More than a Governess

by

Jerrica Knight-Catania

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the

author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to any event, locale or person,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

More than a Governess

Copyright 2009 by Jerrica Knight-Catania

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.

Cover design by Dara England

For Eric, you are the husband of my dreams, the hero to my fairy tale life.

And for Bella, you are the Happily Ever After we’ve been waiting for.

Prologue

Lady Isabelle Thornton stood at the back door of Blakeny House, her hand poised to knock, but her wrist refusing to go through with the movement. She didn’t care that the rain continued to soak through her dress even though she had a feeling it would take days for the thick, ugly material to dry completely. And Isabelle certainly paid no mind to the fierce grumbling in her stomach—the butterflies were far more bothersome than the hunger.

Or perhaps it was the heavy pit of grief that truly overrode any physical discomfort at the moment.

She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down. Hard. What was she doing here? She knew nothing of hard work, of being a lady’s maid or, God forbid, a scullery maid. What would it be like to be on the other side? To serve rather than be served? Would she ever be able to return to the station to which she’d been born?

Probably not. Not after what had happened. Not after…

Isabelle shook her head in a desperate attempt to toss the memories from her mind. If she dwelled on them, they would take her over, drown her in such despair she wouldn’t be able keep upright. But she needed to keep upright—she needed to survive. And Blakeny House was her only option right now.

She raised her fist again and this time, she did not hesitate to knock. Within moments, the door opened to reveal a thin, older woman, dressed much like her own housekeeper. Her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners as she took in Isabelle’s appearance.

“You must be here about the maid position,” she said with a smile. “Well, come on in, dearie. You’ll catch your death if you stand there much longer.”

Isabelle followed the woman through the small door and into a large, toasty kitchen. Her muscles, which she hadn’t even realized had been bunched with cold and tension, began to relax, as the warmth of the stove penetrated the thick, wet wool of her dress.

“Have a seat right there, miss, and I’ll be with ya in just a moment. Lady Grimsby will be wantin’ her tea now. Not usually my duty to deliver the tea, but since Sally up and left us to marry that Jimmy boy from Spitalfields, I’ve been doin’ near everything. It will be nice to have an extra pair of hands…”

The woman bustled from the kitchen, her arms laden with a heavy tea tray, and the swinging door came to a rest moments later. Isabelle stared unseeing at the door, her heart racing with fear, her mind jumbling with thoughts and images that would disturb a grown man. For a fifteen-year-old girl, they were almost unbearable.

She fought to concentrate on one emotion rather than the hundred that flowed through her at the moment. She chose the only one that would get her through this day, through the new life she’d chosen out of necessity: Hope. Hope that she was the first, if not the only one, to respond to the advertisement. Hope that her ruse would work, that she wouldn’t be recognized, that she would somehow be able to convince the kindly housekeeper that she was capable of doing a job she’d never even considered.

Hope that in time she would be able to erase the memory of her mother’s broken and lifeless body at the bottom of the stairs; the memory of her father at the top of the stairs, staring down at her with the same loathing and contempt he’d shown for her mother. Hope that her father would think her dead and not seek her out.

“All right, then!”

Isabelle jumped at the abrupt reentry of the housekeeper and sought to control her racing pulse once again.

“A bit jumpy, aren’t ya?” The older woman smiled at her and then set a plate of warm biscuits before her. “Perhaps you’re a bit hungry as well?”

Isabelle looked from the biscuits to the woman and back again, very aware that she was salivating at the mouth. She’d had little to eat since she fled her father’s Mayfair home in the dead of night, three days ago. But she wondered if this was a test. Her father had never taken kindly to the servants taking what was not theirs to take, and that included food that had not been rationed to them. Certainly, their servants had never enjoyed such delectable looking biscuits. Gruel and bread crusts were more like it.

“Well, go on before they turn cold,” the housekeeper urged, pushing the plate closer to Isabelle.

She couldn’t take any more. If she lost the position, it might very well be worth it. She reached for a biscuit but stopped when the housekeeper let out a loud “Oh!”

Isabelle looked up at the woman. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, taking her hand away and tucking it into the damp fabric of her skirt. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You’ll of course want something to wash those down with!” The housekeeper wasn’t even paying attention to her now that her head was buried deep in an ice chest. “They’re a bit rich—the kind that stick to the roof of your mouth.” She poured milk into a glass and slid it across the table to Isabelle. “Well, what are ya waiting for, dearie? You must be starving. Never seen eyes so round with hunger in my life.”

And with that, Isabelle dove into the warm biscuits, heedless of crumbs, uncaring if she looked like a rabid animal as she stuffed them into her mouth. All she cared about was the slightly sweet, buttery taste on her tongue and the empty feeling in her stomach that was quickly disappearing.

“There now,” the housekeeper crooned. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Isabelle nodded, her mouth too full to speak. She took a swig of the milk and swallowed down the last of the morsels. “Thank you. I-I…suppose I was hungry after all.”

“Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself.”

Isabelle gulped over the sudden formation of a lump in her throat. What the devil was she supposed to tell this woman? She couldn’t very well say that she was the daughter of a highly regarded member of the ton. Or that she’d watched her father—that highly regarded man—only three days ago, shove her mother down a flight of stairs to her death.

Her heart ached at the thought of her mother and it was all she could do to focus on the task at hand. Somehow, someway, she must convince this housekeeper that she was an orphan, completely alone in the world, with not a penny to her name. And even more importantly, she needed to convince her that she could serve a tea tray and roll out biscuit dough, and whatever else might be expected of her now. Now that she was a servant.

Drawing herself upright on the stool, Isabelle held out her hand, and said, “My name is Becky Thorn, and I am a maid.”

One

7 Years Later

Ravenscroft Castle, Kent

Becky stared at the letter before her, very aware that her employer and her employer’s sister-in-law were watching, waiting for a reaction. It wouldn’t have been so unnerving if they had been chatting or doing something—anything other than just staring. On a normal day, in a normal situation, Becky wouldn’t have been able to get a word in edgeways—not with Kat the Canary leading the conversation. But today was different, and Becky found herself uncomfortably at the center of their combined attention.

Phoebe, Marchioness of Eastleigh and Becky’s employer for the last seven years, cleared her throat in an obvious effort to prompt Becky into speaking. But what on earth was she to say? As much as she hated to leave Phoebe, who had admittedly become more to her than simply an employer, she’d been given an opportunity she would be foolish to turn down.

Apparently, the lengthy silence finally proved more than Katherine, Duchess of Weston, could take. “Come now, Becky, you’ve left us in suspense long enough. Won’t you tell us what the letter says?”

Becky arched her brows high and looked skeptically towards the duchess. “I hardly think that’s necessary, since I’m sure you could probably recite it to me yourself.”

Kat sucked in a breath and looked to Phoebe, who reclined on the opposite settee. She would have looked like one of those beautiful goddesses in a Botticelli painting if not for the fact that she was eight months pregnant. But Phoebe just shook her head at Kat and said, “I told you we shouldn’t open it.”

Becky decided to step in before the two started arguing about whose idea it was to open her correspondence. It wasn’t all that surprising. Both women were of far too curious natures. And being that Becky hadn’t gotten a single piece of correspondence in all her years with Phoebe, she could understand their piqued interest.

“As you both already know, I’ve been asked to spend a trial period as a governess for the children of the Viscount and Viscountess Hastings—”

“But they’re all the way in Rye, Becky! What will mother and I do without you?”

Considering Ravenscroft Castle had upwards of a hundred servants, Becky doubted she would be missed. “You will find another companion, Phoebe,” Becky said gently. “You’ve already secured a maid—”

“You know I don’t care about having another servant in my employ, Becky, I care about you. You're not my employee anymore, anyhow...you're my friend.”

Phoebe’s words tugged at her heart and she swallowed over the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t cry—it would be silly to. She was a maid and sometimes, a companion, but nothing more. Sure, she and Phoebe had seen one another through difficult times over the last two years, and Becky had been the only one to stick with her and Lady Grimsby when all the other servants left. But she’d had no choice then. She had nowhere to go—no family to return to. At least, no family that she wanted to return to.

“I know,” she said quietly. “But…” But what? She could never tell her the truth. The repercussions of anyone knowing who she really was could be disastrous, but she wasn’t meant for this life. She was educated, and she wanted to be more than a maid. But she wasn’t meant for the kind of life Phoebe and Katherine lived either. Sure, she’d been born to it, but she wouldn’t have the slightest inkling of how to conduct herself as a lady now. She’d run away from home just before she was to start finishing school, after all. This was her chance, her only opportunity to secure a respectable job and a future for herself. So, she lied.

“My mother was a governess.”

Both women’s eyes turned round with fascination.

“She was?” Phoebe asked. “You never said as much. As a matter of fact, this is the first time you’ve ever even mentioned your mother.”

Becky ignored the pang in her heart, and continued. “Yes, well, that was because I didn’t know her well. She died when I was…young. But, that was her profession before she married my father, and I want to follow in her footsteps. Surely you don’t wish to hold me back from such a pursuit.”

Goodness, it was frightening how easily the fabrication slipped from her tongue! The guilty expression that passed over Phoebe’s lovely features gave her pause, but not for long. It was time. Time to find out what Becky Thorn was capable of.

“Of course not, but are you certain this is what you want?”

“Yes, Becky,” Katherine chimed in. “Perhaps you should explore options a little closer to home. There’s a bevy of eligible gentlemen here in Kent.”

Becky snorted. “I’m not looking to marry.”

“Ever?” This came from both women, in a horrified tone, and Becky had to laugh. God forbid a woman not want to marry.

“I didn’t say that. And I know,” she rushed on, “that I’m getting rather long in the tooth, by your standards, but…” Oh, good Lord, why were they making this so difficult? It wasn’t as if they owned her, for heaven’s sake!

Making up her mind to put an end to the nonsense, Becky leveled Phoebe with her most serious of stares, and said, “I’m going.”

***

Three days later, as Becky stood in the drive preparing for departure, she wasn’t quite so sure of herself. She still had hours ahead of her in the carriage before she would meet the Viscount and Viscountess Hastings, yet her stomach was tied into a million knots and her palms already moist. It was going to be a very long drive.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Becky?”

Becky turned her gaze from the manicured front lawn of Ravenscroft Castle to Phoebe, who seemed exhausted after the short walk from the front parlor. She glistened with perspiration, despite the cool morning air, and her breathing was labored. Even if Becky wanted her to go all the way to Rye with her, Phoebe would never make it.

“Don’t be silly,” Becky replied. “You’re probably mere hours away from delivering that baby. Even if the doctor said it was all right, you’d have to deal with your husband. I can guarantee the marquess won’t let you out of his sight until that baby is out…and even then, I imagine you’ll have a tough time getting rid of him.”

“Right you are, Becky.”

Becky whirled around to see Benjamin Wetherby, Marquess of Eastleigh, approaching from the direction of the stables with a wide smile on his face. That smile had become a permanent fixture ever since Phoebe had told him she was enceinte last summer. And as often as he could, Lord Eastleigh practically pinned himself to his wife’s side. Phoebe certainly didn’t seem to mind that her husband smothered her with attention and affection, and Becky couldn’t blame her. She could only hope that one day…

Ha! She shook her head of her fanciful thoughts. At twenty-two, she was almost on the shelf, and the likelihood of meeting someone while playing governess was slim. For the most part this didn’t bother Becky. She was used to being alone. It was only in a rare moment, when she caught the marquess staring longingly at his wife across the dinner table, or when Katherine’s husband, the Duke of Weston, stole a kiss when he thought no one was looking, that Becky felt the pangs of loneliness.

Or when the marquess knew someone was looking on and openly kissed his wife.

Becky averted her eyes while Benjamin lavished a bit of affection on Phoebe and then turned back again when she heard the tell tale smack of their lips drawing away from one another. Most ladies would swoon, or at least give a horrified little gasp to indicate her sensibilities had been offended, but aside from the fact that Becky was used to their behavior, she was also not a lady. She was a maid—

No, a governess. Her stomach fluttered at the reminder, and she fought to tamp down the acid that threatened to rise to her throat. She would not be sick. Not now, not after all she’d done to secure this opportunity. She would embrace it.

“The trunks are secured, miss,” the driver said, coming up beside her.

Becky nodded in acknowledgment and then turned to a weepy Phoebe. She gathered her in her arms as best she could with the near-to-term baby belly between them.

“I love you, Becky,” Phoebe cried into her hair. “You know that, don’t you?”

Choking back tears of her own, Becky pulled away, and said, “Nonsense. You’re only saying that because you’re tired and emotional and…I’m just a maid like any other.”

They both knew that wasn’t exactly true. Becky knew she meant more to Phoebe than did the average maid, and it was impossible to deny their bond. But it would be much easier to leave if she didn’t think about all that.

Becky turned to the rest of the family who had gathered to see her off. She hugged Lady Grimsby, Phoebe’s mother, for whom she’d also played maid and companion and whatever other role she required, which had even included nursemaid during her year of mourning for her husband. She hugged Katherine, too, and shook hands with the marquess and the duke, before finally boarding the coach.

As the driver cracked the whip and the horses lurched into motion, Becky stuck her head out the small window opening and waved goodbye. It wasn’t until they reached the edge of the property and pulled onto the main road that Becky’s tears began to fall.

Two

Stephen Christie, Viscount Hastings, sat in his study hunched over his desk, his forehead flat on its surface. The screams of ill-behaved children echoed in his ears as he struggled for concentration. The noise had persisted for no less than ten minutes, and there was no indication it might stop anytime soon. At his wits end, he rose from his chair and swung wide the door to his study.

“Will someone take these blasted children away!” he growled into the hall, fighting to be heard over the unruly brats.

His portly housekeeper came bustling down the long corridor. “I’m so sorry, milord!” she cried. “I lost track of them when I went to oversee dinner.”

“Mrs. Brown, I couldn’t care less what you were doing. Just get these hellions out of my sight.”

“Yes, milord,” she complied, nodding her head in frantic submission. “Come along, children, back to the nursery with ya.”

Stephen was about to shut the door to his study again, when his defiant nephew screamed, “No! Nurseries are for babies!”

“Oh, no, lovey, they’re for all children, boys and girls alike. Now be a good boy and come along.”

“No!”

Good God, did he have to do everything around here? Couldn’t the bloody woman exercise even the slightest authority? He stalked back into the hallway and stared down at his nephew. “So help me God, Max, if you do not go with Mrs. Brown right this instant, I am going to lose my temper!” Stephen stood rigid with frustration, using all his strength to keep from strangling the headstrong boy.

“You’re always losing your temper,” Max mumbled as he pushed past him. But Stephen was not going to allow a nine-year-old boy to have the last word, whether it was true or not.

“You will show me due respect, young man.”

“You’re not my father!” Max turned and glared at Stephen with malice in his pale blue eyes. “Leave me alone!”

“Oh, goodness,” Mrs. Brown breathed. “Clarabelle, please suggest that Miss Lydia come with me for a walk.”

Stephen’s temples began to twitch. He’d instructed Mrs. Brown, on several occasions, to cease addressing Lydia’s imaginary friend, Clarabelle. Yet here she stood, speaking to Clarabelle as if she actually existed.

“What’s that, Clarabelle?” Lydia said to the air. “Mrs. Brown wants to go for a walk? Do tell her we can’t take too long. The others are expecting us for tea.”

“You will cease this behavior immediately, Lydia!” Stephen shouted at his niece.

Lydia said nothing. As a matter of fact, she didn't even acknowledge she'd been spoken to. She merely stared up at Mrs. Brown, her long eyelashes batting over the pale blue irises of her eyes, identical to her brother’s. Damn, but she was the spitting image of her mother. Both children had acquired the Christie blue eyes, so light and clear that they were almost transparent.

Stephen closed his own eyes against the nightmare that was his life and sighed under the weight of his vast and unwanted responsibilities. The past two years had been the longest of all he’d lived. He would wager any amount of money that he now looked closer to forty rather than his actual thirty-two years.

He fought to push the memories from his mind; the memories of that fateful day when his life had gone up in smoke. What he wouldn’t give to go back in time...but what would he have done differently?

“Max love, do come along,” Mrs. Brown pleaded with the boy. “Your uncle’s a very busy man. Let’s not keep him any longer.”

The boy glared back at Stephen, a challenging look in his eyes, before he finally stormed off ahead of the housekeeper and his sister.

“I’m sorry, milord-”

“That will be all, Mrs. Brown.” Stephen wasn’t interested in hearing any more apologies. All he wanted was silence.

“Of course, milord.”

As Mrs. Brown and Lydia retreated down the hall after Max, Stephen turned back to his study and slammed the heavy oak door. Leaning his back against it, he pinched the spot between his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger, trying desperately to alleviate his pounding headache. Those children were going to be the death of him. He was certain of it.

He sat down at his desk once more, eager to be done with the day’s work. Thankfully, although turmoil raged in his home, his tenants seemed to be happy on the whole, and his investments in the ale industry were thriving. He had made the wise decision, when he’d returned from war, of buying out several local breweries, which now supplied many pubs locally and in London with fine libations.

Stephen was just looking over the estate ledger—a task he preferred to tackle himself rather than delegate to an inept solicitor—when the clip clop of horses’ hooves sounded on the gravel drive below. Curious, and just the tiniest bit annoyed, he went to the large bay window to see who it was that had come to visit.

Whoever it was, they were important. A gilded carriage, bearing a crest, pulled to a stop just below where he stood, and he waited as the footman went around the side to open the door. But rather than a high-brow lord or lady, it was a somewhat plain-looking girl who stepped onto the drive.

A plain-looking girl with hair the color of spun gold.

“Who the devil is that?” he wondered aloud.

He watched until she went to the front door, disappearing under the portico, and then sat back down at his desk, assuming if she were important, he would be summoned. More than likely, she was one of those radical religious people come to convert his wayward soul. He scoffed. As if his soul could be redeemed.

As predicted, a scratch sounded at his door mere minutes later.

“Yes?”

His butler appeared with a calling card placed in the middle of a small silver tray.

“A Miss Thorn here to see you, milord. Says she’s here for the interview.”

Stephen finally looked up at his butler, a look of sheer bewilderment on his face. “Interview?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, sir.” Bentley’s nose remained suspended in air as he awaited his master’s instruction.

Stephen gave him a wry smile. “Shakespeare, again?” he observed and then, without waiting for a response, said, “Send her in, Bentley. This should be interesting.”

Three

Becky waited in the vast entrance hall of Hastings House where the butler had left her while he went to inform the lady of the house she had arrived. She was somewhat surprised that no one had been there to greet her save the stodgy old servant. A chance to freshen up would have been nice after her long journey, but it appeared they did things differently here in Sussex. She would just have to make the most of it.

