?”

She shrugged, a quick jerk of her narrow shoulders. “Perhaps you’ve seen me on the street.”

Her answer didn’t feel right because he couldn’t imagine her on the street. Sipping tea in a parlor, yes. Even as the pampered mistress of a gentlemen. But here, on the street? No. Yet here she was, bruised and battered and laying quite naked on his sofa. With her arm still resting over her head, her body was deliciously exposed. He drew his fingers down her side, leaving behind a trail of slippery clay. He paused briefly near her breast, one breathless moment. Then lower, sloping down her waist, up over her hip. He stopped there, his palm fitted against the warm curve. A small sound escaped her lips, something that sounded deceptively like a moan.

Even as he refused to believe what he’d heard, desire shot straight to his groin. Dare he believe she was as attracted to him as he was her? He clenched his jaw, forcing sexual thoughts aside. “If you’re in trouble, running from a husband or jealous lover, I want no part.”

She flinched, although she made quick work of smoothing her features. “I merely need the money.”

“Why?”

She let her chin fall to her chest, her hair a veil of shimmering locks that hid her features. “I need to leave.”

That surprised him. Escape was more like it. “Where to?”

“America.”

His gaze narrowed. The only sort who escaped to America were criminals or the destitute. What was she embroiled in? A sudden overwhelming urge to protect her rolled through him. Damn it all, he would not get involved. He merely wanted to be left alone.

“Leave. Gather your things. Whatever it is you’re running from, I want no part.” He surged to his feet.

“What?” She stood and grabbed her shift, jerking it over her head. “No! You can’t. Please.”

He barely flinched as he attempted to ignore the pleading tone of her voice. “I can and I will.” He stomped across the room, pausing near the table where pottery tools were scattered haphazardly about the worn wooden surface. He didn’t care. No, not any longer. Perhaps at one time her pleading eyes would have gotten a response, but not now. Pretending sudden fascination with straightening the pile, he didn’t dare look at her. “I’ll pay you for today’s work.”

“No! Your butler said a week…a week’s pay!” She raced to him, her bare feet whispering across the floor like a dancer across a stage. Without pause, she latched onto his arm. Her touch shocked him, pleased him in some perverse way.

“Please, I need the money!” she begged.

Anger mixed with frustration in a burning combination. He turned suddenly and gripped her smooth shoulders. With a gentle push, he backed her up against the brick wall. She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes wide.

“Tell me the truth. What are you running from?”

Her lower lip quivered, indecision flickering in her eyes.

His fingers tightened. He would not release his hold until she told him the truth. He would have the truth for once in his life. “Tell me!”

She closed her eyes, her body sagging. “I can’t marry him.”

Confusion held him captive for one brief moment. All too quickly the reality of her words sank into his gut. “You don’t want to marry, that’s what this is about?”

She opened her eyes, those hazel orbs shimmering with unshed tears. “Yes.”

He released his hold and stumbled back. The sudden urge to laugh overwhelmed him. A marriage? This was about an unwanted marriage? “And so you’ll do this…pose nude so you can what?”

She sniffled as she fought her tears. “Procure enough coins to travel to America.”

He raked his hands through his hair, releasing a wry laugh. “And do what when you achieve your goal?”

She shrugged and looked at the floor, but not before he noticed the flash of annoyance that turned her hazel eyes a pure green. She looked so innocent standing there with her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her shift, her hair long and loose around her shoulders, but she had a bit of a temper. Damn, if he didn’t appreciate that.

“You obviously haven’t thought this through.”

Her gaze jumped to his. “You know nothing about me.”

She was right, but why did he have the feeling he did? That vulnerability was back, a softening of her eyes that had his heart clenching. “I can’t marry him.”

Brendon sighed. He had a sister, he wasn’t a complete arse. “Why is he so horrible? Is he old? Have a limp? Missing teeth? Does he not buy you enough trinkets?”

She tilted her chin high and stared directly into his gaze. “He tried to take advantage of me.”

He started to roll his eyes, thinking perhaps her fiancé had attempted an innocent kiss, but then his gaze fell to those bruises on her upper arms.

His gut clenched. Hell, he was coming to care. “What happened?”

She looked at the ground, her cheeks turning red. “He tried to…force himself on me.”

Brendon rubbed his hands over his face. “Christ.”

He turned and paced across the room. He’d seen no other marks upon her body, perhaps this fiancé hadn’t gotten far. He paused near the windows, the dark sky heavy and cold. What the hell would he do with her? He couldn’t send her back now.

The pattering of footsteps had him glancing over his shoulder. She scurried across the room and picked up her clothing. The cloth was fine. Perhaps the brown dress was plain, but it was obvious she came from money. Who was the bastard who’d hurt her? Who was she? No doubt he knew her fiancé. Perhaps he’d even met her in the ball rooms of London and that was why she seemed familiar. She pulled her stockings over her narrow feet, preparing to flee. The tiny part of humanity left inside him protested.

“Stop,” he demanded.

She froze and looked up.

“I can’t guarantee the entire week.”

Relief smoothed the tightness from her features. She nodded. Before he second-guessed himself, he moved to his table. Unconsciously, his hands clenched and unclenched as if the movement could erase the feel of her skin on his. But he had a feeling he would never erase the feel of her from his mind. Bloody hell, what had he done?

Chapter 3

Clara assumed she’d feel horrifyingly embarrassed sprawled out naked like a Christmas goose in front of Brendon. At the very least, ashamed. Oddly, after an hour, she’d grown used to the lack of clothing. In fact, she felt rather free with nothing binding her parts so tightly she could barely breathe. How her mother would be horrified to know that not only had her daughter posed nude, but that she’d been comfortable in her natural state. A smile lifted the corners of her lips. No, ladies were not supposed to be comfortable naked.

A shiver of heat traveled her spine. She swore, even without looking at him, that she knew where Brendon’s attention riveted. First, on her profile, then back, her bottom, lower to her thighs and finally her toes. The chill room did little to cool her flushed body. She felt hot, breathless and even seductive under his scrutiny. The entire world stood still.

Every so often sounds from the night filtered through the dingy curtains. Carriage wheels rattled across cobblestone. Coarse voices arguing on the streets. But for the most part, the silence was their cloak of safety. A comfortable sense of companionship permeated her very being. A feeling she’d never experienced at home.

Sudden tears stung Clara’s eyes. Not wanting to give into melancholy, she plucked at a loose thread on the settee cushion. She didn’t want to leave England. Not that she fancied London, but she did love the countryside where she’d spent summers as a child. The rolling green fields, the wildflowers, the streams where she’d wade. She didn’t want to leave her homeland…she didn’t want to leave Brendon, yet she must.

The scratch of metal tools against soft clay was the only indication that Brendon still worked. As much as she wanted, she didn’t dare look over her shoulder, too afraid he’d read the emotion in her eyes.

“And do what when you get there?” he’d taunted.

What would she do when she made it to America? She hadn’t thought much past earning enough money to procure a ticket aboard a ship. She only knew that she needed to leave. She could have sold her jewelry, but Mama kept a tight rein on the family glory. Perhaps a few of her own lesser trinkets would fetch a coin or two. Enough to keep her fed until she found a position as a governess. But money wouldn’t provide companionship, wouldn’t love her, hold her.

A sudden gust of wind battered the panes and jolted Clara from her thoughts. The house trembled, threatening to collapse around them. Clara bolted upright. The windows burst open, banging against the walls. She smelled the snow right before a whirlwind of flakes swirled into the room, stinging her exposed skin. At any other time she would have been delighted by the Christmas weather. Clara gasped, crossing her arms over her chest. Papers rattled from a nearby table, lifted and took flight.

“Damn.” Brendon jumped from his chair and raced toward the windows.

Clara stumbled from the settee, her bare feet hitting the cold wooden floorboards. “I’ll gather your drawings.”

She reached out, arms wide to scoop the pieces of paper to her body. One landed tightly to her breasts and one to her nether regions. Brendon pushed the panes shut with a soft thud. The howl of the wind faded and the soft patter of snowflakes on the glass was the only noise that remained. He turned, those brilliant blue eyes gleaming with speculation. For one long moment they merely stared at each other.

There was something in his gaze that made her hot, breathless, nervous. Clara swallowed hard, realizing only a couple pieces of paper hid her favors and wondering how the bloody hell she would give them back without feeling like she was undressing all over again. He took a determined step forward and she had to resist the urge to move back. She reminded herself that this was Brendon, the man she’d loved for years.

Yet, the last time she’d seen Brendon, he’d been a young lad. Now he was a man…a very large, very handsome man. A man with eyes that burned with something she didn’t quite understand, something that frightened and excited her.

Every step closer sent her pulse racing faster, the urge to move more urgent. Only a breath away, he paused. The crisp smell of snow combined with his musky scent, swirling around her, muddling her senses. Slowly, he reached out and took the first piece of paper from where she had it clutched to her lower belly. Reluctantly, she released her hold. He set the drawing upon the table. With his gaze focused on her, he took hold of the paper she held to her breasts. He gave a gentle jerk, pulling the sheaf loose and leaving her completely naked.

“Why is there a carriage out front?”

She frowned and shook her head, confused by the odd question. He stepped closer, the tips of his black boots touching her bare toes. So close, she had to tilt her head back to keep his gaze. Anger hovered around him, heavy and dark. “Did you take a carriage here?”

Unnerved, she stepped back. “Y…yes, but a hired hack.”

His gaze narrowed slightly and he took another step forward, his feet on either side of hers. “It’s not yours?”

There was a sudden hardness in his eyes, a hardness she didn’t recognize, a hardness that gave her pause. She stepped back again, her shoulders pressing into the cold brick wall. Her body was trembling and she had to remind herself over and over that she knew this man. He would not harm her. He would not.

He leaned forward, bracing his large palms on either side of her face and trapping her between his body and the wall. “Who are you?”

She found she could no longer look him in the eyes, frantically shuffling through her brain for some sort of response. If she told him the truth, he’d send her home. She didn’t want to leave, she didn’t want to leave him. He stepped closer, his hard form pressed to her naked body, fitting perfectly to each dip and curve.

Clara sucked in a breath, her gaze focused on that pulse thundering in the side of his neck. She shifted against him, attempting to make room, but there was nowhere to go. He wouldn’t budge.

His face was close, his lips closer. “Tell me who you are.”

But she couldn’t tell him. Not now, not while she was naked. Clara’s body quivered, whether from want or fear, she wasn’t sure. His hard thighs pressed to hers, his chest to her breasts. She was losing control of the situation and her freedom was suddenly slipping from her grasp. Oddly, she found it hard to care. Her mind spun with confusing thoughts.

Then she knew… suddenly she knew what she would do. She should have pushed at his shoulders, she should have slapped his face, she should have done anything to prevent this madness. Instead, an odd calm washed over her. She would tell him what he wished to know, but not in words.

She tilted her head back, lifted on her tip toes and leaned forward. She closed her eyes as her lips pressed to his. Brendon sucked in a sharp breath, his body stiffening. He didn’t move, merely stood there, frozen in place. Did he not wish to kiss her? Had she misjudged the heated look in his eyes? Desire gave way to embarrassment. Heat shot to her cheeks. Dear Heavens, what was she thinking? She shouldn’t have come here…she shouldn’t have… Clara tore her mouth away and fell flat on her feet.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

Brendon growled low in his throat. His muscled arms wrapped around her waist and he jerked her up against his chest. His lips pressed hard to hers, demanding, torturing her with heady delight. Any embarrassment fled and all that remained was an intense hunger. Clara’s hands flattened to his chest, her flingers slipping into his open shirt where she could just peek the dark curls. It felt right, dear Lord, it felt right being in his arms. His tongue flicked across her lips. With a sigh, Clara opened for him. Brendon made quick work of sliding his tongue into her mouth, and surprised by his bold kiss, she allowed it.

Shock gave way to heat, a pulsing heat that made her knees weak. Nothing mattered. Not her family, her responsibilities, nor her supposed fiancé. Nothing mattered but Brendon and his touch. This is what she’d wanted. Had always wanted.

Growing dizzy, she slid her arms up his shoulders, wrapping her hands around his neck and holding tight, afraid he’d let go, afraid he’d leave her. His male scent swirled in the air— earthy clay, spicy male. A warm scent that sent her mind reeling. The trials of life fell to the wayside and all she could do was feel. Feel the soft, worn texture of his linen shirt against her hard nipples, the eagerness of his lips against hers, the hardness of his desire pressing to her lower belly.

Need flared through her blood. She didn’t understand her intense attraction, never had, but she didn’t care. She only knew she wanted Brendon to touch her, to stroke her and finally he was.

Brendon’s hands, slick with clay, slid down her spine, cupping her backside and pulling her up against his hard erection. Clara moaned, her arms tightening around his neck and moving closer, cuddling that arousal between her thighs. This was no soft, gentle kiss of a besotted country gent. Nor the rough biting pressure of her supposed fiancé. This was beautiful, heated, amazing.

Brendon’s knee nudged between her thighs as his body pushed her up against the brick wall. “Beautiful,” he whispered.

His lips moved to her neck, that knee between her legs holding her upright. The coarse texture of his trousers rubbed against the sensitive folds of her femininity. Clara moaned, her head lulling back as she slipped her fingers into his hair, entwining in the silky strands. Over and over he sucked, licked, nibbled his way down her neck until heat fought with chills. Frantic for more, her trembling fingers undid the buttons of his shirt. Impatiently, she pushed the material from his broad shoulders, leaving his torso bare.

He shifted, the lamplight highlighting the harsh muscles along his chest and arms. The strength there amazed and frightened her. Clara’s fingertips hovered over his warm skin, afraid if she touched him she would wake and this would all be a wonderful dream.

He lowered his head to the hollow of her throat. “Dear God, why are you doing this to me?”

She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of his question. If anyone was doing anything, it was him. Clara felt like she was merely a puppet to the motions he stirred within, but oh how she didn’t mind. His lips pressed to the valley between her breasts. Need clenched her belly, flaring through her body and taking over her senses.

She hadn’t known it would feel like this. She knew what men and women did. She was five and twenty for Heaven’s sake. She’d heard the maids talking, realized the act could be delightful. But she’d had no idea being in Brendon’s arms would be this wonderful.

His hand slid under her knees and he scooped her up into his arms. He held her, eye to eye, their lips only a breath away. Each sharp intake of air sent her nipples brushing against the crisp hair on his chest.

“Tell me to stop,” he demanded. “Tell me.”

But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. She’d known the moment she’d stepped into the attic what she really wanted. To hell with her supposed fiancé. To hell with the money she needed. She would have Brendon before she left for America.

Feeling bold, she crushed her mouth to his. She would give him no time to think, no time to regret, no time to stop her bold actions. Brendon groaned and turned. In three quick strides he was at the bed. Clara fell back onto the soft mattress. Brendon followed. She felt deliciously trapped underneath his hard weight. His mouth found hers in a searing kiss and any thoughts scattered to the wind. She was acutely aware of where his warm hands roamed, acutely aware of his tongue rubbing intimately against her own.

He caressed each of her curves as if she was a work of art to be admired. Slowly, his hands followed the lines of her body lower…lower… to her hips. He shifted, his knee wedging between her thighs. His touch was bold, yet soft and gentle. She squirmed under him, needing more, wanting more…wanting him to touch her everywhere, kiss her everywhere. She knew it wasn’t rational, yet she couldn’t seem to get enough of the man. His mouth moved to her collarbone and her hands found his hair, slipping between the cool strands. Lower still he moved until she felt the warmth of his breath over her chest.

“Lovely.” His tongue darted out to lick a hard bud, then took her breast into his warm mouth.

Clara groaned, arching her back. Her insides quivered and an unbearable ache settled deep between her thighs. Restlessly, she shifted. She couldn’t take it, couldn’t take the need, the desire. He pulled away and moved lower, his hands sliding down her body and leaving behind trails of wet, cold clay.

At her belly, he paused. In that moment, reality invaded. Clara squeezed her eyes shut. Embarrassment fought with desire. His warm breath brushed across the place between her thighs. She knew what he intended. She’d heard the stories. Oh God, he wouldn’t.

He did. With his hands he jerked her thighs further apart. Before she could summon the strength to push him away, he lowered his head and his lips pressed to the place between her legs. Clara gasped, her back arching.

His tongue slipped between her folds. The ache in her belly swirled lower, tightening unbearably. Clara dug her fingers into the sheets, biting her lower lip to keep from crying out.

“Do you like that?” he whispered.

Like? Like didn’t even began to describe what she was feeling. Before she could respond, he was licking her again, sucking, tasting. The wind battered the windows, shaking the house, or was that her body trembling? Dear Heavens, she wasn’t sure anymore where her body ended and began.

Brendon pulled away, trailing kisses up her stomach, chest, neck. Those brilliant blue eyes met hers and for one breathless moment nothing existed but him. His hair fell tousled around his face, his eyes intense and piercing. This is the man she’d dreamt about for years, the passionate man she’d fallen in love with.

“Tell me your name,” he whispered.

She couldn’t deny his request. “Clara.”

He slid from the bed and quickly discarded the rest of his clothing. Clara had only a moment to study his beautiful body before he was covering her again. His tongue delved between her lips for a quick, but thorough kiss.

“Dear God, you taste sweet.”

He shifted, his knee parting her legs. His arousal, hard and hot, pulsed between her thighs. Clara’s breath caught. She didn’t dare move. Brendon raised his hips so the swollen tip of his erection pressed to her folds. The world suddenly stilled. He rested his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling. His body was trembling and she knew he held back, for her sake.

“Bloody hell, what you’ve done to me.”

Need consumed her, an incomprehensible need to have him, all of him deep within. She lifted her hips. The bulb of his cock slipped inside her. Clara gasped, the feeling overwhelming. Her hands found his tight bottom and she pulled him closer as she lifted her hips once more.

“Damn.” Brendon pulled back slightly.