She wandered about, admiring the few paintings that lined the walls. The largest one was of Stephen Christie, the sixth Viscount Hastings, assumedly the one for whom she would be working. He seemed tall and quite good looking, although his nose was a bit long for Becky’s taste. Not that it mattered what she thought of his looks.

“His lordship will see you now.”

Becky started and then whirled around at the sound of the butler’s voice. “His lordship?” she repeated. “I fear there’s been a mistake. I wish to speak with the lady of the house.”

“There is no lady, miss. It’s either his lordship or me.”

Becky took a moment to process the information. No lady? But the letter had been signed Lady Hastings, hadn’t it? Surely, her eyes could not have deceived her so much that Lord looked like Lady. Nonetheless, she had traveled all this way; she wasn’t about to turn back now, no matter how odd the circumstances.

She followed the butler up the stairs, down a long corridor and through a door into a study. The room was rather sparse with only a desk in the center of the room, a chair on one side facing a pair of leather armchairs on the other, and bookshelves lining the far wall. Becky eyed the tomes with interest. Clearly this was his lordship’s private collection—not a novel or play to be found. She hoped they had a proper library in the house for her own amusement.

Continuing her assessment, she turned her attention to the enormous bay windows, which allowed the late afternoon sun to pour into the room, casting odd shadows over the man who sat at the large desk.

“Miss Rebecca Thorn,” the butler announced and then left, closing the door behind him.

Becky resisted the urge to correct the man on her name. She’d never thought of herself as Rebecca, which she supposed was odd. She would have ruminated on the subject a bit more, but found herself too distracted by the viscount to do so.

Lord Hastings stared down at the desk full of papers before him, seemingly unaware that she was in the room. When he finally tore his eyes away and looked up at her, a shot of apprehension went straight to her belly. It was the same man in the painting she’d seen downstairs, only he was much older now. His blue eyes were nearly transparent and surrounded by dark circles, giving the impression that he had not slept in weeks. Perhaps even months.

His sharp features were set like stone, hard and jagged and somewhat intimidating. She noted that the likeness was almost accurate except for the nose. The abnormally long protrusion in the portrait was not nearly as such in real life.

If he hadn’t looked so menacing, Becky might have found him somewhat attractive.

“How may I help you, Miss Thorn?” he asked, not bothering to offer her a seat.

“I am here about the governess position, my lord,” Becky replied, summoning as much confidence as she could under the circumstances.

“I’ve no need for a governess, Miss Thorn.” He turned back to his papers as he continued. “I’m not sure where you got the idea, but we already have someone to look after the children. I’m sorry your time has been wasted...and even more sorry that mine has.”

Becky resisted the impulse to gasp. It was all she could do not to pick up the nearest candlestick and launch it at his head. The man wouldn’t even look at her or attempt to offer some kind of explanation for the apparent mix up.

Bloody prig!

She was suddenly aware he was staring at her, obviously waiting for her to leave the room and be on her way. There was something most discomfiting in the way he regarded her.

“I am sorry, my lord,” she said coolly, despite her raging temper. “Good day.” She started to go, but Lord Hastings stopped her.

“Wait,” he said as he stood and moved around his desk. “Where did you get the idea that we needed a governess?”

Becky stepped back as he moved closer to her, his long, powerful legs bringing him across the room in only three strides. “Our local paper, my lord. In Kent. An advertisement.”

Lord Hastings assumed a look of pure stupefaction. “An advertisement, you say? In Kent?”

Becky nodded.

“How odd.” He looked away, giving her a view of his profile, which was quite handsome in an austere kind of way.

“I’ve been corresponding with your wife of late. She invited me here on a trial...” Becky trailed off as Lord Hastings glowered at her.

“I have no wife, Miss Thorn,” he snapped.

“No wife...” Becky’s heart ached when she realized the truth. No wonder he was so surly and disheveled, the poor man. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Lord Hastings’ lips twitched into the barest of smiles before he said, “I’m not a widower, Miss Thorn.”

“Oh.” Now she was thoroughly confused. “But, there are children, are there not?”

“Yes, of course...but they aren’t mine.”

“Oh.” Becky sensed this was going to be a rather long story. “Lord Hastings, might I sit down? I'm afraid my legs are still a bit wobbly from the carriage.”

All the humor fell away in an instant, and he peered at her with his ice blue eyes.

“This conversation is over, Miss Thorn,” he said, stalking toward the door. “I suggest you go back to wherever it is you came from.”

He yanked the door open to reveal a plump woman on the other side, fist poised to knock. She looked a bit frazzled, as if she, too, had gone for some time without a good night’s rest.

“Good God, woman, what is it this time?” Lord Hastings bit out between clenched teeth.

“Forgive me, milord, but the children-” The woman stopped speaking when her eyes landed on Becky.

“Go on, Mrs. Brown,” he prodded impatiently. “What about the children?”

She hesitated a moment before continuing in a hushed whisper. “It’s Max, milord. He’s destroyed the nursery in a fit of rage, and poor Lydia suffered a blow to the head by one of the wooden toys. She’s in quite a state, milord.”

Lord Hastings let out a tense breath and then leveled a glare at Mrs. Brown. “You will bring them to me at once, along with the paddle.”

Mrs. Brown looked heartbroken at the mention of the paddle. No doubt, the corporal punishment made her a bit uneasy, but she seemed far too gentle of spirit to be able to deal with the children on her own. This was the perfect opportunity for Becky to prove herself to the viscount.

She wasn’t sure that was what she wanted, however. It would have been smarter to go, as she’d been instructed, and leave this bizarre family to their own devices. But there were children involved. Seemingly troubled ones at that. She couldn’t just flee and pretend they would be fine.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Becky said softly. “I wonder if I might be of some assistance.”

“No.”

“But clearly you need help, my lord,” she rushed on. “If I could just meet the children-”

“Miss Thorn, the second you set eyes on those children you will be scurrying right back to Kent without a backward glance. They’ve been through enough, and I don’t intend to subject them to further rejection.”

“So you prefer to subject them to harsh punishment instead?”

The viscount’s nostrils flared like a bull on the loose.

“I will not have my authority questioned in my own house by some twit of a girl who knows nothing of my family!”

His sudden outburst made Becky start, but she held her ground. What did she have to lose, anyhow? He seemed intent on sending her packing, so why not attempt to have the last word? “Perhaps you should have your authority questioned, my lord. With all due respect, it would seem you lack the control you seek, and with the youngest of your household, no less.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued, during which Becky worried she may have subjected herself to the paddle. But at long last, Lord Hastings moved away from the door, planting himself startlingly close to her.

“Fine, Miss Thorn,” he hissed. “Let’s see how much control you can wield over my unruly niece and nephew.”

Mrs. Brown scurried away, and Becky was finally given the opportunity to sit. She was aware of the viscount’s gaze on her as they waited in silence for the housekeeper to return with the children. Several painstaking minutes later, she reappeared in the doorway of the study with two children in tow.

There was a boy, perhaps nine or ten years old, with sandy brown hair and light blue eyes and the same hardened expression that his guardian wore. And a girl, several years younger, with bouncy blonde curls and vacant eyes, a slightly lighter shade of blue than her brother’s and rimmed red from crying.

Mrs. Brown ushered them forward and then made her exit, closing the door with a gentle click of the latch. Both children maintained their expressions, one of anger, the other of vacancy, seemingly oblivious to the strange woman in their guardian’s study.

“Come here,” Lord Hastings ordered. “Max, Lydia, say hello to Miss Thorn.”

Neither child moved.

“Did you hear me?” he seethed, miffed by their blatant disobedience. “You will say hello to Miss Thorn like decent children.”

“It’s all right, my lord.” Becky smiled warmly at the children. “It can rile the nerves to meet new people. Sometimes we need a bit of time to warm up, don’t we?”

“And in others, our tongues just seem to run away with themselves, don’t they?” Lord Hastings rejoined sarcastically.

Becky ignored him and went to stand before the children. “My name is Miss Thorn, and if it’s all right with your uncle, and you, of course, I would like to get to know you both and perhaps be your governess. Would that be all right?” She waited patiently for the children to respond. It was Lydia who spoke first.

“Clarabelle, would you please tell Miss Thorn that tea is being served in the nursery at two o’clock tomorrow, and we would be delighted if she would join us.”

Becky took a moment to comprehend what was going on before shifting her gaze to the empty space beside the child, listening intently to the imaginary invitation from the imaginary Clarabelle.

“Why, thank you, Clarabelle,” she said a moment later. “And please thank Miss Lydia for the invitation. I would be delighted to join you both for tea.”

When she looked back at the children, both of them stared at her with wide and astonished eyes.

“You can see her?” Max breathed. “But she’s not real.”

Becky gave a wry smile. “Do you believe in Father Christmas, Max?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. Although, he forgot about us last year.”            Becky’s eyes shot reproachfully toward Lord Hastings; he rolled his own with a great degree of impatience.

“Well, have you ever seen Father Christmas?”

Max shook his head.

“Yet you believe he’s there?”

Max looked at her skeptically and was about to respond when his uncle interrupted.

“That will be all, children. I have work to do. Take Miss Thorn to Mrs. Brown so she can show her to her room.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but you have not yet addressed the topic of the nursery and the alleged blow to Lydia’s head.”

Lord Hastings narrowed his eyes at Becky, and her heart stopped beating momentarily. She had gone too far. He was sure to toss her out without another word.

But he did no such thing. He only stared at her and then said, with a sardonic edge to his voice, “You’re their governess, Miss Thorn. You address the topic.”

Four

Becky followed the children from the room and through the corridors. It was a massive manor house, not as big as Ravenscroft Castle, but still impressive. The cream-colored walls were decorated with large paintings, both of people and landscapes, and occasionally they came across short Roman-style pillars holding busts of one family member or another.

They made their way down the back staircase that led into a large kitchen, bustling with servants who were preparing for dinner. Silence ensued as one by one they realized that the children and a strange woman had entered the scene. Becky was grateful for the cheerful voice that finally broke the uncomfortable tension.

“Oh, good!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed as she pushed past a cluster of scullery maids. “He’s decided to keep ya!” She took Becky by the hand and then turned to face the room. “Everyone, this is Miss Thorn. She’ll be comin’ on as the governess for the children. Annie, why don’t ya see if ya can’t scrounge up a biscuit or two for Max and Lydia while I show Miss Thorn to her room.”

Becky obligingly followed Mrs. Brown back through the house to a narrow hallway on the top floor lined with little brown doors. The older woman stopped just in front of the third door on the right and pushed it open to reveal a modest, but comfortable looking room.

There was a small bed in the far corner and a writing desk sat in front of the sole window. There was a chest with three drawers as well as an armoire to hang her dresses.

It wasn’t Ravenscroft Castle, but it was home now.

“It isn’t much, I know, but everybody’s real nice and you’ll be so busy with the children...” Mrs. Brown trailed off, having run out of things to say to try and make Becky feel better. Not that it would have mattered. So far, things had not gone exactly as planned, and she was already missing home.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Brown,” she said quietly. “This will do just fine.”

Once Mrs. Brown had talked her through some of the basics of living at Hastings House, she left her alone to settle in and rest. But Becky’s mind was racing and when she closed her eyes to take a short nap, it raced ever faster. Was she doing the right thing? Should she have stayed? What would Phoebe think of her new employer and the fact that she had clearly been brought here under false pretenses?

Becky knew exactly what she’d think as well as what she would do, eight months pregnant or not. Phoebe would be bound for Rye within seconds of learning the truth to take her back home and to give Lord Hastings a bit of her own mind on the way out the door. Or, at the very least, she would send her husband. Becky cringed at the thought.

No, she could not tell Phoebe any of it. She would pen a simple note stating she was safe and that the family had agreed to take her on. Any more detail would set off red flags and that was the absolute last thing Becky wanted to do.

But what of her new employer? His surly disposition was not at all softened by the fact that he was incredibly handsome. He was boorish and brutish and no amount of fine chiseling or sky blue eyes would change that. And someone had to protect those children. Clearly they were suffering – they all were. Including the master of the house. No one was born like that: bitter and angry. Something or someone had turned him into the brooding monster he was today.

She almost felt sad for the man. Almost.

***

“You wanted to see me, milord?” Mrs. Brown stood sheepishly in the door of Stephen’s study.

“Sit down, Mrs. Brown,” he said, his tone purposely sharp. “I trust you had something to do with this governess business?”

Mrs. Brown was clearly contemplating how much she should admit to. “I’m not sure what you mean, milord.”

“Either you tell me the truth or you pack your bags, Mrs. Brown. I don’t have time for games.” Stephen was growing increasingly impatient with his housekeeper.

This was not the first time she had tried to go behind his back to do what she “felt was best” for the children. He was tired of it. Fed up with her games. And fed up with her unwillingness to discipline the children herself. He was far too busy to spend his days screaming at or paddling those misbehaved brats.

“Forgive me, milord,” she began tentatively, “but the work load has become far too much with the children. You must understand I cannot oversee the entire household and look after the children as well. They need constant supervision and schooling, milord, and that I just cannot give them.”

Stephen found himself annoyed at the old woman’s complaining. How hard could it be to watch the children and tell a staff of grown adults what to do? It wasn’t as if she did all the work herself. And if she could only learn how to discipline properly, the children wouldn’t be so unruly.

As for schooling, well, dammit, he'd never even thought about that.

He sighed. She was right and if it stopped her complaining, he would keep the girl, this Rebecca Thorn, for a trial run. Not that she would have been his first pick. She had a tongue like the devil and had already succeeded in flaring his temper. But as long as she and the children remained out of his sight, he would tolerate having her in the house.

“You may go now, Mrs. Brown,” he said as he scanned a bill.

“You mean, you’re not going to dismiss me?” she asked with wide eyes.

“I’ve already taken up too much of my time today with interviews. I don’t relish going through it again. You’re staying only because I’m far too busy to find a replacement.”

***

Becky ate a small supper in her room that night, although, admittedly, she didn’t have much of an appetite. She had become so used to having large family dinners at Ravenscroft Castle, with the people she had come to regard as her family. The sadness at knowing they were all gathered together made her incredibly homesick. This was going to be quite an adjustment, but one she would have to make.

She penned a quick note to Phoebe after she ate and then dressed in her nightclothes, ready for bed. But sleep refused to come and so she picked up the one book she had brought along with her and began to read. Unfortunately, she was near the end, thanks to her long trip from Kent that morning, and within a half hour the book was done.

“This is ridiculous,” she complained aloud as she rose from her bed, and continued talking to herself as she donned her robe. “I’m so beyond exhausted, I can’t fall asleep.”

She opened her door and peeked down the hallway. It was only ten o’clock, but everyone seemed to be sleeping already, or at least close to it. A servant’s day started at quite an ungodly hour.

Grateful that she could avoid any awkward conversations in her night robe, she tiptoed down the hall and then down the stairs to the main level of the house. Shielding her candle with her hand, she crept quietly along the corridor, eager to find the manor library so she could choose a new book and return to the safety of her room.

Quietly, she inspected several rooms, a lavish parlor done in what might have been dark blue and gold, the opulent dining room with a table that stretched into the black, beyond the reach of her candlelight, and a reception room with red damask walls and chandeliers that sparkled in the light of the moon.

Finally, she peered into a room lined with hundreds of books. The library, at last. Though a fire burned low in the grate, the room appeared to be empty, so she ventured in, on a mission to find a reasonably entertaining book and leave as quickly as possible.

“Good evening.”

Becky gasped and spun from the bookshelf to find herself face to face with the lord of the manor. She stammered as she fished for an appropriate excuse. Truth be known, she should not have been traipsing about the house at this hour, let alone on a mission to borrow one of the library’s books. She would be dismissed before she’d even had a chance to begin.

“I’m so sorry, my lord, I was just...”

Lord Hastings raised his brows in question and sipped lazily from the snifter he held in his hand.

“I was just leaving, actually. Good night.”

Becky bobbed a shallow curtsy and then backed towards the door, eager to return to her room.

“Miss Thorn, you needn’t leave on my account,” Lord Hastings said dryly. “You interrupted the rest of my day, why not finish it out?”

Becky stood frozen, trying to decide whether she should be grateful for the chance to stay and choose a book or outraged that he’d insulted her yet again. Unable to keep her thoughts or feelings to herself, she opted for the latter.

“Forgive my impertinence, my lord,” she began, “but may I ask why you have taken it upon yourself to be exceedingly rude to me since my arrival?”

A sinister chuckle escaped from Lord Hastings’ lips. “Don’t take it personally, Miss Thorn. You’re a servant. I treat you no differently than I treat anyone else in my employ.”

“Considering I’ve been brought here under false pretenses, I find your behavior reprehensible.”

“Behavior?” he asked indignantly. “Need I remind you that you are governess to my niece and nephew and not to me? However you find my behavior it is none of your concern.”

“It is when it affects me.”

“Then I suggest you grow a thicker skin, Miss Thorn, for I am not in the habit of walking on eggshells for the sake of my servants’ feelings.”

Becky remained silent. She had already overstepped her boundaries more than once today and she would not put it past Lord Hastings to turn her out even at this late hour. Though a thousand retorts swirled in her head, she merely clamped her lips shut and walked to the shelves of books that lined the walls, drawing her robe tighter around her as she did.

But there was no hope of concentrating on the books or their titles. She was outraged and tired and feeling completely lonesome and helpless. All she really wanted was to go to sleep but she was still too wound up from the day’s events.

When the hairs on her neck stood involuntarily, she was certain she was being watched. She turned around to see Lord Hastings regarding her with a cynical smile.

“Would you please stop staring at me? It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Would you care for a drink, Miss Thorn?”

That caught her off guard. She was prone to a glass of wine or a pint of ale from time to time, but only amongst friends, never with intimidating strangers.

“No, thank you,” she said proudly and turned her attention back to the books.

“It might help you sleep.”

He had a point there.

“All right, then,” she sighed. “Perhaps just a little.”

While Lord Hastings got up to pour her a glass, Becky sat down on the settee facing the fireplace. She wasn’t completely comfortable with the situation, but she was too worn out to fight it.

“Can you tell me more about the children, my lord? Perhaps how you came to be in possession of them?”

Lord Hastings handed her the brandy and sat back down in his leather armchair. “Why don’t you tell me about you, Miss Thorn?” he said, evasively.

“What would you like to know?”

“How old are you?”

“Two and twenty.”

“Where do you come from?”