Clara groaned and slid her fingers up his back, then boldly she lifted her head and drew her tongue over his lips. He growled low in his throat and she knew in that instant she had him. Without pause, he thrust into her.

A slight sting momentarily interrupted her pleasure. For a brief shocked moment, Clara didn’t move, afraid more pain would come. Brendon’s harsh breath fanned across her face, a comforting caress. He shifted. Aching need replaced any sting. Clara closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of Brendon so close.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he demanded and she didn’t dare refuse.

She slid her legs over his muscled thighs, the act taking him further inside. Exquisite pleasure tightened low in her belly, thrummed under her skin beating in time with her heart…his heart. They were together, as one.

“Yes, please.” Clara breathed in their scent, intoxicated by the heady mixture of love making. Brendon’s strong arms held her close as they rocked in a rhythm that brought their bodies impossibly close.

Her insides tightened as pleasure rippled through her body, a flood of release. She arched her back, meeting him thrust for thrust. This is what she wanted, what she’d dreamt of, what she needed. She needed him.

“Brendon,” she cried out, her nails piercing his back.

Pure white pleasure burst through her being. Vaguely she was aware of Brendon’s entire body going tight, his muscles flexing under her fingers. Vaguely she was aware of Brendon crying out her name as he thrust into her one last time.

Chapter 4

Brendon pulled away from Clara and rolled onto his back, staring up at the dusty beams above. He couldn’t seem to breathe, to think, to feel anything but the vibrant buzz coursing through his body.

Blast it, what had he done? He hadn’t lost control like that in…ever. He was an arse. A complete arse. If only she’d protested. If only she’d slapped him. If only she hadn’t kissed him back so hungrily…he could have at least stopped himself. But she hadn’t. No, she’d touched him as eagerly as he’d touched her. And with her bold touch he’d lost all sense of who he was.

He slid Clara a glance. She lay beside him, staring up at those same beams and looking as perplexed as he felt. And even now, he wanted her again, and again and again. Slowly, his gaze scanned her form. Gray slashes contrasted against her pale skin. Dried clay left behind by his hands. On her soft breasts, her flat belly, her rounded thighs…almost as if he’d branded her.

Clara, she was called. He’d always liked that name. It made him think of past summers, of innocence and purity. An innocence she no longer possessed, thanks to him.

Clara.

Was he so desperate for human contact that he’d bed the first clean woman he came into contact with? Whether she be a virgin or not? And she was a virgin, he knew that much.

She took in a deep, trembling breath as if preparing for some great speech. He could imagine what she’d have to say to him. Bloody hell. He tossed the quilt over her body and bolted from the bed. He didn’t need to hear her words, he already knew he’d burn in hell.

Naked, he stalked across the room to the small table that held a pitcher of water. He should have been more careful with her. Instead, like the arse he was, he’d rutted her with a need that would frighten most women, even experienced women. He dipped a cloth in the cold water, wrung it, and made his way back to the bed. His hands still shook with the need to touch her, his body still ached with a need to have her. He would not give into temptation again.

Gently he settled on the edge of the bed. Even more gently, he wrapped his fingers around her right wrist and straightened her arm. He didn’t look at her, he couldn’t, too ashamed of what he’d done. Slowly, he rubbed her arm with the washing cloth, erasing signs of the clay, signs that he’d touched her. Finished, he reached for the edge of the blanket, which she’d tucked neatly under her chin. Finally, he met her gaze, just a flicker up, to see her wide eyes watching him, then down again. He tugged the blanket from her grip, exposing her breasts.

Instantly her rosy nipples beaded. Brendon swallowed hard and rested the cool cloth against her chest. She sucked in a breath, whether from the cold or his touch, he wasn’t sure. Slowly, he made circles against her skin, rubbing away the clay. All the while, she watched him, those beautiful eyes piercing his very soul.

He took her other arm. Still, she didn’t move, didn’t take her gaze away from his face. He clenched his jaw, sweat dampening his skin despite the cool temperature. Slowly, he pulled the blanket lower, exposing the soft curls at the junction of her thighs. He rested his hand on her warm belly. Her muscles jumped. He smoothed the cloth down the outside of her legs, over to her inner thigh, swiping away clay and blood. The proof he didn’t need, but there all the same. She was a virgin. He was a bastard.

The cloth swept across those soft curls. Her lashes fluttered down as she sucked in a breath and arched her back, almost as if…as if his touch felt good. Desire shot straight to his groin, his erection surging forward. He tossed the cloth to a table. He would not take her again. He might be a bastard, but he wasn’t completely evil.

She shivered and opened her eyes. The room was cold, and she was colder. With a sigh, he settled beside her chilled form, stretching out his body next to hers. He could give her warmth, at least. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. Almost immediately her stiff body sank into his, as if completely comfortable with him, completely trusting. Without a word, he closed his eyes, reveling for one long moment in the rightness of it all. He missed this…a woman’s sweet scent…her soft body. Clara’s hand crept up his chest, her fingers spreading through the crisp hair.

“Why?” he whispered.

Her hand paused against his heart. She knew the question he asked, he was sure of it. Yet the silence grew.

“Tell me.”

She tilted her head back, her hazel eyes meeting his. “Because I’ve wanted this for years.”

Her words shocked him.

“Brendon,” she had cried out, her nails piercing his back as he entered her.

His heart skipped a beat.

Brendon.

She’d called him Brendon. His butler would never have used his given name, yet somehow she knew. Brendon tossed the covers aside and bolted from the bed. His heart slammed so loudly in his chest that surely she could hear it. Teeth gritted, he jerked on his trousers realizing he’d been duped. Bloody hell, what was going on?

Half-dressed, he spun around to face her, his fingers fisted as he resisted the urge to shake her. “Who the hell are you?”

The confusion in her gaze gave way to wariness. She hesitated, then pushed herself upright, clutching the blanket to her chest. “I told you my name. Clara.”

Clara.

With that simple statement, suddenly he was gone, thrown back in time.

She was looking at him. Always watching him.

“Clara likes you, you know,” his sister’s voice broke into his thoughts.

He tore his gaze from the dark-haired girl sitting under an oak and smiled at Elizabeth. “I know.”

Elizabeth slid her arm through his and watched him slyly. “And…do you fancy her?”

He rolled his eyes, yet couldn’t help but glance at Clara once again. She was looking away, pretending interest in the garden. She would be beautiful…some day when she was old enough. He knew that. But he couldn’t wait for someday. His father had already picked out his future wife and he wasn’t sure he could ever think of Clara as anything other than a child.

“Well?” Elizabeth prodded.

He tweaked her nose. “If she was five years older, perhaps.”

“Clara.” He hadn’t realized he’d said her name out loud until she responded.

“Yes?”

It was there. How could he be such a dunce? Those innocent, hazel eyes. Those pink, lush lips. But she was older now…even more beautiful…stunning really. He should have felt odd…terrible…wrong having slept with the woman who was his sister’s childhood friend.

He didn’t.

He felt…right.

“Clara?” Legs weak, he settled on the edge of the bed, his gaze scanning every feature on her familiar face. He couldn’t seem to look away.

She focused on her lap and drew the blanket up to her chest, her face flushed, her eyes downcast. He didn’t like to see her this way, shy and unsure. He liked her bold, as she had been when he’d kissed her.

He moved closer and cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Clara.”

Her gaze flashed with uncertainty. “Yes?”

He smiled. A smile of half bewilderment, half awe. “My God, Clara. How could I have not known it was you?”

She sucked in a breath, her face draining of color. “You remember.”

It might have taken him longer than it should have, but of course he bloody remembered. How could he forget? “What are you doing here, Clara?”

She jerked away from his touch and slipped from the bed. In a flurry of movement, she reached her clothing. “I’m so sorry.”

He surged to his feet, only to hesitate, afraid if he touched her, he’d offend her and she’d run. Hell, he didn’t know what to do. “No, please. Don’t leave.”

She paused, and glanced over her shoulder. There was so much emotion in her hazel eyes that his heart clenched. For one long moment they merely stared at each other.

“Your sister sent me a letter,” she finally whispered. “She told me everything. About your wife…” She dropped her gaze to the floor.

He flinched. He could imagine what she thought of him. The world believed he was a bastard, why not her too? No wife left her husband for another man unless her husband was evil, they whispered. How he wished he could ignore those sidelong glances whenever he went out into public. When she’d died in a carriage accident with her lover, she’d become a martyr, he a monster for making her flee into the arms of another.

“You left everything behind,” Clara continued, having no idea the way of his thoughts. “Your money. Your responsibilities. You’d become an artist, she said.” Clara smiled softly as she pulled her shift over her head. “I remember you drawing…always drawing.”

Not even his wife knew he liked art. But then there were a lot of things his wife hadn’t bothered to learn about him. He’d realized after saying I do that his wife had married him for his money. Unfortunately it had been too late. Their relationship had been superficial, at the most.

“What happened?” He started toward her, slowly, afraid of frightening her away.

She shrugged, refusing to look at him. “You know my parents, they like to spend. We’re…rather destitute.”

His stomach churned and he froze, ill. Dear god, was this about money? “You want money?” He turned his back to her, his heart beating frantically. He felt as if he was with his wife all over again.

“You didn’t have to sleep with me, Clara. I would have given you whatever you needed.”

“No! I’m not…I’m not a whore.”

He raked his hands through his hair. Hell, he didn’t know what to believe anymore. If she wasn’t here for money, if she didn’t think he was the bastard the rest of the world thought he was…then…

“Father promised me to a man I’d rather not marry. Your sister told me you were studying art, paying models...”

His heart broke, crumbling into the pit of his belly. “And so you came for the position.”

“No. Perhaps I used that as an excuse. But in reality… damn it all, Brendon, I came for you.”

He turned, needing to see her face. Only truth shone in her eyes. Him. She was here to see him. No. It couldn’t be true. It was too damn beautiful to be true. “Who is it, this man, your fiancé?”

She paused for one long moment. “Lord Desmond.”

His fingers fisted, his nails biting into his palm. He hadn’t met the man but he knew of him. “He’s three times your age and known for his cruelty.”

“I know.”

As, most likely, did her parents. They’d sold her. Damn them, he was tired of the harshness of life. Tired of selfish bastards…tired of people like him. If it hadn’t for lust, he wouldn’t be in this hell. If he’d loved his wife like he should have, perhaps she wouldn’t have had to find love in the arms of another. If he’d been more attentive, she wouldn’t have left him that evening to go to her lover and she wouldn’t have been killed in that carriage accident with the babe she carried. A babe he wasn’t even sure was his. He should have never married her. Anger gave way to desperation.

He couldn’t save his wife now, but he sure as hell could save Clara. “I’ll kill him.” He stalked across the room and scooped up his shirt, punching his fists through the sleeves.

“No! Brendan, you can’t! He merely kissed me.” Clara rushed toward him, latching onto his hands. “Please. If anything were to happen to you…”

Merely kissed her. Perhaps, but the bruises on her arms said he’d done it with a force not needed. She released his fingers and clutched the front of his shirt, surprisingly strong for such a small woman. Tears stung her eyes making them glow a brilliant sea green. His knees grew weak. She cared. Dear God, she still cared about him after all these years.

“Get dressed.”

She shook her head, those sable brows drawing together in confusion. “Why?”

He knew, in that moment, what he was about to do was right. “Get dressed. We’re getting married.”

She moved, as if the shock had literally pushed her back. “Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t…”

He was in front of her in one long stride. He gripped her shoulders and jerked her forward, his mouth finding hers. It was a hot kiss, hard, demanding. Just when she slumped into him, he pulled back. “Do you still love me?”

Heat shot to her cheeks. Obviously embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to the ground. Her silence was like a punch to the gut. Was he wrong?

He gave her a soft shake. “Do you?”

Her gaze met his. “Yes, damn you. I’ve forced Elizabeth to tell me everything about you for the last ten years.”

He grinned, his heart warming. This was right. For the first time in almost three years, he felt alive again, he felt hopeful. “Then get dressed.”

Those tears she’d been trying to hold back, slipped down her cheeks, one…then another and another. “I won’t. I won’t let you marry me just because you feel some sort of guilt.”

He sighed and brought her close, holding her warm body gently to his chest. “Clara, there are a million ways I could help without marrying you. Hell, I could give you a purse full of coins and send you on your way.”

“Then why? Why do you want to marry me if not because of guilt?” she whispered against his chest.

He pulled back, slid his finger under her chin and tilted her head up. “Because this night I’ve felt more alive than ever. I’ve felt…finally after feeling nothing but numbness for years, I’ve felt again.”

He slipped his fingers into her cool strands, cupping the sides of her face. “Tell me you’ll marry me.”

Her lower lip quivered, tears glistening in her eyes. He knew her answer, it was there in her gentle smile, in her beautiful gaze, but he needed to hear the words.

“Clara?”

“I—”

Before she could respond, the door burst open, splinters of wood dancing across the floor. As one they spun around. A man stood in the doorway, a pistol pointed to the temple of Brendon’s trusty butler.

Chapter 5

Brendon pushed Clara behind him, so quickly she suddenly found her view blocked by his broad shoulders. She stumbled back, the edge of his work table biting painfully across her bottom. Dizzy with fear, she latched onto his shirt, regaining her balance.

“I don’t believe you were invited in,” Brendon growled.

Always the knight, he was shielding her body with his. Unable to resist, she stood on tiptoe and peeked over his right shoulder. The familiar face sent her heart plummeting to her feet. No. No, he couldn’t have found her. She’d been so careful! Clara bit hard on her lower lip, the pain her punishment. How could she have put Brendon in danger?

Desmond stood arrogantly near the door, his gray, weathered face a mask of confidence. Beside him, a strange man held a pistol to the butler’s head. Smith looked more annoyed than frightened. Still, just the site of that gun sent bile to Clara’s throat. Her fault. All of this was her fault. She’d been so selfish to come here. So selfish to steal this moment with Brendon.

Desmond slowly pulled the leather gloves from his hands. The site of those pale, stout fingers brought horrible memories to mind…him…touching her flesh. Clara shivered.

His dark eyes slowly scanned the room and by the look on his face, he found the place lacking. “I am here for my wife.”

Clara’s fingers dug into Brendon’s shirt. The word wife made her stomach clench. The bastard. They weren’t married yet, and if she had her way, they never would be.

“No one here is married, that I know of,” Brendon replied.

The strength in Brendon’s voice calmed her…for a brief moment. But it was gone as quickly as it had come. She hadn’t wanted this. She’d never meant to put him in danger. Guilt flared bitterly in her gut. There was only one way to rectify the situation. Releasing her hold, she started to move. Brendon raised his arm, blocking her.

“Please,” she whispered, looking up at him. “Let me go.”

He didn’t bother to glance down at, but kept his gaze pinned to Desmond. “No.”

Desmond started forward, slowly traversing the distance between them. “This is what you’ve left me for?” He quirked a gray brow, amusement flashing in those dark eyes and damn, if she didn’t feel that same sickening fear she’d always felt when he was near.

A confident smirk spread across those thin lips as if he knew her fear. That same look he’d given her the moment he’d smashed his mouth to hers. He’d intended on doing more than kissing her that evening. Fortunately, he hadn’t gotten the chance. But she wasn’t innocent any longer. No, she’d given her virginity to Brendon. It was the one thing, no matter what, that Desmond could never have.

“A poor artist?” He looked Brendon up and down. “Pathetic.” Desmond was smaller, much, yet he was cruel in a way Brendon could never be. The closer he got, the harder her heart slammed against her chest. She would not let Brendon give his life for her.

Desmond paused a few feet away and held out his hand. “Come, Clara. Come now, and no one will be hurt.”

Objection roared in her ears. Her body began to tremble for she knew what she had to do, with Brendon’s consent or not. She would give herself to the demon. She’d had one night of heaven, and she would cling to the memories of that one night for the rest of her life.

“Don’t come, and your pathetic friend and his man servant will die.”

She rested her hand on Brendon’s back, his muscles stiff under her touch. “Please, Brendon, let me go.”

Once again, he didn’t bother to look at her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Irritation momentarily replaced her fear. She narrowed her eyes and frowned up at him. Damn it, didn’t he understand she had no choice? “I’m not ridiculous, I’m being practical!”

He snorted. Snorted, for God’s sake.

She stomped her bare foot. “I am!”

“Enough!” Desmond roared, his pale face flaring an unflattering shade of red.

The man was losing control, the monster slowly being released and Brendon merely stood there as if they were watching some odd animal in a curiosity shop. Panic welled. She swallowed hard the lump of tears that clogged her throat. “Please, Brendon, let me go.”

He didn’t bother to turn. “I can’t.”

Such a simple response. He couldn’t. Why? Guilt? Because she was Elizabeth’s friend? Didn’t he realize he could die because of her? Perhaps he wanted to die, wanted to follow his wife to the afterlife. Well she wasn’t going to allow it!

She stood on tiptoe, the side of her face pressing to his neck. He felt so wonderful, so incredibly wonderful. How badly she wanted to wrap her arms around his waist. She closed her eyes briefly and breathed in his scent.

“You have no choice,” she whispered next to his ear.

“Behind you, in the drawer, my pistol. Get it,” he murmured so softly that for a moment she thought she’d misheard him.

Desmond slapped his gloves against an open palm, the sound like a gunshot through the room. “Come now, I tire of waiting.”

Clara shuddered, her bare toes curling into the floorboards. What if she couldn’t reach the pistol in time? She closed her eyes briefly and prayed, prayed that just this once everything would work out the way it should. And then he touched her. Brendon took her hand, briefly squeezing her fingers in his.

She knew she had no choice but to try. Slowly, she lowered herself to the heels of her feet. Hidden behind Brendon’s wide shoulders, she took a brief moment to calm her harsh breathing. Reaching behind, she fumbled across the smooth tabletop until she felt the cool porcelain of a knob. She wrapped her fingers around the handle and slowly opened the drawer.

“And what will you do if she doesn’t leave?” Brendon mocked. “Shoot us?”

“If I have to. That’s completely up to you.”

Clara ignored their conversation, ignored the way her heart leapt at their words. The drawer squeaked open. She froze, cringing. But the opening was just large enough that she could slip her hand inside. Paper, pencils, an inkwell. She leaned back, fumbling further. Brendon crossed his arms over his chest, his fingers resting against his side, so close, so temptingly close. “And you think the death of a famous artist will go unnoticed?”

“Famous?” Desmond chuckled. “You live in nothing more than a shack.”

Thank God she couldn’t see her fiancé’s face or she just might lose her nerve. He thought he had the upper hand, perhaps he did. Brendon’s fingers drummed against his side, his expression bored. “You shouldn’t judge by looks alone, you know.”

Where was that damn pistol? Frustrated, Clara shoved her hand right. Her fingertips hit cool metal. Relief sank into her gut. She wrapped her hand around the handle and pulled the pistol free. The weapon was smaller than she’d expected, the silver gun fitting in the palm of her hand.

“Really?” Desmond said. “Then please, you must tell me the names of your clients?”

“Well,” Brendon shifted, his legs braced apart as if preparing for battle. “I just recently worked a marble statue for Lord Clemmons.”

“Hmm,” Desmond replied, obviously not impressed.

“And then there is the statue I’m currently working on for the Queen.”

There was a moment’s silence. Stunned, Clara froze, the pistol pressed to her racing heart as she stared at the back of Brendon’s head. The Queen? He must be jesting, wasn’t he?

Desmond tsked, clicking his tongue in that annoying way of his. “Why do I find that highly unlikely.”

Brendon shrugged. “Perhaps I’m lying, but are you willing to risk it?” He wiggled his fingers, an unspoken plea to hand him the weapon.

“Here,” she whispered, pressing the small pistol into his palm.

“Yes,” Desmond said. “You know, I think I am willing to risk it.”

Brendon stiffened, it was her only indication that something was about to happen. He swung his arm forward, the weapon pointed directly at her fiancé. “They might not think twice about an artist being shot dead, but they will an earl.”

Clara almost laughed. How utterly divine! She’d almost forgotten Brendon was an earl and held the confidence to go with the position. Unable to resist, she stood on tiptoe and peeked over his shoulder.

Desmond had paused, his throat working, those beady eyes darting from her to Brendon, as if searching for the truth. “You lie.”

“He’s not lying, you bastard,” Clara snapped.

Brendon settled his hand on her hip, pushing her back. “Clara, damn it, stay behind me.”

She smiled apologetically. She couldn’t help herself. For the first time in days, hope tempted her to believe in a happily ever after.

“You’re mad,” Desmond seethed, yet he took a step back all the same. “No earl would live in this hell.”

Her fiancé’s henchman started trembling. “Ye…ye said it would be easy! I didn’t sign up fer this.”

Desmond’s head whipped toward the man. He wasn’t used to servants questioning his demands. “You will stand your ground!”

But the man was already lowering his pistol and stumbling back toward the door.

“I’ll give you five pounds to leave now,” Brendon offered, a casual offer that belied the seriousness of the situation.

The man nodded.

Brendon kept his gaze firmly planted on Desmond. “Smith?”

The butler frowned, but reached into his vest pocket and gave the coins to the man. The man shoved the butler forward and raced out the door, leaving Desmond alone, abandoned. Just like that, the tide had turned. Glee swept through Clara. For the first time in months she felt brave, she felt sure.

Desmond stepped back, his gaze jumping from Smith to Brendon. “She’s been promised to me!”

“I never agreed,” Clara said.

Smith latched onto Desmond, holding tight as the man twisted and fought for release. “She’s a whore!”

Brendon moved faster than Clara thought possible. In two quick strides he was on her supposed fiancé. He slammed the butt of the pistol against Desmond’s head with a sickening thud. The monster, who’d been so frightening only two days ago, crumpled to the floor, out cold.

“Smith, escort our guest downstairs, tie him up and get the constable.”

The butler nodded. With a grunt, he rolled Desmond out the door. There was a thump, thump, thump as her fiancé fell down the steps. Then there was only silence. Clara stood still, alone, afraid to move. Afraid this was all merely a dream. A lovely dream, yet… it wasn’t over. She knew Desmond would never release her.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

He turned toward her, his brows raised in surprise. Tears stung her eyes, Brendon’s form blurring. No one had ever protected her so, no one had ever cared.

“Are you jesting?” His voice was calm, too calm for what they’d just been through.

“No!” She swiped angrily at her tears. “You don’t need more problems.”

She spun around and scooped up her clothing. “I’ll…leave. Continue with my plans. No one need know that you almost killed a man for me.”

She started by him. Brendon reached out and latched onto her upper arms. “Clara, you’re not going anywhere.”

She couldn’t look at him, afraid that if she did, her resolve would crumble. “Please, just let me go. You’ve had enough heartache, I don’t want to bring more and he will, Brendon, he’ll bring you problems you don’t deserve. He won’t relent.”

“You think I’m afraid of that man? I didn’t lie when I said I was an artist for the Queen.” She jerked her gaze toward him. He quirked a brow, his face set in arrogant lines. “One word from me and Desmond will be on a ship set for Australia.”

His assurance didn’t help. She sniffed and looked at the floor. She supposed he wasn’t worried, but she was. How could she not? It was perfect, too bloody perfect, too good to be true.

Brendon stepped closer. “I’ve been through so bloody much, that nothing frightens me…nothing but the thought of losing you.”

Her heart lurched. He didn’t mean the words, did he? She peeked up at him through her lashes. Only sincerity crossed his features. Still, she couldn’t believe his words, not after so many years of wanting him from afar, of spying on him at balls and dinners. “You’re lonely, you merely want companionship.”

He released his hold and swept past her toward that desk. “When you were fifteen, so sweet and kind, I admired you. The way you always helped others. I prayed you wouldn’t change.” He reached into the drawer and pulled out a stack of letters tied together with twine. “A year ago my sister started sending these. Do you know what they are?”

She shook her head.

“Letters from Elizabeth. Letters you’d sent to her.”

Clara pressed her hands to her temples, fighting her confusion. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

He held that stack of letters to his chest as if they meant everything in the world to him. “God, Clara, you’re an amazing woman. I came to know you through these letters. I came to appreciate you, to care for you.” He started toward her. “These letters were the only thing that kept me going, my only link to humanity.”

Her heart soared. “Brendon.” No longer could she stand so close and not touch him. She reached out, taking his hand in hers. That musky scent of his tempted her senses. “Do you know what’s in these letters?”

She shook her head.

He smiled, a heart-stopping smile. “Things about you.”

“Me?”

“My sister had the insane thought that if she could show me how wonderful you were, I’d break free of my melancholy. That I’d move on…toward you.”

Hope flared sweet and tempting. “I always did like your sister.”

Brendon pressed the stack of letters to her heart. “I know about when you fell into the pond last year trying to pick that flower.”

Well that wasn’t the best thing to retell. What was Elizabeth thinking?

“I know how you made sure the children in your shire had shoes last winter. How you gave food to Mrs. Miller’s family when their father died.”

He set the letters on the desk and gripped her shoulders, bringing her close. “I know you hate to eat lamb because you think the animals are too sweet to kill. That you love iced lemon.” He slipped his finger under her chin, tilting her head back and locking his gaze on hers. “I know that you still read those gothic novels. I know that three months ago when some woman belittled my sister, you slapped her with your fan.”

Clara flushed again, looking away. “She was rather vile.”

Brendon brought her close, his heart thumping madly against her cheek. His scent wrapped around her in a warm cocoon she never wanted to leave. “But most of all, I know that I fell in love with you through those letters.”

Clara’s heart stopped. For that split second as the words sank in, her heart stopped. Impossible, it was utterly impossible. “You didn’t.”

“I did.” He leaned back, slipped his finger under her chin and tilted her face upward once again. “You made me laugh. Your letters were the one thing that kept me going.” He gripped her shoulders. “Tell me you care about me.”

She stared into his eyes, the man she’d loved ten years ago. The man who stood before her now, changed, yet still the same. Life didn’t happen this way, did it? Girlish wishes and dreams didn’t come true.

“Clara?” he said her name, his gaze flashing with uncertainty. She had a chance, a chance for happiness. She’d be mad to say no. Clara smiled and threw her arms around his neck. “You know I do, Brendon. You know I love you.”

He rested his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling as one. “Tell me you’ll show me happiness again. Tell me you’ll show me life. Marry me.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I will.” Grinning, she pressed closer to him. “I do love you and I will…I will marry you.”

With a growl low in his throat, Brendon lowered his head and pressed his mouth to hers, sealing the deal.

Epilogue

The sound of happy chatter faded as Clara closed the door tightly behind her. A low fire crackled in the hearth, the light a soft orange and red that sent dancing, festive shadows across the walls.

In the corner of the room, an evergreen glistened with glass ornaments and candles. A beautiful, magical world. Her heart warmed as happiness flowed through her body. A stunning room, in a stunning country estate. But it was that tall, broad shouldered man standing near the tree who caught her attention. He wore a black jacket and trousers, his dress clothing.

“Darling,” she said softly.

Brendon turned, a guilty smile upon his handsome face. He lifted the bundle in his arms and nuzzled his face against the baby’s downy head. “We’ve been found.”

Clara fought her smile. “She’s supposed to be sleeping, you know.”

“She was crying.”

The man had the impossible habit of giving their daughter whatever she wanted. The moment she cried, he was there, cradling her. Lily would be ridiculously spoiled, Clara thought, with a sigh. Yet, how could she complain when Brendon spoiled her just as much? She sidled up next to him and peeked down at their daughter. At only a couple months old, she was round and pink and lovely. Unable to resist, Clara leaned down and pressed her lips to the child’s smooth forehead. The baby smelled fresh, new.

“She’s so lovely,” she said, in a completely unbiased way.

“She looks like her mother.”

Even after a year of marriage Clara’s cheeks flushed at the compliment. She’d had so little in her life but Brendon was making up for that. He moved away and settled Lily in her cradle. At the sound of whispers against glass panes, Clara moved closer to the windows. Flakes hit the glass just like that night a year ago. But now, instead of a dingy city, the countryside met her gaze. Rolling hills awash in pure white. Chill wind seeped through the windows. Just as Clara began to shiver, she felt Brendon’s presence. Closing her eyes, she sank back into his muscled arms.

“Have I told you today that I adore and love you?” he whispered against her ear.

She smiled. How often he told her. “Yes, I believe so.”

He slipped his finger under her chin and tilted her head to the side. His face had grown serious. “I don’t deserve you.”

Her heart clenched. Clara turned in his arms. “You deserve everything you’ve gotten and more.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested the side of her face on his beating heart. “You think I don’t know about the food you’ve sent to London every month?”

He stiffened in surprise. “Who told you?”

“I’m your wife. I know everything.”

His hands cupped the sides of her face. “I couldn’t abandon them, not after witnessing their hardship day after day.”

“I know.” She rested her palm on his chest, his heart beating strong and fierce. “You’re a wonderful man, my love. You just have to learn to accept that.”

Brendon started to lower his head, when the door opened, light following Elizabeth into the room. “I knew I’d find you two here. Always sneaking off.” She shook her head, her blond curls bouncing. “Just as a reminder, you do have guests and they’re currently making their way to this very room.”

Clara grinned, Brendon groaned.

“Come along then.” Elizabeth moved toward the cradle and scooped up Lily, snuggling her close. “We’re going to sing carols.”

Brendon rolled his eyes.

“And you will join in!” She swept out of the room, taking Lily with her.

Clara stood on tiptoe and pressed a quick kiss to her husband’s lips. “I suppose there’s no escape.”

He grinned a wicked grin. “Oh, there’s always a way to escape.” He took her hand and pulled her across the room toward the bookshelves.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” He took hold of a gargoyle carved into the corner shelf and pulled down. The bookcase opened, revealing a narrow set of stairs.

“The perfect way for couples to meet unseen.”

Clara grinned. “Very wicked indeed.”

He jerked her into the small corridor and pulled the door shut. From the other side she could hear Elizabeth and the guests entering the parlor.

“Where did they go now?” Elizabeth’s muffled voice grumbled.

“Oh leave them alone, my dear. I believe they’ve found a better way than singing to entertain each other,” someone replied.

Clara gasped as the muffled voices broke into laughter. Heat shot to her cheeks. “They’ll know!”

Brendon pushed her up against the wall, his warm fingers bringing up her red, velvet skirts. “Do you mind?”

His lips found her neck as his hands brushed against her outer thighs. Clara sighed, sinking into his muscled form. She didn’t mind a bloody thing when he touched her. “No. No, I don’t believe I do.”

“Good.” He dropped her skirts and scooped her up into his arms.

Her skirts rustled as he moved up the steps, surely loud enough to be heard. Clara leaned closer and snuggled her face into that spot where his neck met his shoulder, the spot that held his scent. Giddiness swelled within, threatening to burst her heart. Even now she couldn’t believe her luck, couldn’t believe her life had turned out as it had.

“Where does the staircase lead?” she asked, not really caring, as long as they were alone.

His teeth flashed white as he smiled wickedly down at her. “To the perfect place, my love. Our bedchamber.”

********

The End

Meant For Me

A Historical Romance by Lori Brighton

********

Chapter 1

Her reputation was going to be destroyed and all because of her hair.

Red.

The bane of her existence. Her mother had always cursed Cynthia’s ancient Celtic blood, for Cynthia’s locks were a reminder of her bastard of an Irish father, the man who’d abandoned her mother pregnant and unwed. Aye, they were cursed locks indeed and no moment had proven that more than now.

“Your mask is crooked,” Lady Hogar said in a hushed whisper. Her ice blue eyes glared at Cynthia through a mask of pure white, the mask an angel would wear. How ironic.

Cynthia reached up to her own black lace concoction. With her mask in place, hopefully no one would realize her true identity. But they would guess. Yes, they’d guess she was Helen, Lady Hogar’s daughter. And they’d be wrong.

“Stand up straight.” Mrs. Hogar followed the order by pinching Cynthia’s side.

She jerked upright, resisting the urge to rub her stinging skin. Her aunt’s long fingers always found the most sensitive of her flesh. How she despised the woman!

“Two dances. Don’t look directly at him. He’ll never know who you really are.” The woman’s claw grasped Cynthia’s wrist as she jerked her toward a corner where a potted plant half-hid her from view. The ton adored a masked ball for it was the only time when priorities and morals were pushed to their limits. The large room practically vibrated with excitement.

Yet Cynthia found the entire situation ridiculous, and the night would no doubt end in her utter humiliation. Of course she’d brought this to her aunt’s attention.

“Why don’t we merely tell him the truth? That Helen is ill and couldn’t attend?”

She’d been soundly slapped for being cheeky.

Still, now that she was here she felt she must try, at least one more time. “Surely, Aunt, he’ll know I’m not my cousin.”

“He’s met with Helen only thrice, each time rather briefly.” Her aunt took her arm and pulled her across the parquet floor to the next potted palm, the heels of her slippers sliding on the polished wood. The ballroom was a wonder of exotic decorations, with silky curtains of brilliant colors that shimmered in the low candlelight. The guests were just as brilliant, dressed in gowns of gaudy colors that would have normally been shunned.

“Lady Hogar! Lady Hogar!” Mrs. Gold waddled toward them, her excitement almost palpable. The woman’s round form was swathed in a brilliant pink that should have been considered outlandish. Her features were covered with an equally garish pink mask that barely covered her moon-sized face.

She leaned closer to Cynthia’s aunt in a conspiratorial way. “I recognized you because of Helen’s beautiful burnished hair.”

Cynthia realized the woman was talking about her and managed a tight smile. Yes, she and Helen had similar colored hair, although Helen’s seemed far from cursed. And yes, they both had blue eyes. But she was slightly taller, slightly rounder than her cousin. But Lady Gold, a woman who was Helen’s constant admirer, didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he wouldn’t either.

“Come; do tell me what you think of the décor…quite scandalous! Don’t you agree?”

“Indeed!” Auntie said, slipping into the petty gossip easily and giving Cynthia respite, for at least a moment.

Alone, Cynthia pressed her gloved hand to her bodice, worried her breasts would break free of the tight material. Ridiculous indeed. Hugging herself, she peeked around a large marble column. The ballroom was immense, the place crowded with masked guests. How would she ever find him? Helen had told Lord Kennwick she’d be wearing red and so she was. A gown too tight and too low around the neckline for Cynthia. She felt exposed; almost indecent.

Releasing a frustrated sigh, she started to turn back toward her aunt when she spotted a tall, dark-haired figure. Cynthia sucked in a breath and froze. It was him! The entire ball room seemed to fade, the music pausing. Although a plain, black mask covered half his face and his evening wear blended with the other black suits, she still knew him. She’d memorized every inch of his muscled form, the way he stood so confident and sure, the way his dark hair curled slightly at his collar. He commanded attention and always admired, he stood with a group of men and women, hanging on his every word.

She watched his mouth move, focusing on that top lip where a light scar gave him a dangerous air. Cynthia could barely breathe. Her legs grew wooden. She leaned her shoulder against the cool, marble column for support. Merely by looking at him her heart slammed in her chest, and an odd, dull ache of need seeped low in her belly. He was lovely, stunning. His jacket hugged his broad shoulders and when he smiled…Lord.

As if he sensed her attention, he glanced her way. Cynthia spun around, hiding behind the column. He would know. He must know who she truly was. If he didn’t know she was not Helen, it would mean he’d barely paid Cynthia the least bit of attention the few times they’d met.

Please, let him know.

Oh, how she had paid attention to him! She closed her eyes, dredging up every detail. The way he’d slid her a glance when he didn’t think she was looking, or when Helen was discussing something particularly ridiculous. She remembered that conversation they’d had when Helen had been late coming downstairs. They’d talked of silly things, the garden, the weather, but it hadn’t mattered to her. He’d even kissed her hand that one time he’d helped her into the carriage after she and Helen had met him in Hyde Park.