She took a sip of the spicy liquor while she contemplated the question. Where did she come from? Certainly she couldn’t say she’d been born at Thornton Park, for her father’s home was well known amongst the ton. “London,” she said, hopefully leading him to believe she’d been born to a poor family in an ignoble part of town. “Although I’ve spent the last year of my life in Kent at Ravenscroft Castle.”

“Doing what?”

She hesitated a moment. If she told him she’d been doing little besides enjoying the company of the Marchioness of Eastleigh and the Duchess of Weston, he’d think she was out of her mind. As a matter of fact, she was beginning to wonder about that herself. She had left a great deal of luxury behind to come here. Perhaps he needed to know that.

“I took up a post as a maid seven years ago for the woman who is now the Marchioness of Eastleigh. Since she married the marquess a year ago, I’ve been more of a...companion, I suppose.”

Tears threatened as she spoke of Phoebe, but she choked them back. She would not cry in front of her employer, no matter what.

Lord Hastings looked at her sleepily through a veil of thick, black lashes. “Why are you here, Miss Thorn?”

She gave a little laugh at the question for she wasn’t sure she knew the answer to that anymore. So, she decided to propagate the lie she’d told to Phoebe. “My mother was a governess, and I wish to follow in her footsteps.”

Lord Hastings stared at her, or rather, stared through her, as if he’d stopped listening. It was rather perturbing. Why ask questions if you weren’t going to listen to the answer? When he finally spoke, it was with his usual rancor. “You’d best be off to bed, Miss Thorn. The children always rise early.”

“Of course, my lord.” She set her snifter on the side table, somewhat frustrated that the conversation had come to such an abrupt end, and at the same time relieved. “Good night.”

She slipped through the door into the hallway and started back to her room, noting that not only had he evaded the questions she’d asked of him, but he’d also distracted her from her task. She blew out a breath, knowing it would be a long and sleepless night without that book.

***

Stephen sat in the darkness of the library, terrified by the strange emotions that had just come over him. As his new governess, perched so elegantly across from him, told her story, he began to take note of certain characteristics.

Characteristics that typically went unnoticed by him. For instance, the way her golden hair draped around her shoulders or the bright color of her cheeks in the warmth of the fire. Or most notably, the shocking green of her eyes that seemed to capture the light like a supremely cut emerald.

It had been some time since Stephen felt the base desires of a man. He had been brooding in self pity for two years, submersing himself in his work, his properties, his business ventures, giving little attention to the needs of his body and even less to the needs of his soul.

Not that he hadn’t been with women. There had been a string of bawdy beer wenches when he returned from the war, distractions from the horrific scenes that played in his head almost constantly. But eventually the novelty wore off, and he no longer found solace in anything other than his work. Keeping busy seemed the only way to prevent his mind from remembering the tragedy the war had brought to his family. To his life.

No longer able to enjoy the simple pleasures of life, he found himself growing into a bitter man. A man with no soul. A man resentful of his station, his responsibilities and the children that had been left in his care when his sister so selfishly took her own life.

He clung to his anger like a bulwark, afraid that should he let it go, he might find he lacked the strength to go on. To face his fears. And just like his sister, he might find himself face to face with the barrel of a gun.

But tonight Miss Thorn had aroused emotions that he was not at all used to feeling. And he was surprised to find that those feelings were welcome.

The girl was everything he hated in other people: outspoken, opinionated, headstrong. But he was drawn to her somehow. Perhaps it was the lilting sing-song of her voice or the way she had tried so valiantly to suppress the tears when she spoke of her former employer.

Stephen hated it when people cried, especially women, for there usually seemed to be little reason in their doing so. But the fact that she had choked the tears back with such determination told Stephen she was not going to be like the women he had known all his life. She thankfully seemed to have quite a bit of fortitude.

As he rose from his chair, convinced he might finally be able to sleep, he chuckled to himself. A chuckle that was devoid of any cynicism or sarcasm.

Perhaps Miss Thorn would make a welcome addition to the Hastings household after all. Either that or she would become a damned nuisance. Either way, he would learn to live with her. For the first time in months, perhaps even years, Stephen Hastings slept through the night.

Five

The sun had not yet risen when Mrs. Brown knocked on Becky’s door the next morning. Even when she had acted as a maid in the Blake’s employ, Becky had not been required to rise before seven in the morning. And since moving into the realm of companion, she had grown accustomed to the hours Phoebe and her mother kept, which most often meant late nights and late mornings.

This was certainly going to take some getting used to.

She opened the door to find the portly housekeeper holding a tray of tea and toast, a broad smile on her face.

“Good mornin’, Miss Thorn!” she exclaimed, far too excited for such an ungodly hour. “The children are havin’ their breakfast in the nursery, but you take your time. I’ll keep an eye on ‘em till ya get there.”

She placed the tray on the desk and then turned to go, but Becky stopped her.

“Mrs. Brown, are they always up this early?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

“Afraid so, Miss Thorn. But not to worry, I’m sure the three of ya can figure out a more conducive schedule.”

“Right,” Becky murmured as the housekeeper bustled away. “Like sleeping until five-thirty perhaps.”

Becky ate her breakfast and dressed for the day, all the while contemplating just what she was going to do with the children. Max wasn’t too far from being of an age for Eton or Harrow, so he would need knowledge of Latin and the classics of course, as well as ancient history. And with Lydia being so young, Becky imagined that for now rudimentary reading and arithmetic would be on her agenda. And perhaps French. Not that Becky was any great linguist, but she’d been fluent before...

She shook her head of the wayward thoughts. She needed to focus on the task at hand. The rather daunting task, now that she thought about it. Good heavens, what was she doing here? What did she know about teaching children or preparing them for the world? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. She could do this.

She just needed to get to know the children, assess their levels and figure out why on earth they were so troubled, for that was of greater concern than their academics.

Finally dressed, she made her way to the nursery on the top level of the main house. It was a massive room, if not a little stuffy, filled with toys and books and two tiny desks and chairs. Max and Lydia were in a row over a doll as Becky entered, and Mrs. Brown seemed at a loss for what to do about it.

“Max, that’s not your doll, lovey- oh, no! Please don’t bang her head like that!”

“Clarabelle, tell him to stop!” Lydia’s voice was shrill as she screamed orders at her imaginary friend.

Max ignored the pleas of his sister and Mrs. Brown and continued to bash the doll’s head against one of the small wooden desks.

“Good morning,” Becky said, but no one could hear her above the noise. “Good morning!”

On her second try three heads turned to her, a bit startled that they had not heard her come in.

“Oh, Miss Thorn, thank God!” Mrs. Brown sighed. “I’ve a great deal of work to do in the kitchens. You two be good, now.”

And with that she was gone, leaving Becky alone with Max and Lydia. Perhaps it would be best to get the children away from the doll for a while.

“How about a stroll?” she said, mustering a fair amount of cheer for six in the morning. “I haven’t seen the gardens yet.”

Max looked from Becky to the doll before finally tossing it to the floor with a hard thud and stomping from the room. Lydia ran to retrieve the doll and gingerly lifted her into her arms. She stroked the toy and whispered soothing words as if she were a real child.

Becky smiled and said, “Come, Lydia, we’re going for a walk.”

Lydia pretended not to hear her.

“All right.” Becky tried again. “Clarabelle, will you please ask Miss Lydia if she will join Max and me for a stroll through the gardens?”

A few moments passed before Lydia responded. “Why that sounds lovely, Clarabelle. Please tell Miss Thorn that we would be delighted.”

By the time they had all sufficiently dressed for the cool March day, the sun was beginning to rise, illuminating the dew that coated the lush green grass around the manor. The trio slipped out the back door onto the stone patio and made their way down the steps into the garden below. The manicured lawn had trimmed hedgerows laid out in symmetrical designs, interspersed with beds of brightly colored tulips and pansies and daffodils. An altogether breathtaking sight to behold.

They walked a while in silence before Becky began her attempts at getting to know the children.

“Have you had a governess before?” she ventured.

“Only once,” Max offered. “But Mrs. Brown says that Uncle caught her in a complimenting position with one of the stable boys and had to send her away.”

Becky stifled a giggle. “A complimenting position?”

“What does that mean, anyway?” Max kicked at a pebble along the path, frightening a small bird who beat a hasty retreat to the nearest tree.

“Well, it can mean a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

Becky knew she could not tell him exactly what Mrs. Brown had been talking about. He was far too young to understand and it was not her place to explain such things to him. But she had to tell him something.

“I suspect perhaps...they were kissing.” Becky hoped he would leave it at that.

“Kissing?” he replied, his face looking as though he had just sucked on a sour lemon. “That’s disgusting!”

Becky laughed aloud, relieved by his response, and then moved on to more questions. “Did you learn anything with your former governess?”

“Not really.”

“Nothing? I find that rather hard to believe. She must have taught you something.”

“She didn’t really like us very much.” Max crinkled his brow as he remembered.

“Did she have any reason not to?” Becky asked, wondering if the child had terrorized the poor woman.

But Max only shrugged in response and then took off running toward the stream in the distance. Becky watched him go, convinced her instincts had been right. His evasion of the question gave her cause to believe he had pulled his fair share of practical jokes on the previous governess.

Turning her attention to Lydia, Becky realized at some point the girl had slipped her tiny hand into her own. She walked contentedly beside her, her waxen curls blowing about in the breeze, her eyes focused far in the distance. Becky wondered where she was. What kind of far off places she escaped to. She felt sad for the child. Lydia had clearly been through a great deal of heartache in her short life. Somehow, Becky would have to find the key to Lydia’s bizarre little lock.

“Clarabelle,” Becky said into the air, “are you enjoying our stroll this morning?” She waited for the imaginary response and then doubled over in laughter, as if Clarabelle had said something outrageously funny. “You don’t say!”

Lydia looked up at Becky, seemingly confused that a virtual stranger could have a conversation with her imaginary friend.

“Clarabelle, what did you say?” Lydia asked, as if she had not been paying attention before and then laughed after a brief pause. “You are the funniest friend I’ve ever known, Clarabelle!”

“Isn’t she, though?” Becky was focused on Lydia now. “I’m so glad you introduced us, Lydia.”

Lydia was about to respond, having been caught up in the excitement of Clarabelle’s witty remarks, but stopped herself short, not ready to give up her game.

“Come on, Clarabelle,” she squealed as she broke into a run. “Let’s go see if Max has found any frogs!”

Max had indeed found frogs and one of them squirmed in his now muddied hands. He held it out to Becky and was clearly surprised when she didn't shriek and run screaming from him. Rather, she moved in closer and ran her finger along the scaly back of the creature.

“You're not afraid of frogs, Miss Thorn?” Max asked, his brow furrowed with obvious confusion.

“Of course not! What's there to be afraid of?” she replied with a laugh. “As a matter of fact, frogs can be truly fascinating creatures.”

For the first time, Max’s brow relaxed and his eyes shone with genuine interest. “Really? How?"”

Both children plopped to the grass and stared up at her with expectant faces. It wouldn’t be a structured lesson, but it would be a lesson nonetheless. So she joined them on the grass and took the opportunity to impart some of her knowledge of the amphibious creatures to the children. It seemed they didn't even realize they were being given a lesson, they were having so much fun. And Becky realized she was too.

“Can I keep him?” Max asked when Becky announced it was time to go inside.

“No, he would miss his home,” she replied lightly. “But we can come and visit him every day when we come for our walks.”

“All right,” he complied as he set the frog back in the grass.

They made their way back to the manor where they embarked on a search for appropriate textbooks for their studies. By the time they found the necessary aids, it was time for lunch, which they enjoyed together in the nursery. After that, Becky sent Lydia to her room for a nap while she began teaching Max about Greek history. When Lydia awoke, Becky assigned Latin phrases for Max to memorize while she worked with Lydia on basic arithmetic. It was a lot for the first day, but at Max’s age, they didn’t have time to waste.

By the time she had overseen the children’s dinner and put them to bed, Becky was exhausted. She had never realized how tiring children could be, especially when they required one to rise at five in the morning. Seven o’clock was feeling more like midnight at the moment, and she could think of nothing other than falling straight into her bed.

However, she'd barely gotten her boots off when a knock came at the door.

“I’m sorry, Miss Thorn, but his lordship would like to see you,” Mrs. Brown said sweetly when Becky peeked her head out into the hallway.

“His lordship? Whatever for?”

“For dinner, miss.”

Becky’s jaw dropped. “Dinner? Are you sure? I-I've already eaten with the children.”

“Ya might want to put on one of them fancy dresses ya brought.” Mrs. Brown gave her a wink.

Becky was about to scold the old woman for snooping through her things but stopped herself. She had done her fair share of snooping in the past. She’d be a hypocrite to say anything.

Mrs. Brown stayed to help her dress in a simple dark green gown. It was elegant but understated, appropriate for a governess.

She walked downstairs reluctantly, wishing she could have gone straight to sleep. Her muscles ached and her head hurt; the last thing she cared to do was make small talk with The Tyrant this evening. But perhaps she’d be able to whittle away a little more of the family secrets over dinner. It was worth a try.

Six

Stephen wasn’t sure what possessed him to invite the new governess to dinner. It wasn’t out of wanting to be polite—he was rarely polite. And it wasn’t out of curiosity for her first day, for he couldn’t care less what she did with the children as long as she kept them out of his hair.

No, there was something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Loneliness, perhaps? The desire for intelligent conversation? Whatever the reason, it was done. The words had escaped his mouth before he’d even known what he was saying and Mrs. Brown had fled the room to retrieve the girl.

Now he stood in the drawing room, pacing the floor with a glass of brandy, while he awaited the arrival of Miss Thorn. He didn’t have to wait long.

“You asked to see me, my lord?”

Stephen turned to see his newest retainer standing in the doorway, her hair piled atop her head, her cheeks flushed against her pale skin.

“I asked you to dinner, Miss Thorn,” he responded acerbically.

“I do wonder why, my lord.”

“A drink?” he asked, as if he had not heard her. He wondered why himself, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

“No, thank you. I fear I might fall asleep on my plate if I imbibe.”

“Difficult day?”

“Just long,” Miss Thorn corrected. “The children keep rather early hours that I’m not accustomed to.”

An awkward silence ensued. He wasn’t sure how to proceed, and clearly, neither was she. Fortunately, Bently announced dinner and Stephen led the way from the drawing room down the hall to the formal dining room. Two places were set, the one at the head of the table and another just to the left. He held the chair out for her, unable to take his eyes from her perfectly curved bottom as she sat.

Damn! What the devil is wrong with me?

He brushed off the thought and took his seat next to her, desperately trying to avoid looking into her captivating eyes. Something about this girl stirred unwelcome emotions inside of him. Emotions that would be most inappropriate to act on, seeing as she was in his employ.

“Would you like to hear how the children were today, my lord?” Miss Thorn asked as a footman set the first course before her.

He didn’t want to hear, but he supposed anything would be better than the deafening silence. “Please,” he said simply.

“Well, they were wonderful, actually. I taught them about frogs while we were down by the stream and then we chose books for their curriculum. Max seems to have a good ear for Latin, thankfully, and Lydia...well, if we could only get past Clarabelle we might see some progress. Unfortunately, Clarabelle seems to have a hard time with arithmetic.” Miss Thorn gave a little laugh in a vain attempt to lighten the mood. However, Stephen did not find his niece’s friend humorous in the least.

“You do plan to break her of this silly imaginary friend business, do you not?”

“She’s not a puppy, my lord,” she replied, her tone bordering on sarcasm, which grated on Stephen’s nerves. “And only habits can be broken. Talking to imaginary friends is not a habit.”

“Then what is it?”

Miss Thorn paused for a moment, but in the end, she merely shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Perhaps you could tell me, my lord?”

“I don’t pretend to know anything about children or what goes on in their minds, Miss Thorn.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m merely hoping to gain a bit of insight into the children’s past. For instance, where their parents are?”

Stephen leveled the pretty governess with what he knew to be his most intimidating glare; the one that made everyone but those blasted children cower. He didn’t like to talk about the children, let alone their parents. The past was far too painful to dig up over dinner. She would just have to make do without it.

“Are you enjoying the soup, Miss Thorn?” he asked, eloquently changing the subject.

She glared back, her plump lips drawn into a straight line, clearly wanting to give him a tongue lashing. But she didn’t. “Very much, thank you,” was all she said.

They finished their soup in silence, and it was not until the main course was placed before them that Miss Thorn ventured another question.

Some of her ire had dissipated, and she spoke in a softer voice now. “Lord Hastings, I have yet to come to an understanding about how it is I ended up here.”

“It appeared you arrived in a carriage.”

“Your attempt at humor is admirable, my lord, but I think you know what I mean.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow and suppressed his mirth at her mockery. “Forgive me, it’s been some time since I’ve even tried to jest with anyone. It seems I’m a bit rusty.”

Her eyes flickered momentarily with amusement, but he could tell she was still not willing to let her guard down. He didn’t blame her. It was a most unconventional situation and he hadn’t been all too kind to her since her arrival.

“Mrs. Brown. That is the simple answer to your question. For some reason she has trouble balancing her duties as housekeeper with looking after the children. Yet she did, somehow, find the time to write out an advertisement for a new governess.”

“If I may, my lord, looking after the children is a full-time job. If you want Max to go to Eton...or Harrow, he has quite a bit of catching up to do. And poor Lydia has not even learned to spell her own name.”

“I didn’t ask your opinion, Miss Thorn.”

She fell silent at his abrupt words. After an awkward moment, she replied stiffly, “Of course. Please, go on.”

Stephen watched her as she cut into her chicken. If he didn’t know better, he would think she was literally biting down on her tongue to keep from speaking further.

“There’s nothing more to say, Miss Thorn. Mrs. Brown placed the ad and you showed up—”

“Then, am I to assume she was the one with whom I’ve been corresponding these past few weeks?”

Stephen clenched his fists in agitation. Why did that woman have to be such a bloody busybody? “Yes, I suppose so. God knows it wasn’t me.”

“No, of course not.” Miss Thorn’s jaw tightened slightly.          Damn! It wasn’t her fault she had ended up on his doorstep nor was it her fault he had been dealt a raw deal in life. “I’m sorry—”

“If you wouldn’t mind, my lord, I think I should retire.”

“You don’t have to.”

She met his eyes with her own tear-filled ones. “Yes, I do,” she said thickly, and then bobbed a slight curtsy before leaving the room, tossing a quick “Thank you for dinner” over her shoulder as she did.

Stephen stared after her, wishing she had not gone. Wishing he had kept his words in check. Wishing she didn’t make him remember just how lonely he was.