He would know her. She certainly knew him. How many letters had she written Gabriel in Helen’s name?

“A letter? How boring! You write him, Cynthia.” She could still hear her cousin’s voice, remember the words she’d said two years ago.

It wasn’t the first time she’d responded to Helen’s missive. She’d become her personal secretary. And so she had again without much thought. In Helen’s name she’d written to Gabriel  Baston, The Earl of Kennwick. At first their letters had been polite missives, two people fated to marry since birth, merely attempting to know each other. But a year ago, she’d noticed a change. The letters had become flirtatious, teasing and even heartfelt. She’d fallen for the man in those letters. She’d fallen for her cousin’s fiancé while he had no idea who he poured his heart out to. And at times the guilt was almost unbearable.

“Cynthia? Is that you?”

She snapped her head left. The woman next to her wore a plain blue mask and brown dress but that blonde hair and trim figure was unmistakable, Belinda. She wasn’t surprised her friend recognized her.

“Belle! Thank God you’re here.” She latched onto her friend’s gloved hand and jerked her behind the column.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” Those soft brown eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why ever are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding, I’m….I’m Helen.”

Belle froze, her mouth parted in surprise. “Umm, no. I’m quite sure you’re not. For one, Helen wouldn’t speak to me, let alone touch me.”

Cynthia drew her hands back, flustered. How to explain without sounding utterly mad? “Yes, but you’re the only one who knows that.”

Belle glanced behind her, no doubt making sure Lady Williams, her employer, was fully occupied. “Whatever are you talking about?”

Cynthia sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. She felt a headache coming on. “Helen was ill and refused to attend.” She frowned. “She’s been ill often lately.” She shook her head, scattering her wayward thoughts. “Auntie asked me to pretend to be Helen because she’s heard rumors that Lord Kennwick is losing interested in her daughter.”

Belle laughed. “You aren’t serious?”

She nodded, feeling rather miserable now that the ridiculous plan had been admitted. “She’s worried he’ll forget Helen if she isn’t in attendance.”

Belle shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing. Her friend was beautiful, even dressed in the dowdy brown gown forced upon her. Too pretty to be a companion to the old and dour Lady Williams. But as with Cynthia, Belle had no choice.

Belle frowned. “She’s ill every day? How peculiar.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “Your cousin doesn’t have the best of reputations.”

“Yes,” Cynthia sighed, “But what is your point?”

Belle patted her hand. “Cynthia, my dear, sometimes I worry about your innocence.” Her friend looked around, then leaned closer. “It sounds as if your cousin is expecting.”

Cynthia laughed. “What? No…no…” Was she?

“Merely a thought.” Her attention slid to the area beyond Cynthia’s shoulder and Belle sighed. “Your aunt is coming, which means it’s my time to leave.” She dropped into a quick curtsey then scurried away.

“Cynthia,” Auntie hissed. Suddenly she was there, grasping onto her arm and jerking her forward. “I told you not to talk to that servant.”

Belle was hardly a servant, but she knew it was pointless to argue that fact.

“Two dances only, understand? No matter how persuasive he may be, only two dances. Then have him escort you back to me and we’ll take our leave.”

“Yes, Mum.”

She paused and looked directly into Cynthia’s eyes; the woman’s hatred was almost palpable. “You owe me this much. If not for us, you would have been sent to an orphanage. We took you in, of our own good will.”

“Yes, Mum,” Cynthia replied, ignoring the burn of shame that twisted her gut.

What else could she say? That at times she would have preferred the orphanage to the hatred she’d found with her family?

Her aunt smirked. “Wonderful, because he’s coming this way.”

Cynthia spun around, the skirt of her dress flaring wide. Sure enough, Gabriel was strolling toward her, guests scurrying out of his way. He was lean, elegant, and his confident pace spoke of an arrogance only a man who’d been titled his entire life could hold. He was completely and utterly above her station.

Those silver eyes shone through his black mask and pinned her, like an animal stalking prey. Instinct told her to turn, to hide, to flee. But she couldn’t. She would stand her ground. She would lie about who she was, and she would savor every moment.

Cynthia had loved Gabriel Baston after reading that first letter and she knew, without a doubt, her heart would break because of it.

********

There was one thing Gabriel Baston was sure of; he couldn’t trust bloody anyone. That included his soon to be fiancé. Oh, he’d trusted her for the past couple years; she’d given him hope through her sweet and emotional letters that they’d have a marriage of more than just convenience.

But since he’d arrived in London, after traveling abroad for years, he’d come to the conclusion that Helen was completely and utterly different from the woman she’d portrayed herself to be. Helen annoyed and fascinated him. But mostly annoyed.

He never knew what he’d find when visiting the woman; sweet and shy, or flirtatious and silly. For some men, he supposed the mystery would be exciting. But for him, it was bloody exhausting. Even tonight, across a crowded ballroom, he could tell that once again, Helen was acting oddly. That arrogant tilt of her chin was missing. That smugness gone. She seemed like a deer at the end of a hunting rifle.

Usually, she adored attention. But not tonight. Tonight she was attempting to hide behind a potted palm, although her mother was doing her best to pull her onto the floor. Earlier he was sure he’d spotted her spying on him from behind a marble column. Spying, for God’s sake!

Gabriel frowned and snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray. He nodded his appreciation to the footman and then downed the disgusting, bubbly liquid. Steeling his resolve, he set the empty flute on a tray as another servant swept by.

She was up to something. Yes, he’d be a fool to trust her. He still couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened between that last letter and his first visit with her. For two years now she’d written him wonderful, beautiful letters. She’d bared her soul in those missives. He thought he knew her. He’d bared his soul in his as well. He’d discussed his feelings toward his father. The admittance that he hated the city. He’d completely and utterly destroyed his reputation as an uncaring cad.

When he’d arrived in London only a few months ago, he’d expected to connect with her immediately. Instead she’d been cold, aloof, silly. Hell, he’d more spark with that quiet and demure companion of hers. Cynthia. She was the complete opposite of Helen. And after a half an hour of silly chatter from Helen, she was a breath of fresh air.

Bloody hell, he didn’t understand women in the least.

“Kennwick! Lad, how are you?”

Gabriel resisted the urge to sigh. He’d wanted to dance the required two dances with Helen and leave, retire to his townhome where he could think about his soon to be fiancé and his confusing feelings toward her. Lord Roberts slapped him on the back, nearly sending him stumbling forward. The robust man acted the fool with too many drinks, like most men. Roberts usual pale face was ruddy, his hair messy. He gave Gabriel an irritating wink.

“Going to visit your fiancé?” He patted his belly, bloated with age and too much whiskey. “Aww, now she’s a looker, she is.” He leaned closer, his foul breath fanning Gabriel’s neck. “But you know who I’d like to get my hands on? That quiet companion of hers. I have a feeling she’d be a tigress in bed.” Annoyed, Gabriel started forward, but not quick enough to avoid the second slap, a loud whack to his shoulder. “See what you can do about that, won’t you lad?”

Gabriel curled his fists, his anger boiling. Bastard. He wanted to hit the man. Instead he merely gave him a tight smile and continued on. Cynthia certainly deserved better than Roberts. He’d only seen her three times, always sitting quietly while he talked with Helen. But he knew enough to know she was a sweet girl, kind, shy. She deserved a nice farmer…no. A Vicar? No, he had a feeling she had some fire underneath her quiet façade. She deserved…perhaps a baron. Someone who would respect her, dress her in fine things.

He wasn’t an idiot, he’d noticed the few times he’d visited Helen that Cynthia wasn’t treated well. It certainly wasn’t uncommon for companions to be ignored. But he’d see an end to it once they married. He wouldn’t have her treated as a servant, as he’d been treated as a child, forgotten, invisible. No one deserved to be treated that way.

The closer he got to Lady Hogar, the more suspicious he became. She was angry with her daughter, that was obvious. Was she actually pinching her? How very odd! Disgusted, he almost turned to leave. He felt no connection to the woman who would be his mother-in-law. He supposed she wasn’t bad to look at, but she was flamboyant, annoying, greedy. Completely opposite of his mother’s cold demeanor, yet just as bad. A woman to be endured until he and Helen were married, if they married.

“My Lord!” The older woman chimed at his approach, giving him an overly wide smile that ate up half her narrow face. “How wonderful to see you.” She nudged her elbow into Helen’s side.

The girl dropped into a quick curtsey. Her bosom practically popped from the low neckline of her garish red gown. From what he could tell, simplicity was not Helen’s choice of fashion. Yet, still, he remembered Helen being rather flat in the chest area. Amazing and wonderful, what corsets could do. He lifted his gaze to her face, but could see little through the black veil posing as a mask.

“My lord,” she muttered, her soft voice barely audible over the music and conversation surrounding them.

“Have you come to dance?” Lady Hogar asked, pushing her daughter forward before Gabriel had a chance to answer.

Helen fell into him, her body soft and warm and wonderful. He forced his thoughts to remain pure, forced his body not to harden at the contact. His opinion would not be swayed by a lovely body. His hands clasped her upper arms, holding her steady.

Her shimmering red hair caught the candle light and practically glowed. Lighter in color than he remembered, but then he hadn’t seen her in months.

“Of course. I would love to dance,” he said. She was staring at his jacket, acting the timid mouse. What was her game? “If she’ll have me.”

Lady Hogar laughed an annoying shrill, nervous sound. “Of course she’ll have you.”

Helen smelled different, he realized. Not the heavy, suffocating French perfume she usually wore, but something soft, sweet, natural. Something that quite stirred his blood. Perhaps he’d been too quick to dismiss their relationship.

“What say you,” he whispered to the top of her head. “Will you have me?”

She looked up briefly through the lace, her eyes a flash of blue like a cloudless summer sky, and he felt her glance like a torch, burning his skin.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the warning heat that taunted his body. Something was odd. Something was different. Something was wrong. Yet, he couldn’t seem to care at the moment. All he cared about was touching her. She was a beautiful woman and from the first moment he’d seen her, he’d been interested. But tonight, tonight with her lush body in his arms, he suddenly felt as if he must have her. He slid her arm through his and led her toward the dance floor. Her steps were soft beside him, soft and hesitant.

Why did he feel as if he was a wolf leading a lamb to slaughter? He pulled her close, one hand resting on her back, the feel of her silky gown making him think all sorts of lustful thoughts, the other hand clasping her gloved fingers in his. She didn’t look at him, but continued to stare at the buttons of his jacket. The music started, giving him an excuse to pull her closer, twirling her into a waltz. Closer than was appropriate, so close, those soft breasts brushed against his chest in an erotic way with each step they took. Suddenly the entire world fell away and only they were on that floor, dancing.

“There’s something different about you.”

She started and missed a step. His grip around her waist tightened as he pulled her closer, chest to chest, hips to hips. His cock stirred to life, desire pulsing through him. Blast, but how he wished he could see her face. Rip that ridiculous lace mask from her features. As it was, her eyes were shaded, her lush mouth barely visible. He had no idea what she was thinking.

“Nothing different,” she blurted out.

“Nonsense, you’re acting odd.”

She looked down, left, right, anywhere but at him. Like a newborn kitten, the woman actually trembled in his embrace.

Any desire he felt turned to pure annoyance. He was tired of her games. She either wanted him or not and he’d be damned if he’d wait until after marriage to find out. He twirled her into a particularly dizzying spin. With her balance off, he took the opportunity to lean close, his lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear. “When our dance is over, you’ll meet me in the garden.”

She gasped, finally looking up at him. “But…but it’s raining!”

“Barely a drizzle. There’s a folly. Go to it.”

“But…but my silk gown will be ruined.”

He smiled briefly. “I shall buy you a new one.”

She continued to frown. And her frown was not a good sign at all. She didn’t want to meet him. She didn’t want to be alone with him. Had he mistaken the connection in their letters? He watched her as he twirled, her fine figure elegant. She was made to dance. Would she be just as elegant in bed?

The thought sent his heart racing, his breath coming out in harsh pants that he couldn’t seem to control. Since he’d arrived in London, he’d been unsure about Helen. But now, at this moment, there was no doubt that he wanted her. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted her before. And tonight, he would find out if she wanted him as much.

Chapter 2

Cynthia couldn’t stop trembling. She never should have agreed to this nonsense. Not only could it ruin what little reputation she held, but it was wrong! Bloody wrong! Gabriel didn’t deserve this. How badly she wanted to tell him the truth. But then what? Lady Hogar would toss her from the home without a pence and even worse, Gabriel would hate her for lying.

And now…now she was sneaking out the French doors like a trollop, while everyone else was dancing in the warmth of the ballroom. The weather only added to her unease. The night sky overcast, the clouds stripping the stars of any chance to display their light. The very air had seemed to change with his presence; vibrating, pulsing with a steady energy. She paused on the veranda, the slate slippery with rain. A mist dampened her hair and covered her exposed arms and upper chest in a chill kiss.

Spotting the Greek looking folly of marble, she hesitated. Anticipation thrummed through her body, tempting her to move down the steps until her slippers sank into damp grass. Halfway there, she paused, her hands fisting in the fine dress that was supposed to be Helen’s. A brilliant burst of lightning streaked across the sky. Cynthia lifted her skirts and rushed forward, finding cover under the domed roof.

The round space was empty but for shadows. He wasn’t there. Her heart squeezed painfully. He hadn’t come. He hadn’t bothered. Or had his request been a jest meant to humiliate? Perhaps he knew her secret and meant to punish her. Part of her was relieved he wasn’t here. Part of her miserable.

She wrapped her arms around a marble post and held tight. He hadn’t come. How utterly alone she felt as she stared at the manor. To many she supposed the windows were a bright beacon of safety and happiness; couples dancing and mingling. But she did not belong, never had.

How often had she stood at the perimeter of a ballroom, watching, always watching. Barely noticed and when noticed, only by the rakes who thought she would be an easy target. But those letters from Gabriel …those letters had made her feel as if she belonged…belonged somewhere…belonged with him.

“You came.”

Cynthia gasped and spun around. From the shadows a tall, lean figure stepped forward. Her heart thundered madly. Even in the dark, she recognized him. How long had he been watching her?

“You told me to,” she stammered, her hands coming to rest on her quivering belly. The folly seemed smaller now that he was here.

“Yes, but you never seem to do anything anyone tells you.”

She had to remember he was speaking of her cousin, not her. No, because meek Cynthia did everything she was told. He started forward slowly, his shoes tapping against the marble floor. She couldn’t seem to breathe. Her lungs had shrunk. She squeezed backward but found her exit blocked by cold stone walls.

“I do listen, upon occasion,” she murmured softly, too afraid to speak louder for fear he’d recognized her voice. “When I want to.”

“And you wanted to now? To see me.”

He paused only a foot away. So close, his warm breath stirred the lace of her mask. Of course she wanted to see him. She loved him. “Of course I want to see you,” she whispered. “I…you’re my fiancé.” His wonderful scent swirled around her, muddling her thoughts. A spicy cologne, leather, rain, and male.

“We haven’t announced our engagement yet. There’s still time to back out.”

She released a harsh, unnatural laugh. “Why would I do that?” Dear Lord, had her aunt been right? Was he losing interest? Instead of panicking, she felt oddly relieved.

He reached forward, taking a lock of her hair. His fingers brushed the side of her neck and sent heat like an arrow straight through her body. “Because, my dear Helen, there are times I wonder if you truly want to be engaged to me.”

Startled, she looked up at him. “What do you mean?” She turned away, staring out an arched window and onto the lawn where a mermaid fountain spewed water. Breath held, she waited for his answer.

“Your letters have always been so warm, but the few times I’ve met with you…well, you’ve been less than receptive.”

“I’m…shy.”

He laughed, the sound echoing in the small abode. He stepped closer to her, his chest pressing intimately to her shoulder. She couldn’t back away. Not only did she have nowhere to go, but if she did, her action would only confirm his suspicion.

“All right, I’m not shy,” she admitted. “But…but you make me feel that way.” She turned to face him, looking directly into his eyes for the first time. “When you’re near…I can’t…think…I can’t breathe.” It was the truth. Not the truth from Helen, but from her.

His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring slightly. “Tell me you want me.”

A long paused separated them. Her heart hammered recklessly. She could play demure, or she could speak her mind for once in her life. “I do. I want you Gabriel, more than you could ever know.”

Something lit his eyes. Something lovely. Something dangerous. His hands cupped her shoulders and he jerked her forward, crushing his mouth to hers. She didn’t resist. Cynthia could do nothing more than sink into his hard body. Shock quickly gave way to pure happiness. He was finally kissing her!

When his tongue boldly slid across her lips, she eagerly opened for him, couldn’t get enough of him. Vaguely, she was aware that this was wrong…so incredibly wrong. But she didn’t care. Didn’t give a damn. For one brief moment he was hers, and she’d dreamt of this moment since she received that first letter.

His strong hands moved to her backside, cupping her bottom and pulling her intimately against him. Flames licked at her lower belly. Something hard pressed against her thighs, throbbing with an intensity that should have frightened her. Eagerly her body responded, insisting she move closer, rub against him in a rocking motion that made him groan.

It was wrong, so wrong, yet she couldn’t stop her body from reacting. Cynthia slid her arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe. His mouth, lord, his mouth tore from hers, moving to her jaw line, lower, to her sensitive neck. Her breasts grew heavy, her nipples hardened and begged for his touch. How she wanted him! Desire flooded her body. That pulse between her legs flared to life… aching, beating with need.

“Dear God, Helen, you’re so sweet.”

The name sent a cold chill through her. Horrified, she shoved against his hard chest. “No!”

He released his hold and she stumbled back. For one long moment he merely stared at her, a stunned look upon his face. The surprise quickly gave way something else, an anger that moved across his features in a frightening wave. His jaw clenched, his body actually quivering with outrage.

“Damn you,” he snapped, startling Cynthia.

She resisted the urge to move back. There was a dangerous air about him that she’d never seen before, an air that worried her more than she wanted to admit. “I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not.” He stepped closer, towering over her.

Before she could move, he gripped her upper arms, his hold tight. “No more. No more will you play this game. If what you say is true, then show me you want me. Show me now.”

********

She merely looked at him; a beautiful, seductive tease. Did she have any idea how her breath sent her breasts higher, threatening to spill from her low neckline? He swallowed hard and refused to drop his gaze, but continued to look directly at her, daring her with his silence.

Anger mixed with need. A need so intense, so inexplicable it left him weak. He’d never wanted her this much, but then never had she responded to him with such passion. Here, for one brief moment, he thought she’d wanted him. And now…damn her, now she was back to playing her silly games.

He’d heard the rumors, knew she was a flirt. He even questioned whether she was still a virgin. If not for that blasted promise he’d made to his father to marry her ten years ago, he would have broken the engagement himself.

Well no more. His father was dead and his promise buried with him. If she wanted to marry him, she’d show him how much she cared. He tightened his grip on her upper arms and jerked her forward, ignoring her gasp.

“Show me,” he demanded.

“H…how?”

“By not pulling away. By not flinching under my touch. By responding. By kissing me.”

He wanted to draw the lush curve of her lower lip into his mouth. To taste her. Have her completely. She hesitated, and he waited…waited to see what she would do. He would have waited forever.

Taking in a deep trembling breath, she stepped close to him and tilted her face upward. How badly he wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t. Instead he waited for her to act. She pressed her hands to his chest and stood on tiptoe. Slowly, she leaned forward. Time seemed to stand still. He felt her warm breath, then her soft lips and he almost melted.

Lord, she tasted sweet. Like strawberries ripe under a warm country sun. Unable to help himself, he flicked his tongue across her lips until she opened her mouth. With quick work, he delved into her, tasting her, touching, rubbing his tongue against hers.

She murmured a seductive cat-like purr that stirred his blood and hardened his already throbbing erection. She wanted him. She might not have wanted him before, she might not ever admit it, but her desire was obvious. He pressed her back against the wall. Boldly, he ran his hands down her chest brushing his thumbs over the hard buds of her nipples. Her body called to him. A siren. He cupped those full, warm breasts, feeling the weight through the silky material of her gown.

She wanted him. She’d practically told him that in her letters and she was telling him now with her body. But he needed to hear the words. He cupped the sides of her face and tore his mouth from hers. Both of them were breathing heavily.

“Tell me you want me.”

She closed her eyes as if he’d asked her to admit some horrible truth. “Yes. I do.”

Triumph raced through his veins. His hands moved to her hips where he bunched the material of her gown, drawing the hem up her legs. He rested his hands there, on her smooth thighs, giving her time to adjust to the intimate touch.

“Tell me,” he demanded against her lips.

“Yes, please, I want you,” she whispered.

His fingers ran over the smooth skin of her inner thighs. She trembled in his hold. His erection hardened painfully, pressing against his trousers, begging to be freed. He felt the edge of her stockings and then garters, tempting him to go higher. There was no more doubt between them. Her breath, a harsh pant, brushed against the hollow of his neck, urging him onward.

Wicked streams of heat swirled through his body, clenching low in his gut. “Kiss me,” he whispered into her ear. She didn’t hesitate but tilted her head, pressing those soft lips to the corner of his mouth, then lower to his chin. He closed his eyes as she lowered her mouth to his neck, trailing sweet, warm kisses down his throat.

He jerked down the bodice of her gown until her lush, pale breasts were exposed to the chilly evening air. With a warm palm he cupped those mounds. She moaned, arching into his hold. Needing to taste her, Gabriel lowered his head, taking the hard bud of a rosy nipple into his mouth. Her fingers slid into his hair, clenched the strands and pulled him closer. With a growl low in his throat, he teased her nipple with his tongue, teased her until she writhed in his arms.

Breathless, he pulled away, wrapping one arm around her waist, holding her upright, while his free hand moved under her skirt, following her silky legs upward until he found the soft curls at the junction of her thighs. She sucked in a sharp breath, her arms tightening around his neck. With a whimper, she pressed her face into his shoulder, as if trying to hide.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his fingers resting against her silky, warm sex.

Slowly, she tilted her head back. Her eyes shimmered behind her laced mask, her full lips parted as short, gasping pants left her throat. He cursed the darkness, wishing for even moonlight to highlight her features.

Boldly, he drew his fingers through the soft curls, sliding into her sleek folds. She groaned, her lids growing heavy, but she kept his gaze. When his finger finally entered her, she sucked in a sharp, strangled breath. With a whimper, her arms tightened around him. Slowly, in and out, he moved, making sure she was ready. And she was ready. So incredibly ready. So incredibly tight. So incredibly wet.

This was the passionate woman he’d expected. Deep down, under the flaming desire, he knew he should be shocked. No virgin would kiss like she did, move against his fingers with wanton need like she did. Yet, he couldn’t seem to care that his fiancé wasn’t an innocent. He only knew he wanted more of her, all of her.

He brushed his thumb against the sensitive bud between her folds.

“Ohhh!” She bucked forward, arching against him.

Yes. She was ready. He pulled his finger from her sheath and drew back. She was panting, watching him through eyes hazy with passion. He lifted his finger and slipped it into his mouth, tasting her musky sweetness.

Her eyes grew wide. He’d shocked her. Or was she merely acting? He didn’t care.

“You taste wonderful. Like honey and sex,” he murmured.

Before she could draw back in embarrassment, he cupped her bottom and lifted her, settling her on the ledge of an open window. He needed to taste her, more of her, all of her.

“Gabriel?”

He ignored the question in her voice. “Grasp my shoulders.”

She did as she was told, holding tight. He’d shocked her, but before the night was over, he’d shock her even more.

********

Cynthia gripped his shoulders, grateful for his strength and support. Weak with need, she was sure she couldn’t sit up on her own. The way he touched her…kissed her…was wrong, yet felt so incredibly good.

His hands rested on her knees. Cynthia stiffened, shocked at his intimate touch. Watching her through his mask, Gabriel pushed the silky material of her skirts up to her waist, exposing her thighs. Exposing parts of her no one had seen. Cynthia drew in a sharp gasp. Chill air whispered over her skin, a kiss from heaven. Slowly, he pushed her skirts higher…higher…

She knew she should stop him, push her skirts back into place, yet she couldn’t seem to deny him what she, herself, wanted. He dropped his gaze and lowered himself to his knees. Startled, she started to draw back, but realized that while she sat on the window ledge, she had nowhere to go. Her grip on his shoulders tightened.

“Gabriel what—”

He pushed her thighs apart. She felt the cool night air on her sex right before his warm breath whispered seductively against her folds.

“No,” she whispered, pushing at his shoulder. He couldn’t! Gentle people just didn’t do such things. “Gabriel, please…”

His rough tongue darted out, slipping between her folds. That pulse between her legs flared with a need so desperate, she could barely stand the ache. Any embarrassment fled, only desire remained.

He kissed her; sucked on her while his tongue darted in and out, tasting. Cynthia dug her fingers into his shoulders, her head lulling backward. She was gone, completely lost in passionate delight.

The warm flush that spread through her body only added to the need twisting low in her belly. She had the oddest feeling she was tiptoeing toward some ultimate, wonderful goal, when suddenly he pulled away.

She bit back her groan of disappointment. Gabriel stood, breathing harshly, those shimmering eyes pinned to her. Bold. Silver eyes, that held hers, delved deeply into her soul. His fingers found the opening of his trousers. She had only a peek of his bulging erection, before he stepped close. She knew that in a moment it would be too late to turn back, yet still she did nothing to stop him. Was her brain merely foggy with sexual passion? Or was she really willing to risk all for this man?

“Tell me you want me.”

“Yes,” she admitted, burying her face into his neck.

Then she felt him, the thick tip of his velvet erection pressing between her folds.

“Gabriel?” she whispered, stiffening.

“It’s all right, my love.”

He cupped her bottom and pulled her forward. His arousal slid into her tight sheath. Hard and velvety smooth. How she ached, needed him, more of him, all of him. She’d be ruined, and she didn’t care. She didn’t care because she needed him, needed Gabriel to ease that aching torment throbbing in her sex.

“You are mine,” he stated right before he thrust into her.

The aching need gave way to a burning sting. Cynthia gasped, her fingers biting into his shoulders. She was tight. Too tight for him. He drew back, looking at her with such intensity that she feared he could read her very soul. He knew. He knew she was a virgin. But he thought she was Helen, and he wasn’t expecting her to be innocent. The realization that he understood the true Helen more than she’d realized gave her pause.

She shifted, intending to move away from him, but the movement only made that beautiful ache flare to life once more. She groaned, hooking her legs around his hips, her fingers biting into his shoulders and pulling him closer.

“You are mine,” he whispered again.

Gabriel lowered his hand and touched that sensitive bud between her folds. Desire shot through Cynthia. Clenching his jaw, he pulled back slightly, then thrust into her once more. Too much. The overwhelming sensations spiraling through her were too much. She cried out, her arms tightening around his neck, her face pressed to his chest.

Dear God…it was too much.

Gabriel rocked against her, thrusting his cock further…deeper. Any thoughts, any worries vanished. A wonderful, aching pulse vibrated through her very being. Something pure. Something amazing. Something wonderful. Cynthia couldn’t help herself and a desperate whimper escaped her lips.

“Shhh,” he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

But she couldn’t keep quiet. She wanted to scream, to shout with the wonder of it all. She arched against him, drawing him deeper. She wanted more…something…something she needed to reach. His muscles grew rigid under her touch, his hard member stroking her intimate folds. He moved against her… harder, faster, thrusting deeper. The ache within tightened, almost unbearable.  The entire world faded away.

“Gabriel!” she called out his name over the patter of raindrops on the roof. Her entire body tightened, her sheath convulsing around him while white lightning branched through her soul. He poured his seed inside her, the warm wetness filling her and she could do nothing as she floated back to earth, nothing but hold onto him for dear life.

His breathing was harsh as he pressed his lips to her ear. “Dear God, Helen, you’ll be the death of me.”

Helen.

Cynthia’s eyes opened. Nauseating realization rushed through her. He thought she was Helen. Frantic, she pushed at his chest. “I can’t breathe.”

“All right,” he said, that wariness back in his eyes as he stepped away and fastened his trousers. She slipped off the window sill, her skirts falling into place. Avoiding his gaze, she sidestepped around him, leaning back against the cold marble wall. Her legs quivered, her thighs damp. She smelled it…sex. Their scents combined. Vaguely the sound of the ball… music and laughter…invaded their cocoon. They’d know. Every bloody person at that ball would know what she’d done.

She pressed one hand to her mouth, while pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, but she was trembling too badly to do anything useful with the linen square. Gabriel started toward her, obviously to help.

“No!” She shook her head, backing up. Her mask tilted with the movement. Frantic she shoved the lace back into place.

He stopped only a few feet from her, looking rumpled, confused, beautiful.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispered. Oh God, why had this happened? She felt sick, ill.

“I understand,” he started toward her again but she shrank back, her fist tightening around her handkerchief. He stopped again. “I understand that we should have waited, but it’s hardly disastrous. We’ll be married—”

“No! You don’t understand!”

The handkerchief fluttered from her fingers. Because she couldn’t help herself, she stepped forward and crushed her mouth to his. It was a quick kiss, a goodbye kiss. He reached for her, but Cynthia turned from his embrace.

Blindly she darted out the door and into the garden. She had to escape. Must escape before he realized her true identity. Rain mixed with tears, thunder muffling her cries. She’d slept with her cousin’s fiancé. She’d destroyed her innocence. She’d ruined any chance for a future of marriage and happiness. She was her mother.

Chapter 3

How badly she’d wanted to sleep through the early morning rays, to snuggle deep into her blanket and continue to dream about Gabriel. Guilt and desire had kept her tossing and turning most of the night, but Cynthia couldn’t sleep late. No. Helen wanted her roses every morning, freshly cut from the small garden behind the townhouse. Cynthia hated roses. She hated gathering the blooms, hated that they always pricked her skin. Even hated the sweet smell for her aunt used the scent profusely.

When most people were still abed, she found herself standing in the damp grass wondering how she’d made such a wretched mess of her life. She paused, reaching toward a red bloom. If she had a garden, she’d have wild flowers. Lovely, vibrant, willowy wildflowers that danced with the breeze. But it didn’t matter what she wanted. With a bloodthirsty squeeze, she snipped the bloom, watching it tumble into her basket.

It didn’t matter that she had gotten little sleep last night. It didn’t matter that her head hurt. Or that the place between her legs was sore because she’d lost her virginity and was now thoroughly ruined. And it certainly didn’t matter that she loved Gabriel with all her heart.

She swiped her arm over her damp brow. Even this early, when the ton still slept and only needy were roaming the streets, the sun was hot. The wide-rimmed straw hat she wore provided shade, but did little to protect her from the heat. She tossed her long braid over her shoulder and dropped the basket to the ground. Just thinking about last night produced an ache deep within, an ache that pulled, gnawed, until she thought she’d go insane with want. She shifted, yet the ache only flared stronger.

Gabriel flashed to mind. His strong hands sliding up her smooth thighs. She shook the thought from her head. How could she? How could she let him kiss her, touch her, make love to her? She’d betrayed her cousin and she’d betrayed Gabriel.

Cynthia had turned into her mother after all. A woman who’d given up her self-worth for a man who had given her nothing in return. Guilt and shame swirled low in her gut. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. Is this what had become of her? Was she so desperate for human companionship that she’d destroy herself for a touch?

No. She wouldn’t have let just anyone touch her. Truth was she hadn’t put up a fight when her aunt had forced her into Helen’s identity because she’d wanted to attend. She’d wanted to wear a fine dress, she’d wanted to feel beautiful, but most of all, she’d wanted to dance with Gabriel just once, before he and Helen were engaged. Just once, she wanted him to hold her. To pretend those letters were truly meant for her. How could she have thought that one meeting with the man would sustain her? Kissing Gabriel, making love to him, had made things so much worse!

“You look beautiful you know,” a velvet voice whispered seductively next to her ear.

She stiffened. For one brief moment she thought she dreamt. Warm hands settled on her shoulders and turned her. Before she could voice her objections, firm lips met hers. Cynthia knew that mouth, knew the taste of him. Gabriel.

He was kissing her. She wanted to sink into him, to wrap her arms around his neck. His rough tongue slid across her lips, sending shivers over her skin. She was quickly losing hold of reality. If anyone caught them… Oh God! She shoved the heels of her palms into his chest and pushed.

He released his hold and stepped back. Realization visibly washed over him as he studied her face. He blinked his eyes wide, then pressed his fingers to his lips, as if confused. “Hell, I’m so sorry.”

Heat shot to her cheeks. “Please, let us not speak of this.”

He raked a hand through his disheveled hair. He wore tight breeches and tall, polished boots. He’d been riding and he looked just as lovely as he did in his formal attire. “I thought…I thought you were someone else.”

She was trembling, blast it! “No, it’s fine. Please, let us forget the incident.”

She grabbed her basket of roses and rushed down the path. Lord! Had anyone seen them? A servant? Her aunt? Helen? She’d be murdered in her sleep! Her gaze darted from window to window, but there was no movement. Oh, why had he come? Why was he here, making her believe in the impossible once more?

“Please, Cynthia. Please slow down.”

She ignored the thrill she felt at hearing her given name on his lips. “I can’t. I have things to do. They’re expecting me.”

She had to get away from him. Must get away. She made it to the shadows of the manor when he reached her. His strong fingers bit into her upper arm and spun her around. The flowers went flying through the air, tumbling to the ground.

“No! Look what you’ve made me do!” She dropped to her knees and reached for a bloom.

“I’m sorry.” He knelt beside her. “Please, let me help.”

Panic welled within. She couldn’t be this close to him. “No, you’ve done enough!” She wrapped her fingers around a stem. Sharp pain pierced her skin. She gasped and jerked back. A bright spot of blood marred the tip of her thumb.

“You’ve hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine.” She jumped to her feet and stumbled back, her shoulder blades hitting the cold brick wall of the home. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t run. She was trapped. An insect at the end of a pin.

He stood too, towering over her. “You’re not, you’re trembling.” He was watching her closely. Too closely. He started toward her, she had nowhere to go.

She resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut and pray this was all a dream.

He stopped only a breath away. “Here. Give me your hand.”

She kept her attention focused on the grass, afraid he’d recognize the emotion in her gaze. Part of her hoping he would. “No.”

“Now.”

She swallowed and placed her hands flat against the rough wall. How could she let him touch her? She’d melt and he’d know, he’d know she loved him. And he couldn’t know. He couldn’t. Men like him didn’t love women like her.

With a sigh, he reached down and grasped her wrist, jerking her hand forward. His fingers were warm, long, strong. The memory of those hands touching her thighs…breasts…rushed through her mind. A bitter sweet memory. She bit her lower lip to keep from curling her hand into his. Much to her horror, tears burned her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. And even as she thought the words, a tear slipped down her cheek. He glanced up, saw the tear, but didn’t say a word. Gentleman that he was. She knew she should look away, but couldn’t seem to. Those eyes… those beautiful silver eyes held her captive.

His lips pressed into a firm line, he bent his head, his lashes thick and dark on his upper cheeks. “Hmm, drastic indeed.” He smiled, a quick quirk of his lips.

She laughed, a surprised gasp that left her lips. He must think her ridiculous, crying over a small cut.

Still smiling, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. White, with yellow embroidered daisies.

“Here.” He started to give her the linen, then paused.

“My…”

At the same time he stated, “That’s not…”

She froze. He froze. Her handkerchief dangled from his fingers. The same handkerchief she’d left behind at the folly. Her heart slammed wildly against her chest, realizing how close she’d been to admitting the truth.