Seven

Benjamin, Marquess of Eastleigh, strolled into the entry hall of his former bachelor’s lodgings—the lodgings he had gladly handed over to the twin mischief-makers in the family once he had taken his bride. He hated to leave Phoebe now, mere weeks before she was due to give birth, but he had a few things to take care of in town. If all went well, he’d be heading back home by mid-day tomorrow.

After battling the pouring rain all the way from Ravenscroft Castle, he was tired and wet and on a mission to pour himself a glass of something very strong. He found his brothers' identical heads hunched intently over a game of vingt-et-un in the drawing room.

“I didn’t expect to find you two here,” he said as he strode past them to the sidebar. Thankfully, the boys had not drained the place of decent spirits.

“Likewise,” Andrew replied absently. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“Kat and Phoebe were hosting a gathering this afternoon. I didn’t want to get in the way, so I decided to get a head start.”

“More like you didn’t want to be dragged into it, I assume.” Michael swept the cards from the table and began to deal another hand.

“Too true,” Benjamin admitted, as the hen-like sounds of that afternoon echoed in his head. “Why are you two home playing cards, anyhow? Shouldn’t you be engaged in some kind of debauchery? Terrorizing the ton?”

“We’ll get to that in a bit. First we have to settle who’s taking Elizabeth Crawley to the opera tonight.”

“Ah,” Benjamin replied, realization dawning. “Thus, the cards.”

“I won!” Michael exclaimed. “Sorry, Andrew, better luck next time.”

“Does that mean you’re staying in tonight, Andrew?” Benjamin wondered.

“Of course not,” came his arrogant reply. “I’m going to the opera with Michael and Lady Elizabeth. Just because he gets to escort her doesn’t mean I can’t try to win her heart.”

Benjamin laughed at his brothers. It had been some time since he’d been up to see them, and he missed their witty banter. Not that his wife and sister couldn’t match him in a battle of wits, but brothers were brothers and could not be replaced.

He sat down with his libation, thankful to be in a chair that was not in motion, and sipped from his glass. Andrew and Michael poured their own drinks and then joined him in front of the fire.

“So how are things at Ravenscroft?” Andrew inquired.

“All’s well, actually. Phoebe is moments away from giving birth, and Kate seems to be managing well with the twins. Phoebe’s been a bit down, though, ever since Becky left.”

Two pair of dark brows shot up as both Andrew and Michael regarded him quizzically.

“Where did she go?” Michael asked.

“She’s gone to play governess for Lord and Lady Hastings in Rye. Apparently it’s working out well for her, though it has only been a few days.”

Andrew and Michael looked at each other then at Benjamin, both sets of brows crinkled into frowns.

“Are you sure it’s for the Hastings?” Andrew asked.

“Yes, of course. I read the letter myself. Why?”

“Well, it’s just that there is no Lady Hastings.”

Benjamin leaned forward in his chair. “That’s not possible. I read a letter from Lady Hastings herself, requesting that Becky come for an interview. Are you positive you’re speaking of the same family?”

“There is only one Viscount Hastings, Benjamin, and his family seat is in Rye,” Michael pointed out. “I’m fairly certain we aren’t mistaken.”

“What else do you know of the viscount?”

“Not much, but we’re quite familiar with his pubs. He’s a supplier to several of our haunts and actually owns a couple of others. We catch tidbits here and there.”

“I’ve seen him once or twice,” Michael added. “Seems a bit surly if you ask me.”

“And private. You won’t meet many who know much about his personal life.”

Having heard enough, Benjamin jumped to his feet and strode to the door.

“Where are you going?” Michael called after his brother.

“To Rye, where else? Deane!”

Benjamin heard his brothers' quick footsteps behind him. He wasn't surprised. They rarely passed up a chance for drama and adventure, and when it didn't come to them, they had a tendency to create it.

“We’re coming with you,” Andrew told Benjamin.

Deane materialized and handed Benjamin his hat and cane.

“What about Lady Elizabeth?” he wondered.

“I don’t think she’d like to travel to Rye this evening, but one never knows.”

Benjamin rolled his eyes at Michael as Andrew offered a more succinct reply. “I’ll pen a note to inform her there’s been an emergency. She’ll understand.”

Minutes later the three men piled into Benjamin’s carriage and set off to rescue Becky from the elusive Lord Hastings.

***

Becky’s fourth day as a governess proved to be just as exhausting as her first and when she reached her room at half past seven, she couldn’t even look at her food. The only thing on her mind was sleep and so she ignored her dinner tray, undressed and curled up in her tiny bed, allowing her exhaustion to take over.

What seemed like mere minutes later, a frantic knock sounded at her door.

“Oh, no,” she moaned. Now she would never be able to fall back to sleep tonight.

“Miss Thorn?” Mrs. Brown’s worried voice came through the door. “I’m sorry to disturb, miss, but I’ve been sent to retrieve you. Immediately.”

Becky fumbled in the dark until she found the door. “Mrs. Brown, what time is it? What’s going on?”

“It’s just past midnight, miss. But there’s some gentlemen come to see ya. Right good-lookin’ gentlemen at that. Lord Hastings said to bring ya down straight away.”

“Gentlemen?” Becky repeated, the dregs of sleep immediately giving way to apprehension. What if they had found her? She would be doomed for sure. But she had no choice. If she didn’t go down and face them, one of them—all of them, perhaps—wouldn’t hesitate to search the entire house for her. “All right, I’m on my way.”

When Becky entered the downstairs drawing room fifteen minutes later, she discovered that Mrs. Brown had not been lying. There were in fact three very handsome men waiting for her.

Well, four if she counted Lord Hastings, but she didn’t care to include him.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was Lord Eastleigh and not her father. It had never occurred to her that the marquess might show up at Hastings House and now that he stood there in front of her, another wave of panic shot through her body. Something was wrong. Why else would he come all the way to Sussex in the middle of the night?

“What is it, my lord?” she asked. “Is Phoebe all right? Has she gone into labor?”

“No, no, everything is fine, Becky,” he rushed to assure her. “We came to see how you were doing.”

Becky looked skeptically around the room. “Wouldn’t it have been more sensible to send a note? Or at least travel in the daytime?”

“One would think so.” The marquess looked a little perturbed. Or maybe just tired.

But so was Becky, and she was not in the mood to try and play guessing games. “Would someone please explain to me why I was woken in the middle of the night to come down here?”

“I would be happy to.” Lord Hastings stepped forward into the light of the raging fire, and Becky’s heart raced.

She wasn’t sure why she had never noticed how strikingly handsome he was. It had crossed her mind, of course, that he was a nice-looking man when he wasn’t being a complete arse, but something was different now. Something about him seemed softer, more enticing. Sensual.

“Miss Thorn, is there any reason you failed to inform your friends that Lady Hastings does not exist?” His voice was more tender than she’d ever heard it and it vexed her that her stomach actually flip-flopped as a result.

She forced herself to focus. “Is that what this is about?” The three of you have come all the way from London in the middle of the night because I failed to mention one minor detail?”

“Minor detail?”

Becky backed up instinctively at the sudden impatience in Lord Eastleigh’s tone.

“A-All right,” she stammered. “Perhaps not so minor, but did you really think me to be in danger?”

“We sent you away to interview with a non-existent woman and received word that said woman had hired you on permanently.” The marquess’ voice escalated as he spoke. “Then I arrive in London tonight and discover that Lady Hastings does not even exist and furthermore, besides being a supplier of beer, most people know very little of Lord Hastings.”

“All right, I’m sorry!” she yelled, knowing she was most certainly in the wrong. “I just didn’t want you all to worry. I knew if Phoebe found out that I had been brought here under false pretenses, she’d march me straight back to Ravenscroft Castle...or make you do it.”

“And I should.”

“My lord, please, you don’t mean that,” Becky pleaded. “Can’t we sit down and talk this through? There is nothing untoward going on here and there is no way that I’m leaving those children.”

There was a pause; Lord Eastleigh was clearly thinking through his options. “How did this happen?” he asked at last, his gaze fixed on Lord Hastings.

“Can I get you a drink first, Eastleigh?” The viscount proceeded to pour five tumblers of brandy. Becky was grateful he’d thought to include her. She desperately needed something to calm her nerves.

They all sat around the fire and listened as Becky and Lord Hastings relayed the underhanded workings of Mrs. Brown. Becky was all too aware of the man in shirtsleeves, sitting next to her as they spoke. They had yet to have a civilized conversation since her arrival. Yet now, with Cerberus sitting across from them, they spoke as one, allied together in an effort to keep them from taking her away. They finished each other’s sentences and laughed nostalgically at events that had taken place only a few days earlier, as if she had been there for years.

It was an odd feeling, one of belonging that Becky had never anticipated she would experience in this household. Perhaps it was not real, though. Perhaps he was only being this way because he needed her to stay on to look after the children. She had to admit he already looked far more rested and far less frazzled than he had upon her arrival four days ago. She was certain the strain of not having a bona fide governess had taken its toll on the entire household, but she couldn’t stop herself from wishing that maybe he wanted her to stay for other reasons. Reasons that had nothing at all to do with Max and Lydia.

They were fleeting thoughts. Inappropriate, fleeting thoughts and she had no clue from whence they came. But sometimes the way he looked at her, the way he studied her as if she were the most fascinating work of art he’d ever seen...Well, either way, their little act seemed to be working.

It was past two o’clock by the time they had the three Wetherby men convinced. Poor Mrs. Brown was summoned once again from her sleep to prepare three of the guest bedchambers. Once she had retrieved the three men, Becky bid Lord Hastings goodnight and attempted an exit.

“Miss Thorn, may I have a word?” Hastings said in a tone that told her it wasn’t a question.

She halted on the threshold. “Can it not wait until morning, my lord? I am awfully tired, and I will have to be up in—”

“No, it can’t.” The viscount strode to where she stood and slid the door shut, requiring Becky to move back into the room.

She cleared her throat. “All right...”

“Miss Thorn, I’m still wondering why on earth you would lie to the Wetherbys about the pretenses under which you were brought here.”

“I told you,” she said with an ounce of defiance. “I didn’t want to worry them.”

“You didn’t want them to take you home,” he corrected.

Becky swallowed hard. “No. The children need me.”

“And what do you need?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“That was quite a performance you put on for Eastleigh and his brothers.”

“I rather thought it was more like a duet.”

A wry smile came to the viscount’s lips, and Becky wondered what he was getting at.

“Either way, you were eager to dispel their fears and convince them to let you remain here...with me.”

Becky’s heart leaped to her throat. Was it possible he was trying to gauge her affections? Part of her wanted to admit that she was guilty to his charge. That she was curious about what it would be like to have his lips on hers, to feel his hands on her waist, and other more scandalous parts of her anatomy. But that would be foolish of her. This man was her employer. Obviously, she was tired and reading more into his questions than she should.

“And the children,” she said at last.

But before she could utter another word, Lord Hastings was before her, his rough hand caressing her cheek, his blue eyes peering into hers like rays of morning sunlight. Becky should have been frightened, should have pushed his hand away and told him never to touch her again, but she couldn’t.

She didn’t want to.

“I do not mean to be so forward, Miss Thorn,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “But you are perhaps the most astonishing creature I’ve ever met.”

Becky said nothing, but only stood there, trembling despite the warmth of the fire. What was she thinking? This was all wrong, beyond inappropriate, and there was only one place this could lead. She couldn’t let that happen. She could not allow her personal desires to interfere with her job. The children needed her, and involving herself in an affair with their guardian would only prove to be a foolish mistake.

But at the same time, there was something so right about having him near. Something so tantalizing about having his hand against her cheek, his lips just a whisper away from hers. Becky had never wanted anything so badly in her entire life.

Without thinking, she raised herself onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. She had never kissed anyone before, had never been kissed, but that didn’t seem to matter. Hastings took the reigns, drawing her closer to him, pressing her soft, feminine body against his hard chest while he plundered her mouth with his own. He tasted of brandy and cigars and his clean masculine scent wafted through the air, robbing Becky of any rational thought.

It was an animalistic urge that drew her further into him, that made her press her aching breasts harder against his chest. But when he stepped into her and his hardened member pushed against the curve of her stomach, Becky was startled back to reality.

He released her without any struggle and walked a few paces away. She watched him as he sought control over his faculties and wondered what would come of this little rendezvous. Would he send her home with Lord Eastleigh tomorrow? Would he let her stay and then force his attentions on her? Becky had never been so aroused or terrified in her entire life.

“For the children, eh?”

Becky stifled an indignant retort. What was he out to prove by kissing her? That she found him desirable? That she was a wanton chit not worthy of caring for his wards?

“Was this some kind of trick?” she asked, straining to keep her composure.

He frowned. “A trick?”

“To prove something?”

“Might I remind you that you kissed me?”

“Only because you made me!” It wasn’t until the words were out of her mouth that she realized how childish they sounded.

“I don’t remember making any demands, Miss Thorn.”

“You made an advance, my lord. Why? What is it that you’re out to prove about me?”

“The only thing I wanted to prove was that you chose to stay for more reasons than the blasted children!”

“Why?”

Hastings shook his head. “I’m not exactly sure, Miss Thorn,” he said quietly.

“My lord—”

He held up a hand to quiet her. Not in his usual demeaning way, though. It seemed he simply wanted to put an end to the conversation and she couldn’t blame him. She wasn’t keen to reveal any more truths herself.

“Will you join us for breakfast in the morning, Miss Thorn?” he asked without looking at her.

“But the children—”

“Bring them, too. We will have a family breakfast before Lord Eastleigh and his brothers depart. Seeing as they are your...acquaintances, I think you should be there.”

Becky wasn’t sure what to make of the invitation. She had the distinct feeling that perhaps he did not want to be left alone with the marquess and the twins. As intimidating as Lord Hastings could be, there were not three of him. Either way, she would not refuse.

“I shall see you at breakfast, then, my lord. Good night.”

Eight

Becky did not sleep a wink that night. No matter how hard she tried to put it from her mind, she could not stop thinking of the awkward moment in the drawing room.

He had kissed her. No, she had kissed him, hadn’t she? She buried her face in her pillow, mortified at the thought. She had kissed her employer, the man who paid her wages, a man at least ten years her senior. A man with secrets and problems—more than any woman would ever want to assume.

Assume? What was she thinking? It wasn’t as if they were going to take that silly kiss any further. It was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment, on both their parts, that could never be repeated. If he allowed her to stay on, she would simply pretend nothing ever happened. She would go about her business with the children and do her best to avoid him at all costs.

Unfortunately, she was having breakfast with him in just a few short hours. But after that she would begin her aversion tactics.

Fraught with nerves, she paced her bedroom floor, wringing her hands. “I must find something to do with myself, if I’m not going to sleep,” she mumbled to the air.

Spotting the book of Shakespeare Sonnets she’d retrieved from the library, she picked it up and flipped through to her placeholder.

“All right, number fifty-seven,” she said as she plopped onto her bed and curled her legs beneath her. “‘Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?’”

She slammed the book shut without reading another word. To put “slave” and “desire” in the same sentence made her vastly uneasy.

She drummed on the outside of the book with her fingers as she looked about the room for another diversion.

“A letter!” she exclaimed, jumping from her bed. “Phoebe deserves to hear the truth from me directly. I’ll send it along with Lord Eastleigh in the morning.”

Becky penned the note, but much to her dismay only fifteen minutes passed from start to finish. By the time Mrs. Brown came to wake her at half past five, she had written letters to everyone of her acquaintance, knitted a small pink cap for Phoebe’s baby, who she sincerely hoped would be a girl, and was dressed, eager for the day to begin.

Although her body was exhausted, her mind was a bundle of nervous energy waiting to be expelled. She pushed past Mrs. Brown with an enthusiastic greeting and practically ran to the nursery. Before she even reached the door, she knew there was trouble. Lydia’s ear-piercing shrieks echoed down the hall, accompanied by a cacophony of loud banging.

“They can’t be left alone for five minutes, can they?” she remarked to no one in particular.

When she flung open the door to the nursery, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the horrifying scene. Lydia sat on the floor next to her dollhouse, her knees drawn close to her chest, her face the color of a ripe tomato, as she continued to release her blood-curdling screams. Max ran about the room, brandishing one of the small wooden chairs, using it to destroy everything that was in his path as if the chair were a sword and the toys were a jungle’s thicket. Food had been flung all over the nursery, and both children had bits of egg in their hair and butter smeared...well, everywhere.

If it had not been so troubling, it might have been funny.

“Enough!” Becky yelled into the room, but she could not be heard above the noise.

She crossed into the room and was about to grab the chair from Max’s arms when he swung it backward and delivered a startling blow to Becky’s left cheek. Pain shot through her, sharp, like she'd never known. She fell to the ground with the force of it and let out a strangled cry.

Max dropped the chair, his eyes wide with terror, and Lydia stopped her screaming while she waited to see what Becky would do.

No one spoke.

Becky put her hand to her cheek and winced at the contact. She slowly rose to her feet and stared back at the two children who watched her intently.

She was furious. It took a good deal of strength to keep her hands from wrapping around the boy’s neck. But for obvious reasons she held back.

“Are you going to hit me?” Max asked, panic in his voice.

Sudden tears pricked at her eyes. Partially from the throbbing pain in her cheek, but mostly because of the sad and terrified eyes that regarded her now. He hadn’t meant to do it, and she knew that.

Becky knelt down on her knees and beckoned him forward. From her position, they were almost of a height.

She took him by his upper arms and made him look directly into her eyes. “You hurt me, Max,” she began in hushed tones, ignoring the pain that came from speaking. “I know you didn’t mean to, but it was bound to happen. May I ask why you saw fit to destroy the nursery with the chair?”

He stared back at her with his azure eyes and she saw that they pooled with tears. “I’m sorry, Miss Thorn,” he whimpered. “I didn’t mean to. Are you going to tell Uncle?”

“Do you see my face, Max?” she asked earnestly.

He nodded.

“Is it turning black?”

He hesitated a moment and then nodded again as a single tear escaped down his cheek.

“Your uncle will ask me how this happened, and I will not lie to him. You must learn that although you do not intend bad things to happen, there are always consequences for your actions.”

He nodded again, and more tears spilled onto his cheeks. Becky drew him into a tight embrace. “It’s all right. I forgive you, Max.”

By this time, Lydia had become so overwrought that she had begun to cry again. Becky comforted the little girl while Max picked up the pieces of broken toys from the floor. She sat down, put Lydia on her lap and began fishing out the bits of egg from her blonde curls.