He quirked a dark brow. “Your?”

She shook her head, attempting to smooth her face into unreadable lines and knowing she failed miserably. “Nothing.”

Those silver eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“My cousin’s.” She jerked her hand away. “I have to go. They’ll…they’ll be worried.”

She left the basket and flowers on the ground and hurried toward the house, clutching her injured hand to her chest. Keep going, keep going. Don’t look back!

“Cynthia! Damn it, stop now!”

She froze. She couldn’t help herself. The tone of his voice was harsh and she’d been taught to obey.

Gabriel was suddenly in front of her, his face set in stern lines. Only his hair looked soft, rustling on the warm breeze. “Who the hell are you?”

She dropped her gaze to the blades of grass at her feet. “No one.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Please,” another tear escaped. “Please just let me go.”

“I can’t, not until I know…”

Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Annoyed and frustrated, she snapped her head upright, “What?”

His hard gaze had grown soft, emotional. “Was it you?” He grasped her upper arms, holding her immobile. His gaze held a frantic edge that frightened her. He wasn’t going to allow her to leave until he had his answers. “Tell me, was it you?”

But how could she tell him?  It would be her ruination. He’d hate her for lying to him. There was no reason to tell the truth.

“Why, Lord Kennwick, what a surprise,” Helen’s voice hissed like a snake slithering through the garden.

Cynthia resisted the urge to groan. Gabriel released his hold, but didn’t turn toward Helen. No, he continued to stare at her, his gaze so bold she had to look away.

Not one to be ignored, Helen moved in closer, her face a mask of shock and fury. “Did I…interrupt?”

********

Cynthia didn’t respond, merely stood there with her hand clutched to her chest. She looked beaten, downtrodden, and most importantly, damn guilty. What hold did they have over this woman? What hold did she have over him?

“No, you are not interrupting,” he said. “I startled her. She injured her finger and I merely helped.”

Helen tilted her head to the side and smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How gallant of you.”

Her hair looked brash in the sun. His gaze flickered to Cynthia. Almost the same color, yet warmer somehow. And their eye color… at night one could almost mistake them for the same. His suspicion flared. No. The woman at the ball could not have been Cynthia. Why would she have pretended to be her cousin? It made no sense.

“I should go.” The companion started across the lawn, rushing as fast as her long, brown skirt would allow.

Gabriel watched her leave. Watched the way she moved. The way she flowed like water down a stream. Even when she was practically running, she moved elegantly. Much like the woman last night. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to call her back. Something was terribly wrong. He pressed his fingers to his lips where the skin still tingled from their kiss. The warm spring breeze, the cheerful chirping birds that had thrilled him so this morning were forgotten.

“It’s kind of you to visit,” Helen murmured, drawing his attention to her.

She moved slowly around him, throwing him coy looks. Always the flirt. It had amused him when he’d heard the rumors, until he’d realized flirting might not be the only thing she’d been doing. But the woman he’d been intimate with last night had been a virgin. Judging by the way Helen attempted seduction, it seemed unbelievable that she would have saved herself for her husband. He watched her silly parade and clenched his jaw, attempting to keep his anger in check.

There’d been an unspoken betrothal agreement between them since they were children. His father had wanted their land, her father wanted a highly titled and rich gent for a son-in-law. They’d met when she was ten and he fifteen. He’d thought her a spoiled brat and had attempted to ignore her the entire visit. But she wouldn’t have that. The minx had even tried to kiss him at that tender age. He’d escaped by traveling.

He hadn’t seen her since. It was two years ago when he’d sent that first letter. His father had died and he realized it was time to settle down, but he hadn’t expected a reply so quickly, and eloquently. He’d been surprised and delighted and since then they’d written at least once a week. He’d been thrilled thinking they would have a unique marriage, the happy family he’d always wished for. He felt he knew her. She knew him. But was it all an act? Had her letters been lies?

He wasn’t going to marry her without uncovering the truth.

“Come, walk with me,” he said.

She batted her lashes at him. “Of course.”

With her creamy skin and large, blue eyes, she was beautiful, he’d give her that much. The blue gown she wore was rich with ruffles and tight at the bodice, showing her thin figure. The woman he remembered touching last night had been slim, yet rounded in the most important places. A memory flashed through his mind…his hands on those soft, warm breasts. Gabriel swallowed hard, forcing the heat to remain simmering at the bottom of his belly.

They started through the gardens, their footfalls soft and unhurried.

When they reached the area where Cynthia had dropped the roses, Helen sighed. “Such a waste. The child is so clumsy at times.”

“Child?” he laughed. “Isn’t she near to your age?”

Helen flushed. “Yes, well, some people have a maturity about them, no matter what their age is. Sadly, Cynthia is not one.”

“Ah, I see. And of course you know her well.” They strolled down the line of roses, shades in all variety. Something nagged at him…a memory that he couldn’t quite grasp.

Helen plucked a yellow rose from a bush and slid the bloom behind her ear, then glanced up at him with a practiced smile. “What brings you here, my lord?”

Suddenly, the memory came to him, a rush of cold realization. “You hate roses,” he blurted out.

She froze, her brows snapping together. “Don’t be silly, I adore roses.”

His heart pounded frantically in his chest. “No, you stated quite clearly. I remember, in one of your letters. You said you hated roses. I had teased you about what flowers to bring when we met and you said you hated roses.”

She paled and released a harsh, unnatural laugh. “Yes, well, I’ve changed my mind. A woman can do that, can’t she?”

Gabriel paused for one long moment, studying her face. She was lying. He was sure of it. But why? What the bloody hell did roses matter? He gave her a tight smile and continued on. “I see.”

But he didn’t see. Gabriel cleared his throat, attempting to appear calm, although inside his mind spun. “You’re still visiting tomorrow for dinner?”

“Of course!”

His plan had been to ask her to marry him then. “I’ll have my cook make your favorite dessert.”

She clasped her hands together in delight. “Really? I do so love cherry tarts.”

My favorite dessert? Of course I shall tell you since you’ve written and told me yours. Crème Brulee, or Burnt Cream, as we English call it. I had it only once, but my, it was surprising and lovely.

His smile was brittle. “Of course. Cherry tarts.”

She practically skipped beside him in delight. He was anything but delighted. Gabriel felt ill. She hadn’t written those letters and he would bet his title he knew who had.

“Tell me your favorite color,” he demanded a little more harshly than he’d intended. He softened the command by taking her arm.

She looked up at him, her brows drawn together in confusion. “Why ever?”

“So that I may decorate a room in your honor.”

She flushed, believing the ridiculous lie. “Red, brilliant crimson.”

Green. Like the lush fields of York in spring time.

His anger mixed with confusion. He’d known they were silly, but never could he have guessed they’d be this devious. They would not play him for the fool. His gaze went to the door where Cynthia had vanished. Was she an innocent in all of this, or someone more nefarious? The feel of her lips on his was still burned in his memory. His heart sped up just thinking about last night’s kisses. The woman’s taste, her scent…so warm…so familiar. Like…honey.

“My lord? Are you well?”

Gabriel turned toward Helen. Who the hell was she? Angel or hellion? Only one way to uncover the truth. He clutched her shoulders. Her eyes blinked wide in surprise. Before she could protest, he pressed his mouth to hers. She tasted of tea and … sherry? She tasted cold. She tasted wrong.

He started to pull back but she threw her arms around his neck, pressing her body too his. Too thin. The woman was too thin to be the woman from the ball. Her hands moved up and down his form in a frenzy of lust. It was wrong, so bloody wrong.

He latched onto her arms and pushed her away, but she clung to him like a leech on skin. “Helen!” he pushed her back once more. “Please, stop.”

She did, her face showing her shock, then anger. Red crawled up her neck and into her cheeks. He’d humiliated her. He didn’t care.

“I thought…I thought perhaps…I apologize.” She stepped away and smoothed down her skirt with hands that trembled. But she wasn’t sorry. No, he could see that in her face. She was angry he dared to refuse her.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked behind him. An odd, evil smile crossed her lips. “I see. Of course, you’d like privacy. Some people who haven’t experienced things for themselves like to pry. I’ll talk to her.”

Confused, he turned. Cynthia stood there, the basket of roses dangling from her fingers. Her face was pale, her eyes huge and luminous. He felt her gaze like a knife through the heart. Lord, why did he feel like he’d just been caught with another woman? The companion turned and fled toward the house.

Gabriel didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew one thing, the woman he’d kissed last night, the woman whose virginity he’d taken, was not his fiancé.

Chapter 4

Cynthia pushed open the heavy wooden door and stumbled blindly into the kitchen. With a suppressed whimper, she leaned against the rough, stone wall heedless to the curious glances from the cook and maid who were rolling out bread.

She squeezed tight to the handle of her basket; the memory of Gabriel pressing his lips to Helen’s sent bile to her throat. Deep down she knew she deserved it for betraying her cousin. But she sure as bloody hell wasn’t going to watch Helen marry him. She wouldn’t. It was time to leave. To make her way into the world, even if she had to do it alone.

“There you are.”

At the harsh sound of her aunt’s voice she straightened away from the wall.

The woman’s shoes tapped against the slate floor as she came closer, mirroring the thump of Cynthia’s heart. “You found the basket, I see.” Auntie narrowed her eyes, peering at her through the dimly lit kitchen, studying her face as if looking for something.

“Yes, Mum.”

But her aunt didn’t move, merely continued to stand there staring at Cynthia with that familiar look of hatred in her eyes. The same look Cynthia had received the first day she’d arrived. She’d thought her aunt pretty, but there was a coldness that was apparent even to a young child.

“Well, I say. She isn’t much to look at.”  She could still hear her aunt’s cruel words as she glared down at her.

A gangly child who so wanted to be loved, Cynthia had stood on the front stoop in an oversized coat and holding a worn carpet bag. Everything she owned, two dresses, had fit into that bag.

“Take her in out of the kindness of your God-fearing heart,” her father’s solicitor had pleaded, eager to get home to his dinner and be done with Cynthia.

And so he’d left her in London with a family she’d never met, a fortnight after her mother had died with fever. A family. It was a painfully laughable notion. She had no family under this roof. She was a servant, treated no better than the cook and far less respected than the housekeeper. For no matter how hard she tried, Auntie would never grant her the smallest bit of praise. It mattered not that Helen was cruel with the morals of a feral cat. Cynthia was always found wanting.

“And what else did you find while you were outside, my dear?” Auntie glanced out the small window overlooking the garden. The sight of Gabriel and Helen standing amongst the roses had Cynthia’s heart aching.

“I said, what else did you find?”

“Nothing,” Cynthia snapped, tired of her aunt’s tone, exhausted with her bitterness.

“Hmm.” With fingers that stung the flesh of her cheeks, her aunt gripped her face and forced her to meet her gaze. Lord, but those cold eyes sent a chill down Cynthia’s spine. “Leave us,” she bellowed. The cook and maid scurried from the room, leaving behind their mounds of uncooked dough. “Where, exactly, did you go the night of the ball?”

Horror and guilt flared to life. She knew. Lord, Auntie knew. Cynthia jerked away from her aunt’s touch, her flesh burning from the woman’s assault. “As I said, the ladies retiring room.”

The woman laughed, a harsh sound that raked over Cynthia’s skin. “You think I didn’t see you slip outside? You think I didn’t notice the state of Helen’s dress, ruined with rain drops and damnation.”

Cynthia swallowed hard, attempting desperately to find something to say. She had nothing. And frankly, she barely cared. She was tired of the deception. Tired of lying. Tired of being someone she wasn’t. Her aunt could think what she wanted, Cynthia was done pretending.

“Helen will marry Lord Kennwick. I will see to that.” Auntie turned on her heel and started toward the parlor, dismissing Cynthia like she was nothing. And to her aunt, she was.

“Why?” Cynthia demanded, anger and desperation pounding through her veins. “Why do you despise me so?”

Surprisingly, her aunt paused, then slowly turned. “Why?” The woman was actually trembling. “Because if it wasn’t for my sister, your mother, I would have made the match of the season.” Her face grew an unhealthy shade of red. “But she ran off with that stable boy and had a bastard, ruining our reputation as a family and my chances of a sound marriage!”

It made sense now. The reason why her aunt hated her so. The reason why she was so insistent Helen make a good match. Her mother had ruined many lives; would she forever pay for her sins? “I’m sorry, but I am not my mother.”

“But aren’t you?” Auntie lifted her chin high. “Your apology means nothing. You mean nothing. I will not see Helen fall down the same path. She will marry well. She will marry Kennwick.”

Fall down the same path. Suddenly, the wheels in her mind turned, clicking into place. “The same path as you, or the same path as my mother?” Cynthia dared to ask.

Her aunt’s face went pale.

Belle’s words came to mind. “She’s ill every day? How peculiar.”

“What do you mean?”

Belle smiled. “Cynthia, my dear, sometimes I worry about your innocence. It sounds as if your cousin is expecting.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Cynthia’s body felt cold with shock. “Oh my Lord, Helen’s with child, isn’t she?”

Auntie didn’t even move. For one brief moment they didn’t speak, merely stared at each, both horrified, but for different reasons. Cynthia was horrified because of the truth, her aunt because the truth had been exposed.

“Tell me,” Cynthia demanded, but the woman merely continued to stare at her, the older woman’s eyes shifting from shock, to those cold, flat orbs Cynthia knew so well. After all these years her Aunt felt nothing but animosity toward her. But Cynthia didn’t care about herself, she cared about the man she loved and she would not let Gabriel be duped.

“You can’t do that to Lord Kennwick! You can’t! I won’t let you.”

Her Aunt moved quickly forward. Cynthia steeled herself.

“I can and will.” Auntie’s hand shot out, latching onto Cynthia’s arm, her grip painful. She jerked her forward. Shocked, Cynthia let her. She knew she’d be punished, she’d been punished before for far less, but what would the woman do?

Cynthia stumbled on the hem of her skirt, nearly falling to her knees. “You’re hurting me!”

“Shut your mouth. You!” Auntie waved toward the open door. Charles appeared, the new footman, shock and determination wavering over his features. “Take her upstairs, lock her in her room or tomorrow, you’ll both be on the street.”

Panic consumed her. Cynthia jerked away. “No! You can’t do this!”

Charles was on her before she could blink. “Sorry, Miss,” he whispered. “But I have a family to feed.”

Strong arms crushed around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides. Charles lifted her easily, her feet dangling uselessly above the floor. “No!” Cynthia squirmed, but the movement did nothing to ease his painful grip. “Please! Please let me go!”

Auntie merely stood at the doorway, watching impassively. “I will not see you ruin what I have worked so hard for.”

The man carried Cynthia toward the servant’s steps and she knew once she was locked in her room, saving Gabriel would be impossible. “Auntie, please!”

Her aunt tuned and strolled unconcerned toward the parlor doors as if she was merely headed for tea. With a cry, Cynthia sank into Charles as he carried her up the steps. It was no use. Tomorrow she’d be alone, without a home, without a pence. Part of her didn’t care. But Gabriel ….she must warn Gabriel. She owed him that much for lying.

They reached the second floor. Cynthia tried to turn in the man’s arms; attempted to look the man in his black eyes, but he held tight. “Please, please let me go!”

He didn’t respond, his face stoic. At the last door in the hall, the small space that was little more than a closet, he paused, as if in indecision.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

Instead of helping her cause, the words seemed to harden him. He tossed her into her room as if she was nothing more than a sack of refuse. Cynthia landed with a thud to the floorboards, her hip bones vibrating with a pulsing sting. Grimacing, she stumbled to her feet.

“No! Please, you don’t understand!”

The door slammed shut. She raced forward. With a click, the bolt was thrown into place. Cynthia fell against the door. “You can’t do this!”

But it was over.

Over.

Gabriel would marry Helen, not knowing that the child she carried wasn’t his.

Cynthia would lose him forever.

********

“I want to know everything,” Gabriel demanded. “I’m in no mood for childish games.”

Helen blinked up at him, feigning an innocence he didn’t believe in the least. “Whatever do you mean?”

He curled his fingers, resisting the urge to grab her and shake from her the answers he needed. “Who wrote the letters?”

She tilted her head to the side, appearing thoughtful. “What letters?”

“Don’t play coy, the letters that were sent to me, signed in your name.”

She looked away, drawing her fingers over a red rose, but not before he noticed the paling of her face. “Me, of course.”

Unable to stop himself, he grasped her by the shoulders. “Enough with your lies! I will play the fool no longer.”

Her lower lip quivered, her large blue eyes filling with tears. “You’re hurting me.” She squirmed, struggling against his hold. She wasn’t afraid. No, he could see the anger and fear mixing in her gaze.

He didn’t release her, he didn’t care. He felt mad with the need to know. “Tell me the truth.”

She shoved the heels of her palms into his chest, her anger winning. “She did!”

Gabriel released her and Helen stumbled back, staring at him as if he’d gone insane. Perhaps he had. Was she actually admitting the truth?

She rubbed her arms and glared up at him. There was no emotion there other than anger. “Cynthia! She wrote you. She’s the one who hates roses.”

He’d known the truth all along, hadn’t he? Yet it was still a shock to hear the words. Or perhaps he was more surprised that Helen was speaking the truth. He stumbled back and sank onto a stone bench. Cynthia. He didn’t know Helen at all. He knew Cynthia. And Cynthia knew him, all of him.

He looked up at Helen as she stood there in her French gown looking like a lady, but so far from a gentlewoman. A stranger really. A woman he’d had only a handful of awkward conversations with. “And the ball. Who did I … dance with?”

She looked away, her cheeks flushed. Was she actually showing signs of remorse? “I was ill. Cynthia went in my place.”

Anger and disgust mixed in a lethal combination. He’d been intimate with Cynthia. He’d taken Cynthia’s virginity. Helen had lied. She’d made him think he’d have a happy marriage. She’d made him think she cared about him. Worst of all was the realization that he might have been duped. A marriage of deception.

He surged to his feet. “You did this. You lied. You would have married me without really knowing me?”

Her jaw clenched. There was no guilt in her gaze, mere anger and annoyance at being caught. “Men and women do it all the time, my lord.”

It was true, but he’d always sworn he wouldn’t marry a stranger and she’d almost made him break that promise. “What else have you lied about? Are you even a virgin? Or are the rumors true?” He meant to hurt her like she’d hurt him.

She blanched, visibly trembling and he realized he’d uncovered something important. “What is it? What haven’t you told me?”

She pressed her lips into a firm line and looked away.

“Damn it, Helen, for once in your life be honest!” A flock of sparrows took flight from the yew tree next to him, startled by his angry outburst. But not Helen, no.

She smirked at him, her arrogance back as quickly as it had fled. “Nothing. I’ve told you all.”

She was lying, obviously, and he had to do everything in his power to remain calm. Slowly, his gaze scanned her form, looking for something…anything to hint at her lies. His gaze paused at her belly. Was it slightly rounded?

The realization hit him like a boulder to his chest. “You were going to pass the child off as mine?”

She paled, her lower lip quivering. That arrogance was gone. “Yes! And you ruined it all!”

Gabriel ignored her remark, ignored the anger pulsing from her form. He was too stunned, too shocked that anyone could be so heartless as the woman before him.

The thought of loving a child, of never knowing…his stomach clenched. He parted his lips, intent on calling her a whore, but realized that what she would endure from society would be a far harsher punishment than what he could give. Helen didn’t matter anymore. There was only one woman who mattered.

He swallowed his bitterness and swept by Helen, his gaze focused on the townhouse. He must know if Cynthia had feigned her attraction to him. And if she had… Anger and hurt spurred him forward.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Helen screeched.

He shoved open the side door where he’d only moments before watched Cynthia disappear. The panel banged against the wall, startling the cook at the butter churn.

“Cynthia?”

The woman pointed toward the servant’s steps. Gabriel started forward only to pull up short when Lady Hogar appeared in the doorway.

Her weathered face an angry reflection of her young daughter. “Why, Lord Kennwick, is something the matter?”

She actually looked worried. She should.

“Not if you tell me where Cynthia is.”

She laughed, a nervous chuckle. “I…I hardly see why she’d be of importance.” Her hands fluttered around her narrow waist, her gaze darting from him, to the door, as if looking for help.

“I will see her now.”

Realizing she was losing, Lady Hogar tilted her chin high, a bitterness washing over her features that aged her. “I’m sorry, but she isn’t here.”

“Liar.” Gabriel brushed by the woman and started up the stairs. He’d visited their home three times, yet had never been to the second floor. He’d search every bloody room if he had to; he wouldn’t leave until he found Cynthia and heard the truth once and for all.

“See here! You can’t go up there!” Lady Hogar called.

His anger faded, fear taking its place. His heart thundered madly with each step he took. Instinct told him that Cynthia was in danger. At the top of the stairs, he paused. A shiver of unease raised the fine hairs on his neck. Slowly, he turned right. A large man stood at the end of the hall, his face laced with confusion and determination. Gabriel started down the corridor, just as determined. The man shifted, bracing his legs apart and narrowing his eyes, preparing for battle.

“Move aside,” Gabriel demanded.

The man didn’t flinch, didn’t stir. He had a job to do and nothing would stop him. Nothing…but a fist. Gabriel curled his fingers and jabbed his arm forward. Traveling much of his adult life, he’d had to learn how to protect himself. His knuckles cracked against the man’s jaw. The henchman stumbled back, hit the wall, and slid to the floor. He hadn’t stood a chance.

Gabriel pressed his fingers to the door. “Cynthia?”

There was a long pause, then a hesitant, “Yes?”

Relief was sweet. Much sweeter than it should have been. Damn it, he was supposed to be angry with her! “Stand back.”

With a growl low in his throat, he slammed his shoulder into the hard panel, the pain almost preferable to the ache in his heart. The wood gave way, breaking into pieces that skittered like tinder across the floor. The room was bare, a small bed in the corner. No carpet. Not even curtains on the one window. Shite, this was where she lived? Just like that, his anger was gone.

Cynthia stood against the far wall, shock and confusion flittering across her fine features. The early morning sun had not reached her window and the only light was a small lantern that offered no warmth to her small abode. She was here. She was well. His knees almost gave out in relief. Sweet, lovely Cynthia. He would forgive her for deceiving him about that night at the ball, but if she had lied about her feelings toward him, he wasn’t sure he could ever forget.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“I’ve come for the truth.”

Her brows drew together. “You can’t marry Helen,” she blurted out.

He didn’t respond, but started toward her, his steps slow and deliberate against the cold, wooden floor. He didn’t pause until he reached her. Cupping the sides of her face, he pressed his lips to hers. Instantly, she sighed into him, her mouth going soft, her body melting. A shiver of need and anticipation coursed down his spine. His body remembered her touch.

As much as he wanted to keep kissing her, he pulled back, resting his forehead to hers. He’d known it, and now he was positive. He’d kissed Cynthia that night in the folly, he’d made love to her in the rain. “It was you, that night of the ball.”

She pulled back, shaking her head and rushing across the room, away from him. “No.”

Gabriel wanted to be angry with her, he should be. He couldn’t. “No more lies.”

She paused and turned. Tears pooled in her large blue eyes. She was soft, kind, lovely. How could he have ever mistaken her for Helen? “What’s your favorite flower?”

Her brows drew together. “I don’t….”

Another step. “What?”

“Foxglove,” she admitted. “Because they—”

“Remind you of fairy bells.”

She nodded slowly.

Another step forward. “When you were eight, you had a collection of seashells.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, a smile quivering on her lush lips. He paused in front of her and brushed away the tear with his thumb. “Your dream is to live by the sea.”

She nodded, another tear slipping down her smooth cheek.

“You wrote me those letters.” He cupped the sides of her face, his heart swelling with hope and happiness. “You’re the woman I know.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her eyes begging for forgiveness. Perhaps he should be angry, perhaps he should storm from the room. Damn it all, he was tired of living a lie. He wanted love… happiness. He wanted Cynthia.

He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to press his mouth to hers and comfort her with his kiss. He needed answers first. “Why? Why did you do it?”

She closed her eyes. “At first because I had to. Helen insisted.”

“And later?” He held his breath, waiting.

She opened her eyes and he saw only sincerity in her beautiful blue gaze. “Because I wanted to. Your letters were the only bright spot in my life. I lived for those letters. I lived for you.”

The answer he needed to hear and in that moment, he forgave her. He knew this woman. He’d known the moment he’d met her, but had been blinded by other people’s expectations. No longer would he hide from life, from the truth.

“Tell me you love me.”

She smiled, a smile that lit up her entire being. “I’ve loved you since that first letter.”

Gabriel slid his arm around her waist and lifted her, cradling Cynthia to his chest. He pressed his mouth to hers for a quick, possessive kiss, then he started toward the door.

Bemusement crossing her face, Cynthia wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. “What are you doing?”

Gabriel grinned down at her. “What no one else had the sense to do, claiming you for my own.”

Epilogue

Three Weeks Later

“What do you think, Mrs. Baston,” the velvet voice next to her ear sent a shiver of complete awareness over her skin.

Cynthia leaned back into the hard body behind her, snuggling into the fold of his embrace. The waves washed ashore, tickling her feet and kissing her toes. The sea was cold, but that hadn’t prevented her from stripping to her shift and frolicking in the waves with Gabriel. His body and his kisses had kept her warm.

“It’s amazing, Mr. Baston,” she said, curling her bare toes into the gritty sand, reveling in the textures, sounds, sites before her.

The sea was more magical than she’d remembered. The one time she’d visited the ocean, she’d thought it a magical place where anything could happen. She’d been right.

The sun was starting to set, sending brilliant orange and pink rays across the sky and promising a night of endless possibilities. She turned and wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist. He wore only trousers, no shirt and his chest was warm against her cheek.

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Is it as beautiful as you remember?”

He was so eager to see her happy. She grinned up at him. “Better.”

When he smiled back, her entire being lit within. She couldn’t help herself and stood on tiptoe, pressing her lips to his in a quick kiss. The sound of waves crashing against the shore mixed with the cry of birds, combining in a magical symphony. Just beyond the shore, yellow and blue wildflowers wavered in the grass, and their small cottage gleamed white against a setting sun. A haven.

“Perfect,” she whispered. “Everything is perfect.”

“Yes,” he whispered, against her ear, “You are.”

She started to correct him, but his hands moved down her thighs and any thoughts vanished, floating out to sea with the waves. He pulled her shift higher, higher, sliding his hands under the soft material and cupping her naked bottom.

Since arriving at their sea-side cottage a week ago, they had yet to visit town. Gabriel had sent the driver for food, before he’d left them. But they’d spent most of their days in bed, or frolicking near the sea. It was perfect, but then she had a feeling she could be anywhere and as long as Gabriel was with her, it would be the perfect place.

His warm hand slid between her sensitive thighs. She shivered with pure delight. Would she ever get used to his touch? He wrapped an arm around her back and another under her legs, lifting her up against his chest. Gently, he settled her on the blanket they’d used to make love earlier. With the weight of his body, he covered her. Cold waves reached the shore, licking her toes. Cynthia giggled, drawing her legs up.

“I will never tire of your laughter,” he whispered.

His hair curled and wavered on the breeze, tempting her fingers to touch the strands. “And I will never tire of you,” she whispered.

His mouth met hers, his tongue delving between her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, slipping her fingers through the damp, silky strands of his hair. Gabriel was hers. All hers. She could still hardly believe it. Never had she known, even dreamt, she could be so happy.

His knee slipped between her thighs and her legs fell open. His velvety hard arousal pressed to her lower belly, her thin shift the only barrier between them.

“I can’t get enough of you.” Gabriel reached up to her neckline and pulled the material lower, exposing her breasts to the fading sunlight and to his touch. He found a hard nipple, drawing the bud between his warm lips as his fingers bunched the material of her shift up around her thighs. The cool sea air brushed intimately against her legs.

“You’re lovely,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the valley between her breasts.

Those fingers found her soft curls and slipped between her wet folds. Cynthia moaned, arching her back and drawing his fingers deeper into her tight sheath. She was completely and utterly ready for him.

“I want you, Gabriel, how badly I want you.”

She wrapped her legs around his thighs as she slid her hands down his smooth back. The man was perfect. Beautiful. His scent and body consumed her, held her in an erotic embrace. She couldn’t stop touching him, stop kissing him. His hand moved and she felt the thickened tip of his shaft.

Cynthia lifted her hips, pressing against his rigid erection.

“Temptress,” he whispered.

Gabriel entered her, a slow thrust that had her wanting more. He watched her face as he drew back, then thrust into her again, faster, deeper.

“I love you, Cynthia,” he said.

“Please, Gabriel, please,” she whispered, begging him for more. Her fingers slid down his back, under his loose trousers and cupping his tight bottom, pulling him closer. He sank into her, his body shuddering with need.

“What you do to me.” He rocked against her, sending wave after wave of pure pleasure crashing through her body.

They moved together, they made love, they became one.

Cynthia felt him tightened, just as she caught fire. Her soul exploded into a million white stars of pleasure. She didn’t know how much time had gone by before she could finally breathe with some normalcy again. Gabriel rolled off her, but pulled her close to his side. She managed to push down her skirts, should anyone come upon the shore. Apparently thinking the same thing, Gabriel managed to fasten his trousers.

She nuzzled her face against his warm chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart. “I should make your something to eat.”

He quirked a brow, glancing down at her. “Can you cook?”

She brushed her fingers through the crisp, dark hair on his chest. “Perhaps you should have asked me that before you forced me to marry you.”

“Forced, is it?” He gripped her waist and pulled her atop of him.

She rested her chin on his chest and grinned. “Yes. You were quite the brute carrying me off as you did.”

He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “And you loved it.”

She laughed, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling herself up so their breaths mingled. “True. But tell me now, if my meals are wretched and burnt, will you toss me aside for another?”

His eyes sparkled with laughter. “Absolutely, it’s what I look for in a wife, you know, one who can bake.” His face grew serious and he gazed thoughtfully toward the sea. “Of course, I could always hire a cook.”

“No! That will ruin our fun. I like being here with you, alone.”

He looked at her, his silver eyes sparkling. “You merely like swimming naked amongst the waves.”

“That too,” she whispered against his mouth.

His hands moved up her thighs, his erection growing hard against her lower belly. The man was insatiable. But she did love trying to appease his appetite.

“We don’t need food, we shall live on love then,” Gabriel declared.

She laughed. “If only we could.” Her thoughts grew serious as she traced the square line of his jaw, the rough texture of his whiskers tickling her skin. “I suppose we do need return to the city soon. You are an important man, after all, and you must have important people to meet with.”

He smiled. “The only person of importance in my life is you. Tempt me, and I shall keep you here forever, merely the two of us…and perhaps a babe or two.”

Her heart filled with warmth at the prospect. A family? A true, loving family? “Promise you don’t regret marrying me?”

He cupped the sides of her face, his gaze growing serious. “The only thing I regret is not realizing you were meant for me the moment I saw you.”

********

The End

Interested in more historical romance? Read the excerpt below of Lori’s upcoming release, To Seduce an Earl!

To Seduce an Earl

By Lori Brighton

Chapter 1

He always received the virgins.

Really, it wasn’t fair.

Alex sighed in disgust and sank into the wing back chair, the antique legs protesting with a creak. The decorative Baroque style was more for show and offered only the façade of comfort. Much like his life.

Just once he’d like a woman, a real woman, who knew what she wanted, what she was capable of; a woman who would take charge and please him. But it wasn’t about him. It never had been. It never would be.

His necktie felt suddenly too tight, the room too warm. With experienced fingers, he tugged the snowy white material loose. At Lady Lavender’s Estate of Seduction evening wear was a requirement. Resisting the urge to fidget with his clothing, he tapped his fingers against the curved walnut arm, impatient to leave, impatient to begin the evening and get the entire ordeal over with. But like a lad at supper, he couldn’t leave until she excused him.

“Bloody hell.”

Ophelia glanced up sharply from behind her desk.

Shite, had he said that aloud?

Her amethyst eyes flashed eerily under the glow of the gas chandeliers she’d recently had installed throughout the first floor of the estate. When most of England was straining its eyes under candle and lamp light, Lady Lavender read in ease. “Watch your language.”

It wasn’t an elegant woman’s desk made of delicate scrolls that she resided behind. It was a man’s desk; massive, domineering. It was the only thing about her that wasn’t feminine. She was proving a point with that desk. Although her business revolved around the pleasuring of women, it was still a business and she treated her business as a man would. No feelings. No attachments. No excuses. She was heartless alright. A formidable wall.

Taking a page from her book, Alex refused to apologize for his use of profanity, but he did manage that charming smirk that had made him famous with his clients. Inside he seethed. He was bloody sick of apologizing.

His stubbornness gained him nothing but contempt. Her icy gaze continued to drill into him. She didn’t back down. She wouldn’t. Ophelia, or Lady Lavender as the world knew her, held the impression of a lady, but underneath she was as selfish as any male brothel owner. Twelve years ago her cold gaze would have had him shifting with unease. Hell, even four years ago. Now, he barely cared.

Ending their silent war, she sighed and stood. “Why must you be so difficult lately?”

He didn’t bother to answer. What he had to say would merely get him into trouble…again. She strolled toward him. Those rounded hips swathed in the finest of imported silks, although it was early spring and most women still wore wool. Her lavender gown, narrow at the waist, flared into a bell of frills and ribbons that ended at satin slippers. Completely inappropriate for the chill English weather. Completely inappropriate for a woman who must be at the very least forty, yet looked more of twenty. Even in the privacy of her office she wore the highest of fashion, an imitation of their Queen Victoria, she said. And Ophelia was a Queen, if only of her own sinful domain.

Even now, twelve years after the day she’d practically forced him into prostitution, Ophelia was still beautiful. Not a speck of gray in that white-blonde hair. Not a wrinkle around those amethyst eyes. Not a hint of time. When others aged, she didn’t seem to. A pact with the devil, Gideon always muttered. Perhaps he was right.

She idly drew her hand down the blue, velvet curtains, glancing casually out the windows. Did she truly see the beauty of the setting sun, or was she ignorant to something so pure?

“Have I not given you shelter?” she asked, forcing him from his thoughts. “Have I not fed you? Clothed you in the finest of suits.”

She glanced pointedly at his silk vest and black trousers with the thin gray stripes. The highest of fashion.

“Have I not kept your secrets, Alex?”

Unwanted memories swept through his mind. Memories he tried to ignore. Annoyed, he didn’t dare show his feelings on his face. How dare she mention his family yet again. A veiled threat that never went unnoticed. Damn, but he hated when she had the audacity. How hard it had been those first years to pretend his family didn’t exist. All for their own good. His hands tightened around the arms of his chair, fingernails biting into hard wood.

It had taken years for him to forget his parents and within an instant, she could bring back the painful memories. Of course she did it on purpose…a reminder of what she knew, the control she held over him. A verbal slap.

What was done was done. His parents would have given up their search and toasted Demitri as the new heir. Perhaps he should have tried to escape, in those early days, if he’d had the choice. But he’d been too damn afraid. When one was secluded in the country, a good hour from London, with brutes watching your every move, escape had seemed impossible…at least to a boy of thirteen. Although her thinly veiled threats no longer intimidated him, now Alex stayed for an entirely different reason…he had no money and nowhere to go. He was pathetic. God forbid she realize his true fear.

“Perhaps I no longer care about my secrets,” he couldn’t help but taunt in a soft voice. The war was over. Society no longer cared if you were from Russia; even he, secluded as he was, knew that must be true.

She paused behind him, and casually placed her hands upon his shoulders. But he felt the stiffness in her touch. Anger and annoyance practically vibrated tangibly around her. She knew as well as he that she no longer held the power over him she once had. For one brief moment he couldn’t help but gloat, to savor the thrilling shiver of victory.