It was in that moment, as she sat holding the child, that the exhaustion set in. An overwhelming, all-consuming need to sleep. Her eyes drooped involuntarily, and her head felt as if it held the weight of an anvil. Lydia climbed down after a few minutes and retrieved her doll, which had been caught in the crossfire. Becky propped her elbow onto the small desk and placed her head in her hand.

The next thing she knew, a calm voice was calling her name. She opened her eyes slowly to see Mrs. Brown and the children standing over her. Becky glanced about, struggling to gain her bearings.

“What happened?” she asked with a start.

“Ya fell asleep, Miss—” Mrs. Brown broke off with a gasp. “Why is your face all purple, Miss Thorn?”

Like a tidal wave, the events of the past several hours flooded her conscience and she sucked in a sharp breath as she realized the pain in her cheek.

“I must have fallen asleep,” she said. “What time is it?”

“Time for breakfast, miss. They’re all waitin’ for ya downstairs.”

“But the children...I was supposed to get them ready. Lord Hastings said to bring them along.”

“Never you mind, miss, I’ll keep watch over the children. You go on and have yourself a nice breakfast.”

“But I can’t let them see me like this, Mrs. Brown!” The panic settled in her belly. “Lord Eastleigh will cart me right off to Ravenscroft Castle and Lord Hastings will...” Throttle Max, she was about to say and then stopped when she saw his face. The poor child already looked as if he might soil himself. She didn’t need to add insult to injury.

“Miss Thorn!” Lord Hastings’ voice boomed down the hall, and everyone froze.

“Miss Thorn, I—What the bloody hell happened to your face?” Hastings stood in the doorway now, clearly trying to process the scene.

“Perhaps we could discuss that in private, my lord,” Becky suggested.

“Later.” His eyes narrowed on his young nephew. “For now, your friends await us for breakfast.”

Once they put a reasonable distance between themselves and the nursery, Hastings asked her again what happened to her face.

“An unfortunate incident with a chair, my lord.” For some reason she felt horrible about tattling on Max. What would Lord Hastings do to him? Memories of her own childhood, of her violent and erratic father, came to mind, making her reluctant now to tell the truth.

“Did you fall?” he asked.

“No.”

“Were you pushed?”

“No.”

“Were you hit?”

Becky hesitated and then nodded her head, knowing it was not her place to keep such a thing from the man. The children were not her own, but she could possibly do something to protect them from a fate similar to her own as a child. “Please, don’t do anything, yet. He didn’t mean to, my lord. Whatever that child does, there is not a malicious bone in his body. He did not mean for me to be hurt. I know that for certain, he...he’s very angry, my lord. About what, I don’t know, but he’s too young to understand his anger.”

Lord Hastings seethed. His nostrils flared, his fists clenched by his sides. “I will teach him how to understand his bloody anger if it’s the last thing I do.”

Becky stepped in his path to stop him from walking back toward the nursery and placed a hand on his chest. Both their eyes dropped to her hand and she quickly pulled it away as if his chest were a hot stove. She looked up and met his clear blue gaze.

“He feels bad enough as it is, my lord,” she said carefully. “I agree there should be punishment, but hitting him for hitting me will not solve anything. Especially since it was an accident.”

“Then what would you suggest, Miss Thorn?” he asked, acidly.

“A proper...paddling?” She wasn’t sure at all what she meant by that and clearly, neither did he.

“Proper?”

“Yes. You must...punish...with love.”

Hastings snorted. “I’ve never heard such nonsense, Miss Thorn.” His lips quirked into a skeptical smile. “Paddle with love? No, Miss Thorn, I shall discipline the boy however I see fit. The entire left side of your lovely— of your face is purple, for God’s sake.”

Becky had no more words, no retort or recommendation. The viscount’s slip-up had rendered her mute. Had he really almost called her lovely?

“Miss Thorn?” Lord Hastings waited for her to say something, but when she said nothing, he simply stated, “Your friends await.”

Nine

Stephen led the way to the dining room, not trusting himself to walk behind Miss Thorn. She already had him practically hypnotized. It was enough that he had to look so often into those shining green eyes; he didn’t know what would happen if he had the opportunity to take in the rest of her.

Especially after their kiss. She was all he could bloody think about.

They arrived at the dining room, and he stepped aside to allow her through first. “I’ve finally found her, gentlemen,” he announced.

Eastleigh and the twins stood in deference, and Stephen watched as their jaws simultaneously unhinged.

“Becky, what happened?” the marquess asked as he rushed to her. “Who did this to you?”

He asked the question of Miss Thorn, but his black glare fixed on Stephen, who forced himself to remain expressionless.

She laughed, a light tinkling sound very much in contrast with her somber demeanor from moments before. “No one did anything to me,” she told him. “I’m afraid I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was bludgeoned with a chair.”

“A chair?”

Stephen turned to look at the twin who had spoken and noted his expression was one of unveiled skepticism. He was certain they all imagined him to be the culprit.

“That’s right,” she agreed. “Little Max was in a bit of a state this morning, but it’s all been sorted out." She pasted on a dazzling smile and said, "May we eat, now?”

The three men looked from each other to Stephen and back at Miss Thorn before slowly returning to their chairs.

“Is Max very often ‘in a state’, as you put it?” the other twin asked dubiously.

“I’m afraid my nephew is a bit troubled,” Stephen replied.

He did not care to speak of his family’s situation with anyone, let alone complete strangers who had barged into his home in the middle of the night. It was true Miss Thorn needed to know—deserved to know—the source of his nephew’s rage, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak on the subject. It was far too painful.

“What on earth could a nine-year-old have to be troubled about?” Eastleigh wondered aloud.

“A great deal, actually,” came Stephen’s acid reply. Not that the man deserved an answer. It was hardly his business. “Coffee?”

Silence prevailed over the rest of the meal, everyone choosing to hold their tongues in lieu of a morning row. And when they were done, Eastleigh requested to speak with Miss Thorn alone.

Obviously, Stephen could not say no. Though it was his house and his employee, he knew he did not hold the cards. It was obvious the marquess felt responsible for the girl, and rightly so, based on what she had told him of her relationship with the family. He had done a great deal for her, and it seemed she practically considered his family as her own. If he demanded she return to Ravenscroft Castle, Stephen was certain she would go.

He prayed it would not come to that. It seemed the children had already formed an attachment to her, and perhaps he had too, though he preferred not to think of it.

Stephen allowed them use of his study and waited for the verdict next door in the library. He contemplated eavesdropping, but in the end, decided against it.

Grown men did not eavesdrop.

Maybe it would be best if Miss Thorn went back home. Perhaps he could go back to being who he was before: sure and sound and in control of his thoughts and feelings.

He thought about their kiss the night before and the way she had touched him in the hallway earlier that morning. The way he had almost said something endearing in broad daylight.

Bloody fool! It was one thing to have been enticed to kiss her in the dim firelight at two in the morning, but to be so overcome while the sun was shining...

A knock interrupted his thoughts and the marquess appeared in the doorway before him.

“Eastleigh.”

“Hastings.”

They acknowledged one another with a slight nod.

“Becky assures me that it was in fact Max who bludgeoned her this morning,” the marquess began, “though you must understand my concerns that she might be lying. I don’t believe Miss Thorn to be a dishonest person, but she is too determined for her own good. She was determined to make her own way in the world—to not rely on our kindness and good fortune. And she did, in fact, lie to conceal the reality of her current situation here at Hastings House. I leave her with you, but with a great deal of reluctance, you understand?”

Stephen contemplated his next words very carefully. He understood the marquess’ concerns but at the same time felt incredibly defensive at the accusations.

“Lord Eastleigh, although I am not what most would consider to be a warm person, I am not so ill-behaved that I would strike a woman. And even if I were such a man, do you really think I would do so with you and your brothers in such close proximity?”

“You have a point, Hastings, although I also have my concerns about the boy. I do not wish for Miss Thorn to be subjected to danger whether from a grown man or a child.”

Stephen’s blood boiled at the mention of his nephew. The little bugger had made this very difficult situation even more unbearable.

“The boy will be punished appropriately. I assure you this will never happen again. You have my word.”

“Well, then,” Eastleigh said lightly. “I believe it’s time for my brothers and I to make our departure. Thank you for your hospitality, Hastings. Hopefully next time we can meet under less strained circumstances.”

They shook hands, and Stephen walked Lord Eastleigh to the front hall where Miss Thorn was saying her goodbyes to the twins.

“Do take care of yourselves,” she said, her green eyes misting.

“You too, Becky.” One of them—Michael, perhaps—engulfed her in a warm hug and Stephen couldn’t stop the stab of unwelcome jealousy.

He suppressed the urge to take her into his arms himself. Instead, he bid adieu to the twins while Miss Thorn said goodbye to Lord Eastleigh.

“Please make sure you give these to Phoebe as soon as you arrive back at Ravenscroft,” she said as she handed over the letter and a baby cap. “I knitted this for the baby last night...I’m hoping for a girl. And this letter explains everything. I thought it best for Phoebe to read it from me rather than hear it from you. You will assure her everything is all right, won’t you?”

“Of course,” the marquess replied. “Just try to keep your face away from flying chairs in the future.”

The three men made their exit, leaving Stephen alone with Miss Thorn once again. Somehow, he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her, which was rather unlike him.

“You knitted an entire hat last night?” he asked, trying to keep the amusement from his eyes.

She looked at the floor. “Well, I finished it—”

“Right,” Stephen cut in, deciding he did not really want to confront the events of the previous evening. “Well, I suggest you go down to the kitchen and get something for that cheek. I’m going to have a word with Max. I’ll see you...well, when I see you, I suppose.”

Ten

“What were you thinking?” Phoebe exclaimed at her husband for what seemed like the hundredth time. “How could you leave her there alone with an unmarried man and two hellion children?”

“Darling, calm down, it’s not as bad as all that.” Benjamin lay across the bed, his hand to his forehead.

Phoebe had been berating him for nearly an hour now, outraged that he had willingly left Becky at Hastings House. If he didn’t find a way to calm her down, she’d send herself into labor.

“Benjamin, what are we going to do?”

“We are going to do nothing,” he replied firmly. “Becky wants to be there. We are not going to drag her away just because you’re suspicious.”

“And what about you? You don’t think this situation is at all worthy of suspicion?”

Benjamin let out an exasperated sigh. He was tired from two days of traveling and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. Clearly, that was not going to happen. Nothing he said seemed to make any difference in his wife’s current state of outrage.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Phoebe persisted.

“Come here.”

“I’m too upset to sleep. We need to talk about this.”

“Phoebe,” he said, a warning tone in his voice. “Come here.”

Phoebe inhaled through her nose, clearly agitated at his demands. But she had to know that he would not say another word on the subject unless she went to him. She rolled her eyes and slumped her shoulders in childlike diffidence, then plopped herself, and her massive belly, ungracefully on the bed. “Yes?”

Benjamin rolled onto his side and began caressing her back. “Why don’t you tell me how you’ve been for the past couple of days? Are you feeling all right? Getting enough sleep?”

“Benjamin, I don’t want to talk about me!” she cried, her tone laden with frustration.

“Well, I don’t want to talk about Becky or Lord Hastings.” He kept his voice calm as he placed delicate kisses along the back of her arm, inhaling her wonderfully familiar scent as he did. “We’ll have to come to some kind of compromise, won’t we?”

She squirmed slightly, but not enough to make him stop. “What kind of compromise?” she asked with a pout.

Benjamin readjusted himself on the bed so he was sitting up. Pushing her luxurious auburn hair over her opposite shoulder, he nibbled at the nape of her neck, causing a rash of goose pimples to break out on her skin.

“Benjamin! We haven’t finished talking about this.”

He reached around her and tugged at the ribbons holding her robe together. It slipped away, revealing a thin chemise, which shared the same fate. “I think I’m finished, darling,” he whispered as his hand molded around her naked breast.

Phoebe arched back into him as his hands roamed freely over her breasts, pausing to tease the rosy tips. “Well, I’m not,” she said with a breathless moan.

“All right.” Benjamin moved to her side, but didn’t remove his hand from her. “Say what you must and be done with it.”

“I think...ah...”

He leaned his head down and took the hardened nipple into his mouth. “Mmmhmm, go on,” he urged, his voice muffled.

“I think...we should secure...ah!” Benjamin rejoiced that he’d made her lose her train of thought. “Secure...an invitation.”

“To where, darling?” he asked as his teeth grazed her taut nipple.

“To—oh, you louse, you know where!” she exclaimed, unable to take any more teasing.

“You’re in no condition to travel, my love.”

“But I will be...soon, I hope.” Hearing the sudden exhaustion in his wife’s voice, Benjamin abandoned his seduction and raised his head to look at her.

He stroked his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer so he could kiss her. “Consider it done, my love. Consider it done.”

***

Two days later Becky’s cheek was on the mend, which meant she looked like a frightening monster. Shades of purple and yellow dominated the left side of her face, and she felt sorry that the children had to look at her all day long. Despite the pain, she had no choice but to continue Max and Lydia’s lessons.

On this particular day, they had begged her to take their lessons outside—that is, Max and Clarabelle had begged her—and although the sun only contributed to her pounding headache, she could not deny the children such a lovely spring day.

They sat in the middle of a lush green patch of the garden, Max reading to himself from a book of Greek history, and Lydia trying to read aloud from a children’s primer with Becky’s help.

Becky was having a difficult time concentrating, though. Her mind continually wandered to thoughts of Lord Hastings. She had not seen him since the morning Lord Eastleigh and the twins had left, but she’d seen full well the results of his handiwork on Max.

The child had returned to the nursery that day, his eyes red and swollen, as she imagined his backside must have been. But when she questioned him, he refused to talk about it, already trained in the prideful ways of the aristocracy.

“Clarabelle, can you please tell Miss Thorn that I’m tired of reading?”

Becky looked down at the girl and chuckled softly. She looked like a little angel with her blonde curls gleaming in the afternoon sun. It was impossible to deny her anything she pleased.

“All right, Clarabelle,” she replied. “Tell Lydia she may go and pick wildflowers if she prefers.”

Lydia took off across the garden at a run toward a patch of wild daisies, her doll and primer forgotten on the blanket.

“May I go too?” Max asked with squinted eyes.

“Of course,” Becky sighed. “Just don’t go too far. We still have a great deal to do before dinner.”

Max ran off after his sister and Becky collapsed backwards onto the grass. She closed her eyes, drinking in the warm sun, reveling in the cool breeze, thankful that the children had suggested a recess. Her head still pounded, making her more tired than she might normally have been.

A cloud moved over the sun just then, sending a shiver down her spine. Becky sat up to retrieve her shawl and nearly jumped out of her skin.

The cloud was, in fact, a very finely dressed viscount.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I frighten you?”

“No, I mean, yes...but, it’s all right. I just thought...” She looked up to find him staring at her, a beguiling grin across his face. “May I help you with something, my lord?”

“How is your eye?” Lord Hastings inquired politely.

“Better, thank you, although one wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at it, I’m sure.”

“Right.” He seemed distracted.

“Lord Hastings, is everything all right?”

He paused to think about her question and then held out his hand to her. “Would you care to take a walk with me, Miss Thorn?”

“But the children—”

“Just a short one. We won’t go where the children can’t find us.”

Becky was glad of that. She certainly didn’t want to be anywhere truly alone with Lord Hastings. She had already kissed him; Lord knew what she might do next time there was no one about to catch them.

She took his proffered hand and allowed him to haul her to her feet. Evidently, he was not all too aware of his own strength and he hauled her right into his chest. She would have stumbled back to the ground if not for the sturdy arm that snaked around her waist to steady her. There was an uncomfortable pause as they stood there, almost nose to nose, before Lord Hastings dropped his arm and stepped away from her.

“Shall we?”

Becky walked alongside him, stealing glances when she could, taking note of his distinctive features. The way the sun illuminated a few golden strands of his thick brown hair. The way his breeches hugged his powerful thighs. The shine of his Hessian boots. The way his brow furrowed as if he had something of grave importance to discuss with her.

“I received a letter, Miss Thorn,” he said at last, breaking the tension. “From Ravenscroft Castle.”

Becky was surprised. She had not yet heard back from Phoebe. How disconcerting that her friend had written to Hastings first.

“May I inquire as to the nature of the letter, my lord?”

“Well,” he began, “it’s hard to say. The letter is signed Lord Eastleigh, yet I can’t help feeling it was written by the marchioness. You see, in the letter, your friends invited themselves to come for a stay at Hastings House. Not in so many words, of course, but somehow I can’t countenance his lordship being so...forward.”

Becky stifled a giggle. Either Phoebe had written it or she had threatened Benjamin with his life if he didn’t do it himself.

“I do apologize for my friend’s behavior, my lord, and I daresay your suspicions are probably on the mark, although I am not sure why you have informed me of this. I am guessing you will not actually extend the invitation to Lord and Lady Eastleigh.” And how on earth did Phoebe plan to travel in her condition, anyhow?

“Quite the contrary, actually,” Lord Hastings admitted. “I wanted to see how you felt about having a house party.”

Becky stopped in her tracks, forcing Lord Hastings to turn back to face her. “I fail to see how I should have any bearing over whether or not you have a house party, my lord.”

“This from the girl who told me that I should ‘paddle with love’?” One eyebrow quirked mockingly. “I want to know if you think the children would do all right with guests in the house.”

“Have they never been exposed to outsiders, my lord?”

“Very few, and not in a very long time.” He stared down at his boots. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a socialite, Miss Thorn.”

“So I gathered,” she mumbled almost inaudibly.

“If you wish to deliver an insult, I prefer you do so to my face, Miss Thorn.”

His expression had grown hard again, and Becky felt suddenly foolish for speaking out of turn. If only she could get hold of her tongue.

“Of course, my lord,” she said flatly. “In the future I will be certain to shout my insults so that all the world may hear.”

“That will do, Miss Thorn.”

Becky’s cheeks turned hot. What was the matter with her? Why did she feel it appropriate to speak so candidly with her employer?

“They will be fine, Lord Hastings,” she said after a moment.

“Who?”

“The children, remember? The house party?”

“Oh, of course. Right. Well, then, that’s all I needed to know. I will extend the invitation to your friends and perhaps some friends of my own. Just to make it even, you know...” He trailed off, seeming vastly uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“Is there something else you wish to discuss, my lord?” Becky ventured.

She was half hoping they might be able to address their kiss in the drawing room. Not that she really wanted to, but perhaps they could clear the air and move on to establish a working relationship that wasn’t riddled with uncomfortable silences.

“No, Miss Thorn, not that I can think of.” He looked at her meaningfully. “Was there a topic you wished to discuss?”

Becky thought her heart might beat out of her chest as he stared at her. He was so devastatingly handsome in the sunlight, his eyes the color of the skies above them. She absolutely could not seem to find her tongue.

What was she to say anyhow? They both knew that what they had done was wrong. That it could never happen again. So what was there to discuss? Should she tell him never to touch her again or would she regret it if she did?

Thankfully, the children came bounding over the hill just then, freshly picked daisies in hand.

“Perhaps I should go,” Lord Hastings said.

“No, please don’t.” Becky stopped him. “I’m sure the children would like to say hello. They see so little of you.”

“Yes, and I daresay we’re all better off for it.” He turned to go, but it was too late.

“Clarabelle!” Lydia screamed into the air. “Tell Uncle that I’ve picked some flowers for him!”

Becky watched as the child ran to her uncle, wrapping her slight body around his legs. Lord Hastings was obviously not used to such displays of affection—at least not from children—and looked as if he preferred to be trapped in a burning building rather than be hugged by a five-year-old girl. He reached down to pry the child from his legs, but she only giggled and held on tighter.

“Lydia, please let go of my legs,” he said as if he were negotiating a business transaction.

More giggling.

“Lydia!”

“She can’t hear you, you know?” came Max’s admonishment. “You have to tell Clarabelle to ask her.”

Lord Hastings’ eyes flashed with sudden anger, and Becky decided it was past time for her to step in.

“Clarabelle—”

“No!” Lord Hastings cut her off, his face turning a violent shade of red. “You will both stop indulging this nonsense immediately. She can hear me just as you can. And Clarabelle does not exist!”

The giggling stopped, but Lydia continued to cling to her uncle, her pale eyes filled with unshed tears as she looked up at him. Becky’s heart went out to the poor girl. She was so young to be constantly subjected to the unfeeling tempers of the men in her life. Now the one person, imaginary or not, that she had trusted and depended upon the most had been rendered nonexistent. She was certain Lydia did not think Clarabelle was real, but to have her friend denounced publicly had to be heartbreaking.

Becky knelt down next to the child. “Lydia,” she whispered, her glare on the man being held captive. “He didn’t mean it. We all know how real Clarabelle is and how much you love her. Come, let us go find her and take a nap.”

At Becky’s touch, the child released her uncle and fell willingly into her governess’ arms. She hugged her tightly, her head on Becky’s shoulder, as they walked back to the house, leaving Max and Lord Hastings to gather up the mess they’d left on the lawn.

“Miss Thorn!”

Becky stopped to turn to Lord Hastings.

“You will meet me in my study once the child has been deposited in her room.”

***

Twenty minutes later Miss Thorn stood before the large mahogany desk in Stephen’s study. Her cheeks and hair were sun-kissed, and her skin slightly dewy from the heat.

Stephen had never wanted someone more than he wanted Becky Thorn at that very moment. She beguiled him at every turn, made him desire her and despise her in the same moment and, worst of all, made him feel things. Things he had hoped would stay suppressed forever.

He no longer knew what to do, what to think, how to act. She had turned his world upside down and she wasn’t any the wiser. This young, beautiful, outspoken governess had succeeded somehow in making Stephen feel like a person again. Like a part of the human race.

And damn it, he hated that.

“Ahem,” Becky cleared her throat as if she meant to get his attention.

Not that she needed to. He was quite aware of her presence.

“Have a seat,” he said, a little more coldly than he had intended.

She sat gingerly, self-consciously, he noticed. Stephen knew that he unnerved her, especially since their kiss, but he couldn’t help it. She unnerved him, too.

“Do you know why I called you here, Miss Thorn?”

Becky shifted in her chair. “I would assume to discuss Clarabelle.”

Stephen walked around to the front of his desk and perched in front of her, leveling her with his gaze. “Why does she do that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why does she do that? Speak only to her imaginary friend?”

Becky blinked as if she weren’t quite sure she had heard him correctly. “I-I wish I knew, my lord,” she stammered. “I’ve known Lydia for barely a week and unfortunately no one seems able to offer any insights into the child’s past.”

Stephen nodded. She was right, of course. How could she know why the child acted as she did when she knew nothing about her? He knew all about Lydia, but still he didn’t understand why she preferred the counsel of her imaginary friend to living, breathing people. But perhaps it was time he told the new governess just what lay beneath the surface of his sad family.

“Miss Thorn, would you do me the honor of having dinner with me this evening?”

More blinking. Clearly, he had taken her off guard. Of course she would say no—for God’s sake, she should say no. After what had happened between them, he wouldn’t blame her, but he sincerely hoped she wouldn’t hold it against him.

“I’m not sure that’s such a wise idea, my lord.” Becky’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Miss Thorn,” he said as he sat down in the chair beside hers. “I haven’t been what one would call polite since you’ve come here. As a matter of fact, I’ve probably been the antithesis of polite. And I’m certain that kiss only complicated things. But I would like to change your opinion of me, if you will give me the chance.”

She looked up at him with her startling green eyes and asked, “Why?”

Stephen couldn’t help but laugh at her question. “I don’t know, Miss Thorn, I just would.”

Becky stood, her brow crinkled in confusion. Stephen was sure she was going to say no. He steeled himself for the rejection, unsure of why it mattered so much to him.

“Very well.”

“Come again?” He couldn’t have heard her correctly.

“I said ‘very well’. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Stephen smiled after her, wondering what the devil he was thinking.

Eleven

After Becky fed the children and told them each a bedtime story, she took to her room to prepare for dinner that evening. She must have been out of her mind to accept the invitation, but her curiosity always seemed to win out over her logic. So, she donned one of the finer dresses in her collection, and primped for a late and probably awkward dinner with her employer.

What would her mother think if she could see her now? She retrieved a locket from the top drawer of her bureau and opened it. Inside was the only miniature ever rendered of Lady Thornton. It wasn’t a very good likeness, and it was worn from years of handling, but it was the only way for Becky to remember her. She missed her mother immensely, especially now when she needed her advice. There were many questions she needed answered: Had she done the right thing by leaving Ravenscroft Castle? Was she doing the right thing now by cavorting with the man who paid her wages? Had it been wrong to kiss him?

Of course she knew all the answers already, but it would have been nice to have someone validate her feelings. To tell her everything was going to turn out just the way it was supposed to. The sense of foreboding that came over her now was not at all reassuring.

Mrs. Brown knocked on her door, interrupting her plaintive thoughts.

“He’s waiting for you, miss.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” she said as the woman fastened the last of the clasps on her gown. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Becky walked the corridors, barely aware of what she was doing. She felt stiff and nervous and in desperate need of strong libation.

She entered the dining room on silent feet that did not alert Lord Hastings to her presence, and she almost decided to leave it that way. He stood by the fire in crisp black evening clothes, one arm propped on the mantel, his hair slicked into a distinguished coif.

For the first time since she’d arrived, Becky thought that the volatile Lord Hastings looked like a dangerous man. Not dangerous in the way one might think, based on his short temper and terse tongue, but dangerous in a way that might be devastating to a young woman’s heart.

“Good evening,” she said at last. Her voice drew his attention away from the burning embers.

He paused as if drinking in the sight of her and then bowed ever so slightly. “Good evening,” he echoed. “Please, sit down.”

Lord Hastings pulled out the same chair Becky had occupied during their last dinner together, and she sat obligingly.

“Wine?”

“Yes, please.” He passed a goblet to her and Becky breathed a sigh of relief as the warm, crimson liquid made its way to her belly.

His lordship sat and drank of his own wine as a servant placed the first course in front of them.

“So how are you settling in, Miss Thorn?”

“Fine, thank you. The children really are wonderful.”

“And the rest of the staff? Are they treating you well?”

Becky paused. The truth was she spent very little time with the servants. Mrs. Brown was the only one she saw on a regular basis.

“Fine, my lord. Just fine.”

Becky felt the heat of Lord Hastings’ stare on her as she sipped her turtle soup. She looked up and met his amused blue eyes.

“What?” she asked, her voice more candid than she intended.

“Fine, you say?”

“Yes. Fine.”

“Why did you hesitate so before you answered?”

She did not respond but only stared back at him with what she hoped was a vacant expression.

“Out with it. Have they treated you poorly?”

She bit back the urge to tell him that no one had ever treated her as poorly as he had when she first arrived. “No, of course not, it’s just...”

“Yes?”

“No one ever said that being a governess would be easy.” She smiled even though the very subject tugged violently at her heart.

“What do you mean?”

Becky met his gaze and realized he was truly interested in learning what she had meant by her statement. She hesitated to tell him. To let her guard down with this man could be perilous. To admit how lonely she was without her friends, away from her home, would only make her more vulnerable. She guessed that was the last side of herself she should expose to Lord Hastings.

But somehow she couldn’t stop the words. “Well, my lord, the position of a governess is tricky, as I’m learning. I’m not used to being so...alone.”

“Are you lonely now?” he asked in a low murmur.

She nodded her head. “Quite.” But it was so much more than that.

The truth was that she had never felt so out of place in all her life. So out of sorts, tired, confused, questioning the decisions she had been so thrilled to be able to make in the first place. It wasn’t like her, but that didn’t matter. She was where she was for a reason.

For the children.

She had not come to Hastings House to make friends, and she had certainly not come with the belief that she would find a place she would call home. She came to earn her own wages, to care for children who had no one else and to perhaps learn a little about herself.

All of a sudden she desperately wanted to change the subject. “May I have more wine, please?” she asked, adding a jovial lilt to her voice.

A footman refilled her glass promptly as the main course was placed before them. The conversation turned to talk of the local gentry, the weather and the breweries for which Lord Hastings had become popular.

It seemed that the more wine she drank, the less inhibited she became. She found herself slipping into an easier time despite the fact she dined with her handsome and often tyrannical employer. When the dinner was done and the dishes had been carted away, Hastings refilled both their wine glasses and bid Becky to follow him.

“I really shouldn’t have more, my lord. I daresay I’ll collapse before I make it up the stairs.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied as he ushered her from the dining room. “I’ll make sure to catch you should you fall.”

Becky’s heart fluttered at his insinuating remarks, and she ruthlessly squelched her burning desire to kiss him again.

With his hand on the small of her back, Hastings steered her through the halls of the manor and up the main staircase. It was dark and quiet, all the servants having gone to bed already. Her head spun slightly and her skin was a tad warm in spite of the drafty corridors.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked and then followed her question with a loud hiccough.

Stephen laughed. “You’ll see.”

Becky was sure she had never seen him like this, and she was positive it was not her current state of inebriation that made him seem giddy. Was that truly a laugh she’d heard?

He led her to a wing of the house she had never seen and finally to a large gallery where the walls were lined with portraits dating back hundreds of years.

“This,” he said with a flourish, “is the family portrait gallery, Miss Thorn. Several generations of Hastings men and women hang here, watching and waiting to see how their descendants are managing the estate...and their families. No doubt if they were alive, they’d be a bit disappointed in the way the last couple of generations have turned out.”

Becky turned to the viscount, her question in her eyes. Suddenly the evening had taken an interesting turn. He walked toward a large painting of a man and waited for her to follow him.

“This is my father.”

“Oh,” was all that Becky could manage.

“Right. That is about all there is to say about him. A cold, hardened man with unreasonable expectations. Needless to say, we were not close.” He moved on to the next portrait. The blue eyes made it evident who the woman was. “My mother. A frail woman, given to dark episodes, who drank herself to death.”

Becky said nothing, fascinated by the detached way Lord Hastings spoke of his family. As if they had been strangers to him. Perhaps they had been.

They moved on to a large painting that hung in the center of the back wall. A tufted, red velvet chaise faced the portrait and Hastings sat, never once taking his eyes from the piece.

When Becky looked up, she realized she knew the children in the painting. Younger versions of Max and Lydia stood next to a strikingly handsome man and a woman of equal beauty. And Becky understood why they were there.

“Their parents?” she asked quietly, sitting down beside Stephen on the chaise.

He nodded.

“Are they...?”

“Dead? Yes.”

Becky’s heart constricted. “How?”

“Arthur and I fought together at Waterloo,” he began. “We thought we were invincible. We were out to conquer the world...well, Napolean, anyway. But Arthur did not come back with me. He fell only a few hours before Napolean’s surrender, and I returned to Hastings House alone to pick up the pieces of my sister’s broken heart. Sadly, she could not be mended.”

He paused, clearly struggling to relive the next piece of the story. Becky remained silent, allowing him time to gather his thoughts and emotions.

“Marie was not a well woman, Miss Thorn.” He swallowed hard. “When she met Arthur, she was only sixteen, but she was in love with him. Or perhaps just infatuated. It was rather hard to determine. And seeing as she was in possession of a rather large fortune and carrying his child, they were forced to elope. She had Max the following year and things only got worse...”

“What happened when Lydia was born?” Becky prompted.

Hastings looked back up at the portrait, his eyes gray and stormy. “We all thought she had gotten better, actually. Her mood swings were less drastic; she smiled a lot—at least a lot more, so I’m told. But when I came back without Arthur, that was the end of it.”

“The end of what?” Becky wondered aloud.

“The end of Marie. It was the children who found her...in the weapons gallery.”

Realization dawned like a great squall. Suicide, and her children had been the first ones on the scene. No wonder they were so troubled. No wonder Lord Hastings was so troubled. She would be, too. This family had seen more than their fair share of hardships. For three generations the Hastings had been suffering and the man sitting next to her seemed caught in the middle.

She took Hastings’ hand. He did not flinch, only grasped the fingers that had reached out to him.

“It’s not your fault, you know?” she said softly. “You are not responsible for the mistakes of others.”

“No, but I’m responsible for what they left behind.”

Becky tried not to flinch at the bitterness in his tone. “It’s not their fault, either.”

Hastings acknowledged her comment with an absent nod.

“Thank you for telling me,” Becky said at last after a long bout of silence.

He finally dared to look at her and for once, she didn’t feel frightened or even uncomfortable. She only felt the overwhelming urge to hold him and comfort him, to be held in return.

But she no longer needed to suppress the urge. Hastings grasped her hand tightly and drew her on top of him in one swift movement. And then he was kissing her, touching her, caressing her back, molding her curves to his hardened form. He aroused sensations she never could have dreamed even existed.

“Lord Hastings.”

“Don’t you dare call me that when I’m kissing you,” he demanded before plundering her mouth once more.

“What about the children?” she gasped as he unclasped her dress, exposing her bare breasts to the cold air of the gallery.

“I would rather not talk about them right now, if you please.”

“But don’t you think—”

“No. Clearly, I don’t.” And then he kissed her again, making it impossible for her to say another word.

One hand reached up to her hair while the other held her firmly against him. He plucked the curls free of the few pins she had inserted and her hair fell in a cascade down her back. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, it occurred to her that anyone could come upon them. But when his hand closed around her breast, and his finger toyed with the tip, all was forgotten.

She succumbed to his caresses, to the play of his tongue on her lips, and reveled in each new sensation. She had never been kissed like this, and certainly had never been touched like this. It was so new, so intimate. Yet, she wasn’t scared or embarrassed. She was simply...aroused.

Hastings took his time, giving her opportunities to say no, to refuse him. In her wine induced haze, she was well aware that were she to ask him to stop, he would do so without question. But she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted this moment to last forever.

Twelve

Stephen woke several hours later somewhat surprised to find his governess lying half naked in his arms, but quite pleased that she was. He snuggled her closer, taking comfort in having her there as his mind wandered back to the evening’s events.

He’d never told anyone about his family, especially not about his sister. Only select servants knew what really happened that day in the weapons gallery.

But now that he had divulged his deepest, darkest secrets, he somehow felt lighter. In that moment, he might have even said he was happy.

Happy. He chuckled at the notion. He hadn’t been happy since he was a boy of twelve, heading off to Eton.

Becky shivered in her sleep and Stephen drew her closer to him, contemplating the odd feeling of levity in his chest. He stared down into her face and smiled. Her lips were softly pouted, and a little mew escaped with every exhalation.

Stephen would have been content to stay there with her all night, but he knew he couldn’t. It would soon be dawn, and the household would stir. It wouldn’t do to be caught with his governess half naked in the portrait gallery.

He maneuvered himself out from under her as carefully as he could and then scooped her easily into his arms. He had every intention of returning her to her own room, but then realized he had no idea which one was hers.

“Damn!” he hissed as he stared at her, sound asleep in his arms. “God help us if anyone finds out about this, my Sleeping Beauty.” And then he carried her off, like a captive princess, to his own bedchamber.

He moved quickly through the halls, worried that the hour might be late enough—or early enough, rather—for some of the servants to be awake already. A grateful sigh escaped him as he burst through his chamber door and used his booted foot to close it once again. He laid Becky down gingerly on his bed, trying not to wake her, and removed her evening dress. He replaced her chemise back over the plump breasts he had bared a few hours earlier. A surge of longing came over him. Not necessarily lust, although that was certainly on his mind, but a longing just to be with her. Just to be near her. It felt like heaven to have her cuddled against him, and he wasn’t ready to let her go. Not yet.

Stephen crawled into the bed beside her, hushing her sleepy moans with soothing words, and gathered her once again into his arms. Surely, this was madness. But as he took in her heady scent—soap and wine and sunshine—he relaxed into a deep and uncommonly peaceful sleep.

***

The crow of a rooster stirred Becky in her sleep, but she wasn’t at all ready to wake yet. With a sigh, she burrowed further under the thick down coverlet and snuggled closer to the warm body next to her, determined to ignore the cock’s crowing.

Warm body? she thought sleepily and then, deciding she was in a pleasant dream, drifted back to sleep. That is until the warm body began to move and placed a heavy, muscular leg over her mid-section.

Becky opened her eyes and nearly swooned at the sight of her employer lying next to her, practically on top of her. Had it not been for the fact that she was already lying down, she most certainly would have fainted dead away.

“Oh, good heavens,” she whispered as the first streaks of sunlight crept through the heavy curtains.

She looked about the room, panic settling in the very marrow of her bones. How was she to get out of this? Mrs. Brown would surely wonder where she was by now and the children would be waiting for her to begin their lessons. Furthermore, it was after dawn, which meant the household was already bustling with servants. There was no way she could make it to her room without being seen.

Perhaps if she could slip out beneath Lord Hastings’ notice, he would forget what had happened last night. Although, the more she thought about it, the more she realized she was rather fuzzy on the details herself.

What had happened last night? And how in God’s name had she ended up in his bed?

Becky turned back to the sleeping man. She would have to remove his leg in order to get away. Part of her didn’t want to. A wicked little voice in her head told her to stay where she was and nuzzle closer to his hard, masculine body. However, this was one time where she could not allow that wicked voice to control her.