“Perhaps,” she leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. Yet her touch offered no comfort, not even the stirrings of lust as it had when he was young. “But what will you do in the outside world, Alex? Return to the bosom of your family?”

Victory vanished and he was left cold, bitter. Suppressed ire flooded his neck in an unnatural heat that quickly moved higher to his cheeks. In one sentence she’d hit on the problem. He had no where to go. Worthless. A useless whore.

Ophelia straightened away from him, but the cloying scent of lavender remained as a reminder of her presence. The scent hovered in the estate and the fields around them. If he never saw a purple bloom, it would be too soon.

“Do you think they’ll take you back? There is no place in the outside world for people like us. And think about what would happen if your family uncovered the truth…that you’ve been prostituting yourself for twelve years.” She paused in front of him, her eyes wide with feigned innocence, her hand resting on her heart. As if she cared. As if she had a heart. “Or worse, society uncovered the truth. Why, if your family has finally found a place within the ton, they’d be shunned within weeks.” She shook her head and sighed as she moved toward the fireplace. “They’d certainly be forced back to Russia. And with the war over, the people starving, Russia is no place for loved ones.”

His body had gone cold, numb. A threat that went too far, damn her. But he should have known she would use whatever she could to keep her claws deeply embedded in his soul.

“Alex, darling,” she said. “You’re charming. You know how to put a woman at ease. This new client needs you.”

He resisted the urge to snort. Give, give, give, that’s all he did. But he had a feeling that’s how Lady Lavender wanted it. Punishment, but why punish him? What had he done to her? The eternal, unanswerable question that had plagued him for years.

He raked trembling hands through his hair, the wavy curls clinging to his fingers. Perhaps Gideon’s paranoia was working its magic, but he didn’t trust her anymore than he had as a lad at thirteen when she’d offered him the world and instead, had given him hell.

She turned toward him in a swirl of skirts that showed off white petticoats, a smile upon her full lips. “Come, give me that charming grin the ladies so love.”

Alex dampened down his ire and widened his smile, knowing the dimples flashed. At times he felt trapped in his own skin; a bear with a chain wrapped around his neck, as he’d once seen in the old country. And only she held the key to that lock.

Ophelia seemed to relax and floated toward the marble hearth, her footfalls quieted by the thick Persian carpet. The low fire casting leering shadows across the papered walls, crackled and sputtered, hissing at her approach. “Take it easy on her for now. She’s as scared as a doe at the end of a pistol. Her driver even insisted she be taken through the kitchens so as not to be seen.”

Alex surged to his feet, eager to get away from Ophelia before he did something reckless, like throttle her. “As if anyone would see her. We’re in the middle of a damn field, a good hour from London.”

“Alex,” she warned, throwing him a threatening glare.

He kept his smile in place. He was a machine; one of those factories that chugged away in the city, producing black smoke that hid the reality of dreary London. Ophelia told him to smile, and he smiled. She said fuck, and he fucked. Why? Because he didn’t care.

“Where is she?” he asked.

But she didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she tilted her head to the side in a thoughtful manner, her eyes narrowing as if to study him. Alex grew uneasy.

“Your room. No intercourse. She merely wants to learn to kiss, touch.”

Wonderful. Just bleedin wonderful. He nodded, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.” But he had to wait for her dismissal and apparently she was in a hesitant mood this eve.

She floated forward, not pausing until she was a breath away. Slowly, she tilted her head back and gazed directly into his eyes. With a soft smirk, she rested her hand on his chest. For one brief moment she merely stared at him, as if trying to read his thoughts. Alex barely breathed, afraid she would. With their gazes locked, she slid her hand down his silk vest, lower to his waist. With a firm grip she cupped the front of his trousers, taking the bulge of his cock in hand. He didn’t even flinch.

“Do not fail, Alex.”

Her touch didn’t do a damn thing to him. Neither did her threat. “Of course not.”

She released her hold and gave him a dismissive wave. She’d moved on already, her next client, her next wad of cash. Alex gave a mocking bow to her back, then turned and made his way into the hall. How he hated her. How he despised everything about her.

Wavers, her guard dog, shifted from his position near her door. Watching them, always watching them through those beady, black eyes. The bastard never spoke, but with a face like his, he didn’t need to.

“Wavers.” Alex brushed his fingers under his chin, a silent command to fuck off.

Ophelia’s henchman didn’t respond, but then they never did. Her muscled statues had two purposes in life: protect their lady and when her boys were behaving badly enough, beat them into submission. He’d felt the man’s fists more than once in the early years. For that, she paid them handsomely and like mutts, their loyalty was unwavering.

Feigning a nonchalance he sure as hell didn’t feel, Alex started down the hall, whistling a tune under his breath. How impressed he’d been when he’d first arrived, a lad used to living in splendor, he expected nothing less and thought he’d found a second home. The estate was beautiful, only the best. Marble floors, golden sconces highlighting the ornate scrolls hand painted on the walls. Above, gas chandeliers flickered and sputtered adding warmth and moderninity to the abode.

And there, on the outskirts, were objects meant to entice even the coldest of women. Statues of naked couples frolicking half-hidden around corners. Large tropical plants that added vitality. Warm scents meant to relax. Paintings of virile men hanging on the walls. It was a lush lifestyle meant to seduce and please, if one didn’t mind selling one’s soul.

Alex’s fingers moved to the fine linen of his shirt, buttoning that top button. He smoothed down the silk embroidered vest. Outside appearances must be kept, even if inside he fumed. The cravat that hung loose around his neck was tied as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow. Thrumming through his mind, years of teaching prevailed. Virgins tend to be skittish if you showed any skin. Yes, he’d have to tiptoe around this one, like always.

At first, he’d loved holding the upper hand, making innocent women quiver under his touch. Knowing they not only wanted him, but underneath, feared him. A powerful aphrodisiac, indeed. Now…hell, now he was damn tired of teaching them how to seduce their future husbands. Tired of their wide-eyed stares. Tired of their innocent blushes. Tired of the game.

“Another virgin?”

Startled from his thoughts, Alex paused, glancing toward the parlor. Gideon leaned against the doorframe, a scotch in hand. He’d changed in the past twelve years. Taller, broader. Those muscles, dark hair, and silver eyes made more than one woman quiver with fear and desire. But no matter how many beatings the man had endured as a youth, his stubbornness remained intact. The evidence was there…in the hardness of his face, the tenseness of his body. The idiot would get himself killed if he didn’t at least pretend to play Ophelia’s games.

Alex snatched a glass from the man’s scarred fingers and drank the amber liquid. The alcohol burned a trail down his throat, making him wince.

“Why do you have scars on your fingers, Gideon?” he’d asked him once, when he, James and Gideon had first arrived.

“None of your damn business,” Gideon had replied.

And so had been the start of a tumultuous relationship, an uneasy truce between three lads brought together. There were many things Alex didn’t know about Gideon, but there were also things he’d deduced from years of companionship.

Alex had never been one to drink; he liked to have all his wits about him when facing the Angel of Hell, as he’d dubbed Ophelia. Gideon liked to deal with life by being in a habitual state of half-drunkenness, although the man held his whiskey so well, one could barely tell. James acted as if their lives were an honored position they should be proud of. And Alex, well, he pretended. He was good at pretending. He’d had years of practice with his parents. Pretending to be someone he wasn’t, pretending to be happy, charming. And now, pretending he enjoyed pleasing women every day of the week.

“Yes, rotten luck, another virgin, unfortunately.”

Gideon merely smiled, a rarity. “At least you won’t have to worry about the pox.”

“Hmm,” Alex replied. Small condolences.

“You’re too pretty,” he said the words with disdain. “It’s why she gives you virgins. Scar your face a bit. I’d be happy to hold the knife.”

“Amusing.” Alex brushed a piece of lint from his vest. “You’re welcome to her.”

“Oh no, she’s all yours.” Gideon set the glass on a small side table. His gaze slid down the hall where Wavers still stood silently watching. The atmosphere shifted, becoming thick with tension and Alex knew what was to come.

“Did you think about it?” Gideon asked.

Alex swallowed hard and lowered his gaze to the hall runner. He felt like a coward; his thoughts jumbled when he knew he should have had a ready answer. Why? Why didn’t he immediately agree? Why did his body grow cold and clammy with thoughts of escape?

“Yes, I’ve thought about it.”

“And?”

His heart thumped madly in his chest, unease and desperation battling within. Once he agreed, he was placing his life in the hands of a man he barely trusted. Still, wasn’t being dead better than being alive here? “Do you truly believe we’ll be able to escape?”

“Yes. She’s hoping our lack of fortune and lack of self-respect will bind us to her. And, of course, she’s got her men. But her trust is building. Has she not decided to take you to the Rutherford Ball when you’ve never gone before?”

True. And there would be no better opportunity to escape than at a crowded ballroom.

“And think about what would happen if they uncovered the truth…that you’ve been prostituting yourself for the past eight years.”

Ophelia’s warning whispered tauntingly through his head. The thought of his mother…his father…knowing that he was nothing more than a whore left him ill. He had no doubt, should he leave her establishment, Ophelia would post about his life in the dailies. But would the ton believe her word? “I’ll have to think on it.”

Gideon’s jaw clenched, anger hardening his pewter gaze. “And James?” he asked.

Alex floundered for a response. James was tricky, he always had been a bit naïve. Did his loyalty to Lady Lavender supersede his loyalty to them? For some reason the idiot had the insane belief that Ophelia had saved them. “I don’t know. He seems to believe he owes her.”

Gideon snorted in disbelief. His feelings toward their savoir were apparent in every glare he threw her way. Every murmured curse he whispered when she was near.

Two years ago Gideon had started dropping hints about escape. It was only in the last six months that they’d been seriously discussing the idea. Oddly, Alex didn’t feel as excited by the prospect as he’d assumed he would. It was true; Ophelia was beginning to trust him. For the past year she’d taken him along when visiting gaming hells. And only recently she’d mentioned that he would attend the Rutherford Ball. Freedom tempted him. Although escaping gaming hells would be difficult with her henchmen nearby, at a ball surely there’d be plenty of opportunity.

He raked his hand through his hair, feeling discontent, unsure, when he should have been thrilled. Even if they managed to escape this hell, what sort of life would they lead with pasts like theirs? Ophelia was right; he could never return home. Perhaps he’d known that all along, which was why he’d never tried to contact his family. He was too damned ashamed.

And what would happen when Ophelia told the world of his sinful ways? Dare he tell Gideon of Ophelia’s latest threat? No. Gideon wouldn’t care, wouldn’t understand why Alex would worry over his family’s welfare. But then how could he understand? Gideon had no idea where Alex had come from, who his family was related to.

Alex sighed. “I’ll talk to James, see—”

“Ahem.” Wavers cleared his throat, their warning to move on.

They’d talked longer than was deemed appropriate. Gideon narrowed those gray eyes, his hatred bitterly palpable. Lady Lavender didn’t like them to fraternize. But after being together for twelve bloody years, what did she expect?

“We’re friends, we’re all going to be great friends.”

He could still remember the words she’d spoken those years ago when she’d tempted Alex to work for her. The words had been a lie, as everything else she’d said. Here, one didn’t have friends. He barely trusted Gideon. God, he couldn’t live this way any longer. There was no other alternative. Even though sweat broke out along his forehead, with renewed determination he gave Gideon a nod. “I’m in.” And like that he’d jumped into a gray sea of churning waves, threatening to take him under.

Gideon grinned.

As far as he knew, Lady Lavender had twenty men in her control. Yet he, James and Gideon were the only three under constant watch. The only three who, as mere young boys, had been blackmailed. She hadn’t started whoring them out right away. No, she’d waited until they were sixteen, tempting them with beautiful women, teasing them with seductive possibilities.

And how eager he’d been to relent. Gads, he could still remember that first time. He’d thought that having sex with women would be an ideal way to spend his evenings and in return, Lady Lavender would keep the secrets of his family’s ancestry buried. He hadn’t realized he was selling his soul.

Gideon turned and disappeared into the parlor. Alex tipped an imaginary hat at Wavers and continued up the stairs. Taking in a deep breath, he contemplated the woman who would be waiting. It didn’t do to arrive wilted and uninterested. Yet, it had been a long time since a woman had naturally aroused him. A sweet blonde with blue eyes? Dark and exotic?

In the first few years, his cock had flared to life merely at the thought of bedding a woman. Now…hell, now it took concentration to care.

One thing was certain, she’d be a trembling mess. But he’d make her quiver for an entirely different reason. If Alex was good at one thing, it was making the innocent relax. It was his looks, he knew, the dark curls, blue eyes and dimples. He looked nothing like his Russian father, but more like his English mother. He looked like a fucking angel, or so he’d been told on many occasions.

Yes, the mothers liked his looks and they’d send their innocent daughters to him. He supposed they were being kind. They’d rather their daughters lose their virginity to someone who would be gentle and intent on pleasing. Then, on their wedding night, daughters would not cry, there would be no pain, and pig’s blood would be sprinkled upon the sheets. Husbands would leave their marriage bed happy in the knowledge that they had performed well indeed, with no idea that their wives had already lost their virginity to a whore.

He paused outside his door. Lady Lavender had done what she could to make the rooms void of sound, but noises seeped through…moans, whispers, groans of passion. Evening was a popular time. Vaguely he could remember waking to noises of the city— people calling out their wares, carriages over cobbled streets. Now, he woke to the sound of women being pleasured. At one time it was a magical, musical sound. Now it grated.

He gave a soft knock, just to warn his client, then wrapped his fingers around the cool, porcelain knob. Without hesitation, he pushed the door wide.

She stood near the windows. The setting sun outlined her body with a heavenly glow. Heaven in this hell, how ironic. Not blonde. Not a brunette. Not raven haired. Almost…auburn? He stepped further into the room. Yes, dark auburn, although a less astute man would have said brown. He smiled, surprised when he was rarely surprised anymore. He’d never had an auburn haired woman. Thank God for small favors. Something different in his mundane life. Softly, he shut the door, the latch giving a click.

She turned, spinning around in a flurry of brown skirts. “Oh.”

Her voice was a gasp of surprise that hardly reached him. He could barely see her face, the setting sun too bright behind her. But he didn’t need to see her features. Looks no longer mattered. She could have resembled old Bertie from the kitchen, or a perfect goddess created by the heavens and it wouldn’t have mattered.

He moved across the large room, his booted feet sinking into plush carpet, dulling any sound of footsteps. Only the best decorated Lady Lavender’s estate. The walnut four poster bed cost a pretty pence. White curtains provided a seductive haven that cocooned lovers in a pure embrace, while the baby blue walls reminded one of brilliant summer days in the country. It was luminous, beautiful, perfect for the innocent. He hated the room.

“A drink?” he asked, moving to the side table to lift the wick of the only lantern that was currently lit.

From the corner of his eye he could see her gloved hand flutter around her, before settling on her chest like a nervous butterfly on a flower. “Um, yes, thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

Her voice was husky, pretty really. He poured sherry into a glass and started toward her. The drink would help her relax, as would the fire crackling in the marble hearth. Expensive French chocolates sat on the table by the bed. Everything was in place, as it should be.

“Alex.” His gaze shifted to hers and he paused for one brief moment as a shiver of awareness caressed his skin.

Rosy cheeks, pert nose slightly upturned, wide, innocent eyes not exactly blue, yet not green…. Twenty three, four? Almost on the shelf then. Yet, there was something about her that called to him… That stirred his interest. He cleared his throat and dropped his attention, scanning her form quickly, looking for something, anything to explain his sudden attraction. Brown cloak was perfectly cut, material fine, but it was serviceable. Nothing erotic.

“Alex,” she repeated softly, her voice almost a caress. “Do you have a surname?”

He had, at one time. “No. Just Alex.”

Remembering his purpose, he started toward her once more, stopping close…close enough that his heat tempted her, but not too close that she felt overwhelmed. He took in a deep breath and suddenly he was the one overwhelmed. Her scent invaded his senses; the fresh scent of spring and more…something homey…sweet…as if she’d been baking cookies.

Curious hazel eyes blinked up at him. She had a soft splattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Hell. Her innocence screamed at him. Yet…yet, he couldn’t seem to look away. As he studied those freckles he had the sudden urge to kiss her. Truly kiss her. No pretense, no practice, but the sudden rush of lust that could only be sated with an irrational kiss. She reminded him of innocence, of a life before he’d sold his soul. A time when he’d flirted with sweet milkmaids and farm girls. A life when anything had been possible.

She frowned, a crease between her brows. “It’s hardly appropriate for me to call you by your first name.”

He laughed at her jest. But as confusion swept over her oval face, his laughter faded. Was she serious?

“Drink.” He softened his demand by smiling, his gifted, charmed smile complete with dimples. “And your name?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to take the glass and looking thoroughly disgruntled. “Since you’ve given me your first name, I now feel indebted to give you mine.”

He parted his lips to respond when she held up her hand, cutting him off.

“I insist we be on equal footing.”

He didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but he was intrigued enough to wait for her next statement.

“Grace,” she said in a breath of air, as if admitting some great family secret. “Although it’s hardly appropriate for you to use it.”

His smile faltered. An odd virgin indeed. Damn, perhaps this wouldn’t be easy after all. She was going to be difficult. “My dear, you’re in my bedchamber; propriety doesn’t matter much.”

Her cheeks turned a charming shade of pink and although she’d met his gaze directly only moments before, she now found sudden fascination with the carpet. “All the more reason to keep up morals.”

Morals? Here? Was she mad?

Grace pulled her gloves from her fingers, one by one in a slow, unconcerned movement, as if she was in complete control. She looked rather unimpressed. And maybe she was. “Sir, as much as I adore small talk, I’d rather get on with it.”

Holy hell. For not the first time that evening, Alex was shocked speechless.

Coming Soon!