This was positively scandalous! It was bad enough she had dined with him alone—twice—but to engage in the kind of scurrilous activity that could land her in his bed was simply deplorable.

She wriggled her body, hoping to stir him enough so he would remove his leg, but it seemed the more she wriggled, the heavier his leg became. She tried pushing against it, but met with little success.

“Blast!” she mumbled. “Why won’t you move your blasted leg, you scoundrel?”

“You could try asking me to move my leg.”

Becky nearly jumped out of her skin. “You wicked man! How long have you been awake?”

Hastings chuckled and slowly opened his eyes. “Long enough to hear you cursing my name.”

“Do you mind?” she asked, indicating the leg that still held her captive.

He lifted his leg. She scooted away and then turned to him, apprehension settling deep in her belly.

“Did we...?” She gestured to the bed, unable to say the words.

“Believe me,” he said, a glint of pride in his pale eyes, “you would know if we had.”

“Lord Hastings, this is not a time for humor,” she scolded. “I’m ruined!”

“It’s not as if you’re a debutante, darling. The servants will look the other way.”

Becky climbed down to the floor, ignoring the fact that neither statement was actually true at all. “I am not your darling and this has nothing to do with the other servants. We slept together, for heaven’s sake!”

Hastings removed himself from the bed and padded to where she stood. Becky tried to avert her gaze from his near naked body and felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks. Goodness, he was glorious! His form was muscular and powerful, but somehow lean. And his—Oh, dear God, she really shouldn't have been staring at that!

He cupped her face in his hands and tipped it until she was forced to look at him. She met his hazy blue eyes and her breath hitched.

“Exactly,” he said. “We slept together. That is all. There is nothing for you to feel ashamed of...Becky.”

“Did you try—"

“Never. As caddish as I may seem, I would never try to take advantage of an unconscious woman.”

“How very honorable.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, he continued. “As a matter of fact, it was my intention to deposit you in your own room. Unfortunately, I have no idea where that is, so you ended up here.”

“You could have slept on the sofa,” she ground out, and then added, “like a gentleman.”

“I could have. But I didn’t want to...I swear, Becky, I did not debauch you in your sleep.”

“Well, thank you,” she said, not knowing what else one should say in such a situation.

Her breathing had slowed to almost normal by now, although her heart still hammered hard against her chest. It was exhilarating to have him so near. The air in the room was chilled, but Lord Hastings radiated a burning warmth that reached to the core of her being.

Through the fogginess in her mind, she remembered the feel of his lips on hers, his hands on her breasts, and suddenly wished she could kiss him again. That she could stay here in his room with him.

But she couldn’t. A simple dinner had turned into a night of barely restrained passion and a shameful ordeal.

“How do I get out of here?” she asked, her face still cupped in his hands.

“Now that—” he tapped her nose playfully with his finger, “—is an excellent question.”

Hastings helped her dress in her gown from the night before and then quickly dressed himself. They discussed their options for getting her back to her room, but none of them was foolproof. The chances of her arriving safely on the other side of the house without being seen were slim.

“If you go by way of the portrait gallery, you stand to get lost. You were quite inebriated by the time we made it there last night. But if you take the back staircase, you will surely meet with one of the staff.”

“So then I’m stuck here?” She couldn’t deny that part of her was happy at that thought.

“No, I’ll just have to escort you,” he said plainly.

“Lord Hastings, how will that look when we are found traipsing through the house together with me in last night’s attire?”

“Would you please call me Stephen when we’re in private?”

Becky let out an exasperated sigh. “I think impropriety has played a big enough role in our collective lives. Private or no, I cannot call you by your given name. And you should stop using mine as well. I don’t remember giving you leave to do so in the first place. Now, how am I to get out of here?”

An amused Lord Hastings walked across the room to stand in front of her. “I’m escorting you to the main stair, Miss Thorn.”

“And if we’re caught?”

“We’ll think of something.” And with that he walked out the door.

***

“Darling, look!” Phoebe waved a small piece of parchment in the air as her husband strode across the lawn to her.

His black hair shone almost blue in the morning sun, and his riding pants accentuated his powerful thighs. Phoebe blushed as he neared. Though they had been married almost a year, he still made her feel giddy.

Benjamin bent to kiss her on the cheek and then took the seat between her and Katherine.

“Well, don’t you want to know what it is?” Phoebe asked excitedly.

“Not really,” he droned as he crossed one leg nonchalantly over the other. “But I have a feeling that won’t matter.”

Katherine smacked him on the arm. “Go on, Phoebe, tell him.”

“We’ve been invited to Hastings House!”

“Well, that’s no surprise since we’re the ones who did the inviting.”

“Why are you in such a disagreeable mood this morning? Aren’t you excited?”

Benjamin popped a biscuit into his mouth with a sly grin. “I shudder to think what would happen if I weren’t.”

Phoebe tried to deliver a punch to his arm, but he caught her wrist and drew her close, forcing her to deliver a kiss instead.

He was laughing as he said in overdramatic tones, “I couldn’t be more excited if that river over there flowed with pure brandy!”

***

Stephen led the way through the house, berating himself all the way. He simply should have woken her up last night and seen her to her room then. Though he couldn’t deny he’d had the best night’s sleep of his life, lying next to her. But he didn’t care to think of the implications of such a thing at the moment. They had more important matters at hand.

They rounded the corner at the end of the corridor and Becky rammed into Stephen’s back when he came to an abrupt stop. There was a bit of a scuffle as he tried to push her back, out of sight of the servant making his way toward the staircase.

Neither of them said a word as they waited for the man—was it James?—to descend the stairs and disappear. But Stephen was acutely aware of Becky behind him, her rapid breathing; her mere presence did things to him that he wasn’t ready to analyze yet. He made a conscious effort to keep from reaching out to grab her hand as they set off again.

He did have to admit it was rather amusing sneaking about his own house, like a spy. With a beautiful, honey-haired accomplice.

As they reached the first floor landing at the bottom of the staircase, Stephen was feeling confident that they had avoided any major catastrophe. He stood to his full height, abandoning his “spy stance”, and marched confidently through the portrait gallery, through the main parlor and finally to the small vestibule that housed the servants’ staircase.

Which happened to be filled to overflowing with his household staff, including Bentley and Mrs. Brown.

Damn!

No less than twenty pairs of eyes settled on Becky and himself and, for perhaps the first time in his life, his tongue turned to lead. He couldn’t have uttered a bloody word if God himself had ordered it.

As if remembering their station all of a sudden, his servants bowed their heads or curtsied. All except for Bentley and Mrs. Brown, who stood stoically, staring at them with apparent disapproval.

As if they had any right to disapprove of him.

Clearly sensing he’d lost all powers of speech, Becky stepped forward to explain. God, he hoped she was an accomplished liar.

“Good morning, Bentley, Mrs. Brown,” she began, and Stephen couldn’t detect even the slightest apprehension in her tone. “His lordship and I were just on our way to the nursery. He has agreed to help me with the dancing lessons today.”

Dancing lessons?

“Dancing lessons?” Both Bentley and Mrs. Brown looked just as shocked as Stephen felt. What the devil was she doing to him?

“Why, yes, of course,” she continued, an easy smile spreading across her face. “One can never start learning to dance too early. Dancing is…” Here, for the first time, she faltered. “It is…”

“Inevitable,” Stephen supplied, amazed his voice didn’t come out like the squeak of a mouse. “At least, I believe that’s how you put it yesterday, is it not? After you, Miss Thorn—” He gestured to the staircase, hoping the servants’ stair also led to the nursery, “—we shouldn’t keep the children waiting.”

And with that, he swept up the stairs, Becky close on his heels.

***

“One, two, three, one, two, three. Are you watching our feet?”

“Miss Thorn,” Stephen whispered, his teeth clenched in an unwavering smile. “I have a great deal of work to attend to this morning.”

She responded with the same, tight smile. “You should have thought of that when you insisted on escorting me back to my room, my lord.”

He sighed, knowing she was right, and hating it. But although it was the last thing he wanted to be doing that morning, he had to admit she’d done a fine job of keeping them clear of a scandal. He hoped.

Now, the two of them waltzed around the nursery in a demonstration for the children.

“How long will I have to do this?”

“Long enough to make our alibi seem believable, my lord. Besides, you should be able to spare a few minutes for your niece and nephew.”

His smile remained intact, but he said with his eyes what he could not say out loud: That she was very close to overstepping her boundaries.

“Clarabelle, please inform Miss Thorn that I would like to dance with Uncle.” Lydia stood in the middle of the room, her eyes wide with delight as she watched them twirl.

Stephen’s muscles clenched. Good God. How was he to dance with a five-year-old girl?

“She’s only a child,” Becky whispered tenderly.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He could hear the dread in his own voice.

“Coward,” she teased and then laughed at the incredulous look he gave her. “Now, go on.”

Stephen glanced uncertainly at Becky before gesturing his niece forward. She ran to him without abandon, placed her tiny hands in his and situated her feet on top of his boots. He glanced up at Becky, who was trying desperately to restrain her laughter.

“You are going to be the one to explain this to my valet,” he said, irritated. How dare she laugh at him?

“Come on, Max, it’s your turn.” Becky held out her hand to the boy, but he did not budge.

“I don’t want to,” he said with a scowl. “Dancing is for girls.”

“Do I look like a girl, Max?” Stephen asked as he struggled to keep Lydia balanced on his shoes. “Do as Miss Thorn says.”

“No!” came Max’s defiant cry. “I said I don’t want to!”

Stephen stopped the awkward dance to level Max with his icy-blue glare. “You will dance with Miss Thorn. Now.”

Max gave an insolent shrug and matched Stephen’s calm contempt, which stoked his ire even more. “No.”

There was a tense pause to follow and then Stephen’s temper got the better of him. He charged at his nephew, prepared to throttle him. “You impudent little brat!” he exclaimed as Becky stepped into his path.

She pushed hard against his chest to keep him from getting to Max. “My lord, may I have a word with you? In the hall?”

“Certainly,” he replied, his voice cold to his own ears. “Just as soon as I’m done with my nephew.”

“It cannot wait,” Becky insisted. Blast her! Who did she think she was to keep him from punishing the insolent...

He shook his head. He was not going to win this one, and he knew it. There was a desperation in her eyes and voice that told him that much.

With one last derisive glance at his nephew, he stormed from the room. His infuriating governess followed, closing the doors behind her.

“What is the meaning of this, Miss Thorn?” he asked, agitated that he had allowed her to gain the upper hand. How in the world had that happened? Clearly, he was losing his touch.

“He will still be there in five minutes, my lord.”

“Five minutes? Five minutes? Do you really think I’m going to stand here that long while you tell me what an awful man I am?”

“No, my lord,” came Becky’s calm reply. “We don’t have to speak at all actually.”

“Then why are we out here?”

“My mother always said that when you’re angry you should take five minutes to calm down so you don’t say or do something you might regret later.”

“Believe me,” he bit back, choosing to ignore the way her voice caught at the mention of her mother, “I would not have regretted what I was about to do.”

“Even so...”

“This isn’t working, you know?”

“Really? Because the purple color seems to have drained from your face.”

Stephen turned to Becky, ready to snap at her, when he saw she was trying to suppress a laugh. “Was that meant to be a joke, Miss Thorn? Because really, this is no time for jokes.”

“No!” she exclaimed, her green eyes dancing with amusement. “I promise, you turn a rather alarming shade of violet when you’re angry.”

At that, Stephen couldn’t help but be amused and his lips twitched upward. Damn her and her beguiling ways. “All right, Miss Thorn, you’ve proved your point. But that does not discount the fact that the boy needs to be punished for his insolence.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said proudly, and stuck her nose into the air as she opened the doors to the nursery.

“One, two, three, one, two, three...”

Stephen froze in the doorway, his eyes glued to the picture of the two children, arms about one another, swaying back and forth to an internal beat. They stopped when they realized they had an audience and Max straightened to his full height, a sheepish look on his face.

“Max, is there something you wish to say?” Becky asked.

He nodded, lowering his eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry.”
Becky folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorjamb, her brow raised, as if daring Stephen to challenge her methods now.

“There is only one explanation for this,” he muttered. “You must be a witch.”

Thirteen

Becky both cried and rejoiced the day she received the letter from Ravenscroft Castle heralding the birth of Lady Charlotte Lucinda Wetherby. It was somewhat devastating to her that she hadn’t been there for the birth, or for Phoebe, but she was of course thrilled that both mother and baby were well and healthy. She was even more homesick now, though, than she had been before.

At the news, Lord Hastings had issued invitations for the house party to be held the last week of July. At the time, it still felt too far away with many long weeks until she would see her friends. But here it was, the day of their arrival, and she couldn’t really account for where the time had gone. Her days continued to be long, teaching the children all they needed to know to be at a level with other children of their age and station. Even her interactions with Lord Hastings had dwindled. She wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t wish to see her, or because he simply, like she, had a great deal on his plate.

“The guests are starting to arrive, miss.” Mrs. Brown stood in the doorway to the nursery. She looked far more haggard than usual. No doubt she'd been working round the clock to prepare for the house party.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown.” Becky stood from her place on the floor next to Lydia. “Come, children. We’re going to meet your uncle’s friends.”

The children rose obediently and followed Becky from the room.

“How long are they going to be here?” Max asked, seemingly disgruntled that there were going to be strangers living in his home.

“Only a week, Max,” Becky replied. “And you must always be on your best behavior.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Becky laughed at the child’s candor. “It might be fun, you know. I daresay we’ll take trips into the village and play lawn bowls and other games. And I won’t make you practice a word of Latin.”

Max predictably beamed at this news.

When they arrived at the top of the stairs, she paused to straighten Max’s little bowtie and to fluff Lydia’s skirts. They were the picture of innocence, and a sense of pride and accomplishment filled her.

Max had not had a single outburst since the dance lesson, and little by little, Lydia was coming out from behind the vise of her imaginary friend. She still would not speak directly to any live person, but on occasion, she forgot her ruse and took direction that had been given to her and not to Clarabelle.

“All right, children, big smiles.”

They both spread their mouths to reveal toothy grins and flanked Becky as they walked down the stairs, hand in hand. They met with a flurry of activity in the entrance hall as the servants rushed to attend to last-minute details. Becky could see a caravan of elegant coaches lined up in the drive outside, and her heart gave an expectant leap as she saw Phoebe alight. She could not wait another minute to see her, and so, dragging the children behind, she flung the front door wide and practically ran down the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she let go of the children’s hands and ran to meet her friend.

“Becky!” Phoebe exclaimed as she gathered her into a warm embrace. “Oh, I’ve missed you so!”

“Not nearly as much as I’ve missed you!” Becky replied, giddy with excitement. “But where is Charlotte? Please say you’ve brought her with you.”

“She’s right here with her favorite uncle.”

Becky whirled around to see Lord Andrew holding the beautiful baby girl. She planted a kiss on Charlotte’s forehead and another on Andrew’s cheek before welcoming hugs from Lord Eastleigh and Lord Michael. She had never been so elated in all her life.

“Miss Thorn?” Max stood next to her, tugging lightly on her skirts.

“Oh, my goodness! How rude of me. Max, Lydia, please say hello to Lord and Lady Eastleigh.” Max gave a distinguished bow and Lydia a prim curtsey. “These are Lord Eastleigh’s brothers, Lord Andrew and Lord Michael. And this little angel is Lady Charlotte.”

“Clarabelle, please ask Miss Thorn if I may hold the baby.”

There was an awkward silence as the newcomers looked around for Clarabelle. Becky smiled and knelt down next to the girl.

“Clarabelle, please tell Miss Lydia that she may hold the baby later, with my help.”

Lydia’s face lit up at the news, and she wrapped her little arms around Becky’s neck just as a determined pair of boots made their way across the graveled drive. Becky hoisted the child off the ground and turned to see Lord Hastings striding towards the party.

Becky’s breath caught in her throat. She had seen very little of the viscount since the dancing lesson, and he looked even more handsome than she remembered. His tan breeches accentuated his lean legs, his dark hair tousled haphazardly in the breeze and his coat did little to hide his powerful chest and arms.

He smiled cordially as he shook hands with the marquess and his brothers and offered a deferent bow to the marchioness. They exchanged pleasantries while the luggage was carried into the house and then Mrs. Brown, along with several other servants, showed the guests to their rooms.

It did not escape Becky’s notice that the viscount did not pay her even the slightest glance before he rushed off to his study as soon as the guests had been taken care of.

Once Phoebe had settled and put Charlotte down for a nap, she and Becky met for tea on the terrace so the children could play on the lawn while they chatted. The clouds threatened rain, but until they actually felt drops, they would enjoy the fresh air.

“My darling Becky, how are you? I heard all about your awful black eye. That must have been dreadful!”

Becky poured the tea and slid the plate of sweet biscuits toward Phoebe. “It really wasn’t all that bad, and it’s completely healed. Besides, it was an accident.”

Phoebe took her hand and stared at her with great concern. “You would tell me if it had not been an accident, would you not?”

“Phoebe!” Becky laughed in spite of herself. “Of course I would. And I certainly wouldn’t have stayed here if I felt my life in danger.”

“That’s what Benjamin said.”

“You should listen to your husband.” She pushed a stray curl from her face. “It was truly good of him to come to my rescue, even if I did not actually need rescuing.”

“Yes, but what of Lord Hastings?” Phoebe leaned in with a wicked gleam in her eye. “He is rather dashing, isn’t he?”

She should have expected this from Phoebe—she’d been under the matchmaking tutelage of Katherine for almost a year now, after all—but Becky couldn’t help but be appalled. “Phoebe! I am his governess. I could never think of him in such a way,” she lied. “Not to mention, he’s far too temperamental.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Phoebe, what is it? What do you want to say?”

Phoebe said nothing, but primly went about smoothing the white table covering.

“You’re going to tell me anyway, so you might as well go ahead and get it over with.”

The marchioness stopped her fidgeting and narrowed her eyes on Becky. “I saw the way you looked at him in the drive. How you blushed when he approached...You’re even blushing now.”

Becky felt the heat spread from her cheeks to her ears, and to places that made her blush even harder. “I’m not blushing,” she replied defiantly.

“You look as if your face is going to explode, Becky Thorn, and I demand that you tell me what is going on.”

“Nothing!” Becky exclaimed a little too loudly, drawing the brief attention of the children who chased squirrels on the lawn. “I mean, nothing,” she repeated in more hushed tones.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Becky. You are not telling the truth.”

As if on cue, a loud crash of thunder crackled through the air, and the skies began to pour with fast and heavy rain. Becky breathed a sigh of relief as she called for the children. They ran full speed toward her, shrieking with delight. The foursome pushed through the doors of the terrace and landed in the long gallery that ran the width of the house. Rain pelted against the windows with deafening force as they all shook the excess water from their clothes.

“Not even ten seconds in the rain and we’re all soaked!” Phoebe laughed.

“I’d better get them upstairs and changed before they catch a fever. Come, children.”

Becky and the children started down the hall, their shoes squeaking loudly on the marble floors.

“Don’t think you’ve escaped me, Miss Thorn,” Phoebe called after them. “I will get to the bottom of this!”

Becky laughed, never doubting her friend's words. She knew well that she would tell all eventually. It was only a matter of time.

Fourteen

After changing Max and Lydia into dry clothes, Becky deposited them in the nursery. She was still soaked herself so she left the children to play and made her way through the house to the servants’ quarters. The entire floor was quiet thanks to the new arrivals—and the impending ones as well—and Becky let herself into her room, unable to keep the smile from her lips.

She was so elated to have Phoebe there for the week. Phoebe was the closest thing to a friend that Becky had ever known, and it made her downright cheerful to be with her again. She only hoped the topic of her “dashing” employer didn’t come up a second time, though deep down she knew that was simply wishful thinking.

Becky peeled off her sopping day dress and went to the armoire to retrieve another, but before she could open the mirrored door, she gave a frightened yelp at the reflection she saw there.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, trying to cover her exposed skin.

A roguish grin pulled at the corners of Lord Hastings’ mouth. “Did I frighten you?”

“What do you think?” she answered indignantly. “I’m standing here in my unmentionables, thinking I’m alone, when I see a dark figure staring back at me in my mirror! Wouldn’t you be frightened?”

He sauntered closer to her. She backed away.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again, her voice breathless in her own ears.

His brow knitted into a serious frown. “I needed to see you.”

“Didn’t you just see me in the drive?”

“You know what I meant,” he drawled, inching ever closer to her until she was flush against her armoire. “I know I shouldn’t, but I miss you. I can’t help it.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me? And why did you not even spare me a glance earlier?”

“Because I was afraid I would lose all self-control if I did. And I have a feeling that ravishing you on the drive in front of the entire Wetherby family may have had dire consequences.”

“Lord Hastings, this is highly unorthodox,” she countered, trying to hide her smile and the fact that she was exhilarated by his presence.

“Which answers your other question, I’m sure.”

“Oh.” Of course that explained it. This was improper, scandalous...though, Becky was thrilled that in spite of all that, he’d come to her anyhow.

Still, she shouldn’t encourage him.

“Yes?” he said, clearly sensing she had more to say.

“Well, it’s just that...after the other evening...morning...” She had no idea what she wanted to say. His proximity suffocated and intoxicated her. “Could you please not stand so close to me?”

“Do you want me to go?” he asked, his voice husky as he reached his hand up to smooth a stray lock of her moist hair.

She shivered at his touch. “Do you not think you should?” she asked, really hoping he would make it impossible for her to make him leave.

“Just say the word, Miss Thorn.” His voice was a whisper against her cheek, his breath warm on her cold, damp skin.

She couldn’t say it. The words simply would not come. Instead, she used her mouth to kiss him, to taste him, to drink him in. His hands worked quickly to release her dripping hair and it tumbled down her back in one swift, sensuous fall. He grabbed her with gentle force by the nape and tipped her head back to allow himself easier access to the recesses of her mouth.

Becky’s knees went weak. If not for the muscular strength of her intruder’s arms, she would have crumpled to the ground in ecstasy. Her body went limp as he scooped her into his embrace and placed her gently on the bed, never once taking his lips from hers. His mouth was firm, persistent, taking Becky’s very breath away.

“How did you find my room?” she asked, suddenly curious.

“I knew the servants’ quarters would be deserted today,” he answered in between kisses. “I had to go opening doors to find it.”

“That was rather risky, wasn’t it?” Good heavens, what if he had been caught? She was certain there were already murmurs amongst the servants about her relationship with his lordship. If someone had seen him, they surely would have known what—or rather, who—he was looking for.

“It was worth it.”

Those four simple words spawned an odd tugging at her heart. He thinks I’m worth it. Worth the risk of his servants finding him snooping about their rooms.

“Why?” she managed to ask, while he nibbled at her ear.

“Why what?”

“Why me? Or do you do this with all your governesses?”

He pushed up slightly and looked her in the eye. Something flickered there, but Becky couldn’t say what it was. She suddenly felt the need to apologize for her poor attempt at humor.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a bit unnerved, I suppose.”

Stephen sucked in a breath as realization obviously dawned. “Oh, God. Becky, you’re…an innocent, aren’t you?”

Becky’s cheeks grew warm with embarrassment. “What has that got to do with anything?” she asked, allowing an indignant tone to creep into her voice.

“Are you?” he persisted.

Becky paused. What did he want to hear? Would he only have her if she were already ruined? Did he not want the responsibility that came with an unspoiled girl? Or did he prefer to be with a chaste woman? She assumed he’d find out one way or another and decided the truth was probably best.

She nodded. They lay there, staring at one another, neither one saying anything until Stephen finally removed himself from the bed, leaving Becky feeling cold and empty and discarded.

She hadn’t wanted him to stop; she had just wanted to understand why he had come to her. And whether or not she was the first to receive such attentions from him—a question he still had not answered.

***

Stephen walked to the opposite side of the room, which put only a few feet of distance between them, his erection still throbbing inside his trousers.

A virgin. He hadn’t expected it. She was well past twenty and seemed far worldlier than most women of his acquaintance. She was both motherly and sensual at the same time—a combination one would not expect from a woman who had never experienced intimacy.

And her kisses. He had imagined an innocent’s kisses would be tentative, awkward, but hers...

Stephen turned to her and saw she was trying to choke back her tears. But he was not annoyed by her emotion; instead, he wanted to comfort her. To hold her in his arms until she knew how much he wanted her, how much he cared for her.

How much he needed her.

“You may leave if you want,” she said quietly. “I will understand.”

“Why would I want to leave?”

She furrowed her brow. “Because...well, I’m a virgin.”

Stephen chuckled as he walked back to the bed and sat down. “This does tend to complicate things. But it does not have any bearing, whatsoever, on how much I want you.”

Her startling green eyes blinked with shock. “You want me?”

“Was it not obvious?”

“Well, yes, but I thought...” Stephen did not allow her to finish her thought. He pushed her down into the lumpy mattress and kissed her thoroughly.

It was ecstasy being there with her. Making love to her while the rain beat steadily against the windowpane. He took things slowly. He didn’t want to frighten or hurt her. He’d been well warned about the responsibility of taking a girl’s virginity, but he certainly didn’t have firsthand knowledge of the task.

“Take me, Stephen,” she whispered against his ear, her hands grabbing at his thick, brown locks. “Take me, please.”

“Slowly, darling. There is plenty of time.”

“No, there’s not,” she replied, moving against him.

He shushed her with a roguish smile as his hand moved slowly down her body, making its way beneath her drawers. She rose up to meet him as if desperate to be touched, and gave a cry of delight as his finger found her most sensitive spot. He played deftly with the bud of her sex, stifling her moans with his mouth, before he plundered her depths with his finger. Her body contracted at the intrusion and Stephen rejoiced in the feel of her. Even if she was not yet ready to receive him fully, it was enough to imagine what it would be like once she was.

He released her mouth in favor of her now exposed breasts. He took a dusky nipple between his teeth and teased with his tongue. His fingers began to work expertly, spreading and ravaging her while his thumb rubbed delicately against her tiny, pink nub.

As she succumbed to the inevitable, Stephen stifled her glorious wails with a forceful and passionate kiss.

He kissed her long and hard while she slowly drifted back to earth and held her close before removing his finger. She moaned as he withdrew. He pulled back to look at her and faced the most beautifully sated woman he’d ever seen.

“What about you?” she asked once she'd regained enough of her senses.

“Perhaps another time,” he said, helping her to sit up. “I shouldn't keep you any longer.”

As she dressed and repinned her hair, Stephen sat back down on the bed and watched, well aware that he was grinning like a fool.

“I don’t, by the way,” he said quietly, remembering her earlier question.

Becky turned to look at him. “You don’t, what?”

“I don’t do this with all my governesses.” Her smile lit up his heart and when he winked at her, it grew even wider.

Yes, it had been well worth the risk to seek her out today.

Fifteen

Becky was still blushing by the time she made it to the drawing room that night. Her head still spun from the fracturing euphoria of the afternoon. She had never experienced anything so exquisite or alarming in all her life, and the feel of his fingers still lingered in the secret places where he had touched her.

They had parted ways rather quickly – Becky afraid she had left the children alone too long, and Stephen afraid the next wave of guests would be arriving soon.

He had requested, however, that he be allowed to stay in her room for a few minutes afterwards, but for what, Becky did not know. Something told her it had to do with the bulge in his pants, but she couldn’t be sure.

Max and Lydia were thankfully absorbed in their respective activities upon her return, so much so that they barely heard her enter the room. There was little left to the day—only baths and dinner—but even that was more than Becky’s mind could focus on.

“Why are you grinning like that?” Max asked her when she paused mid-sentence during their bedtime story.

“Oh,” she replied, embarrassed she had allowed her mind to wander so. “I’m just...happy, that’s all.”

And now, as she walked into the drawing room, her pale blue gown billowing around her feet, she realized it was true. She was happy. Completely and unabashedly beside herself with joy.

Phoebe and Lord Eastleigh were already there, entertaining Lord Hastings’ guests with a little ditty on the pianoforte, while the twins stood by, sipping nonchalantly from their snifters. All the other guests were men, which was not at all surprising to Becky. Lord Hastings was probably more accustomed to organizing a deer hunt than a house party.

Somehow, Becky was glad for that. This way she would not have to divide her attention amongst other women and could focus solely on being with Phoebe.

“Becky!” Phoebe spotted her from across the room and her russet curls shimmered with her excitement.

Becky blushed as several heads turned to regard her. “Good evening, Lady Eastleigh,” she intoned as she made her way to Phoebe’s side.

Phoebe smiled and rolled her eyes. “Must we stand on ceremony, Miss Thorn?”

“We are hardly doing so as it is, but I must maintain some sort of professionalism, you know. Lord Hastings is my employer, after all.”

“Ladies, may we offer you a glass of wine?”

Becky looked up to see all three Wetherby brothers standing before her, each one just as handsome as the next. Though, a great deal more mischief lay behind the dark eyes of the younger two.

“Wine would be lovely.” She inclined her head and turned back to Phoebe as the gentlemen made their way to the side bar.

Phoebe took her by the arm and led her to a little bench by the window where they sat side by side. Becky gave a contented sigh. How lovely it was to have Phoebe here with her. She couldn’t deny that it felt a bit awkward to be socializing amongst the actual guests, or partaking of her employer’s wine, but she wasn’t about to question it. She would enjoy this while it lasted.

“You know what I was thinking of the other day?” Phoebe asked, drawing Becky’s attention to her.

“What’s that?”

“Do you remember that song you used to sing? The one about the sailor?”

Becky felt the color rise to her cheeks. How could Phoebe bring up such a topic here? This was hardly the place for bawdy sailor songs.

“What of it?” she asked guardedly.

“How did it go? Oh, goodness, it used to make me laugh. I want Benjamin to hear it.”

“Lord Eastleigh?” Becky couldn’t imagine Phoebe repeating any of the words in that particular song, let alone to her husband, a peer of the realm.

Phoebe giggled. “Come on, just whisper them to me so I may commit them to memory.”

“I’m not sure I can remember all of them,” Becky lied in hopes her friend would cease her pursuit.

“Nonsense...ah, thank you darling!” Phoebe reached out to take a glass of wine from her husband while Becky accepted a glass from Andrew. “Now, go away,” she continued with a sweet smile. “Becky and I have much to discuss.”

The marquess chuckled at his wife and pecked her on the cheek before leading his brothers to the other side of the room where the other guests had congregated.

“All right, go ahead,” Phoebe urged as she sipped from her glass.

Becky sighed, resigned to her fate. “Fine. Are you ready?”

Phoebe nodded.

After taking a sip of her own wine, Becky began quietly, “‘Who is knocking at my door, said the fair young maiden.’” Becky waited while Phoebe mumbled the words back to herself and then continued, “‘Open the door and let me in, said Ballochy Bill the Sailor.’”

She paused, before relaying the next stanza, to take another drink of her wine. “‘You may sleep upon the floor, said the fair young maiden.’”  Becky winced and shut her eyes to sing the next words. “‘To hell with the floor, I can’t...fuck that, said Ballochy Bill the Sailor.’”

Phoebe giggled behind her fan as she repeated the words quietly to herself. Becky took another sip and let out a little laugh as well. The situation really was quite funny, especially when one imagined how Lord Eastleigh would react to hearing the song later.

“‘You may lie between my thighs, said the fair young maiden.” Both she and Phoebe fought to stifle their laughter now. “'What’ve you got between your thighs? Said Ballochy Bill the Sailor. O, I’ve got a nice pin-cushion, Said the fair young maiden. And I’ve got a pin—´”

Becky stopped singing, suddenly aware that a shadow had moved over them. Her cheeks grew warm. She knew exactly who stood before them, it was apparent in Phoebe’s shocked expression, and Becky winced as she turned slowly to face him. Her eyes met with a shockingly blue gaze. She swallowed convulsively as she waited for him to say something. He looked handsome in a frightening sort of way in his black evening clothes, and she couldn’t help but remember what it had felt like to have him touch her that afternoon. To have his lips pressed firmly against hers, his tongue teasing her taut nipples, his fingers—

She feared her face told too much, but she couldn’t seem to find a voice with which to break the tension.

“I-I’m sorry,” she finally managed. “I was just...we...”

“Good evening, Lady Eastleigh,” Lord Hastings said, shifting his gaze to Phoebe and then back to Becky. “Miss Thorn.”

“My lord.” She nodded, unable to look him in the eye.

“Lord Hastings, I wish to compliment you on your wine selection. I am enjoying this vintage ever so much.” Phoebe smiled widely and Stephen inclined his head.

“I am happy to hear you are enjoying it,” he said. “And what about you, Miss Thorn? Do you share your friend’s taste in wine?”

Becky cleared her throat uncomfortably and nodded. “I do, my lord. It is...very fine, indeed.”

“Good.” He clapped his hands together and said, “Well, then, I think I hear the dinner bell.”

The small group made their way to the dining room in an informal procession. Becky smiled and did her best to remain gay, but she was mortified. How humiliating to have her employer overhear her repeating such an awful song. What must he think of her now? She was a governess for heaven’s sake, not a bloody Winchester Goose!

They took their places at the elegant dining table. Dressed with gilded candelabras and miniature golden statues, it depicted a scene out of ancient Rome. Much to her relief, Becky was not placed in her normal seat next to the viscount, but rather at the opposite end of the table. She had hoped to be seated next to Phoebe so she could discreetly shame her for making her repeat the sailor song, but it would have to wait until later. For now, she was at least happy to have Andrew and Michael for company.

They engaged in a robust conversation about London life, the boys recounting their latest escapades, while the first course was served.

“I can’t believe either of you would ever be so bold as to actually say that to Lady Bloomfield’s face,” Becky said, laughing at their bravado when it came to Society. “The poor woman just wants to see her daughter happily settled.”

“You would have said the same thing were you in my position,” Andrew countered. “She was positively out of line.”

“The woman knows no bounds,” Michael chirped in, his near-black eyes flashing with mock indignation.

“Well, I do hope you would never speak to me in such a fashion,” she teased.

“Never,” Michael said boldly. “Besides, after that performance in the drawing room, I think I’m a little afraid of you.”

Becky flushed and hissed, “You could hear me?”

“You weren’t exactly discreet about it,” Andrew replied. “But not to worry, I’m sure no one here will go running back to London to tell of the Hastings’ profane governess.”

Becky fought the urge to slap Andrew. “Yes, well that is the least of my worries. I have a feeling I might be going back to Ravenscroft Castle with Phoebe and your brother thanks to that song.”

“Posh!” Andrew exclaimed. “Hastings has a sense of humor, doesn’t he? I’m sure he thought nothing of it.”

“Yes, but I’m a governess, remember? My ethics may be under scrutiny at this point.” Good heavens, they certainly would be, and not just for the sailor song, either.

Before she could say more, the door to the dining room opened and Bentley walked across the room to deliver a calling card to Lord Hastings.

“Ah, excellent! Do send him in, Bentley, and see that his bags are taken to the Green Room on the second floor.”

“Hastings, will you not delight us with news of your latest brews?” Michael called down the table as the butler retreated. “Your ales are highly regarded in London. Might we have something new to look forward to in the coming months?”

Becky sat back in her chair as the talk turned to ale and pushed her greens mindlessly about her plate. She picked up her wine glass and took a not-so-dainty sip just as Bentley returned to the dining room.

“Mister David Shaw.”

Becky was mid-sip when her heart gave a spastic flutter, causing her to choke on the wine still in her mouth. She covered her face with her napkin in an effort to keep her identity hidden, but it was too late. She’d already drawn a great deal of attention to herself, blast it!

“Miss Thorn?” Becky realized Stephen regarded her with what looked to be concern, as did the rest of the table, and the still-standing Mr. Shaw. She avoided his gaze and focused on Stephen.

“I’m – ahem – I’m fine, thank you.”

As conversation resumed, Andrew and Michael both fixed her with quizzical stares. “What was that all about?”

She did not have time to answer—not that she would answer truthfully, anyhow—for Mr. Shaw sat down at the only empty seat left at the table, directly across from her.

Becky stared at the dessert before her, wondering how on earth she would escape this disaster. What had started out a perfectly joyous and exhilarating day quickly became her worst nightmare. She was sure Stephen was going to reprimand her for relaying that horrible song to Phoebe. He was scowling at her from his position at the head of the table, looking as if he was ready to give her a tongue-lashing. But that was hardly her greatest worry at the moment. If Shaw succeeded in placing her, which she was certain he would eventually, it wouldn’t matter whether or not she had an income.

“Miss Thorn, may I ask if we’ve met before?”

No, you may not! “Not that I can recall, Mr...Shaw, was it?”

He gave her a nod and a curious half smile, before turning back to his plate.

Becky blew out the breath she’d been holding as quietly as she could. But she didn’t dare say another word. She was afraid that if she did, it might help him figure out what he was clearly, and so desperately, trying to figure out.

She turned her attention back to her dessert, trying to keep her racing heart from leaping out of her throat.

She dared a glance at Stephen. He was still staring, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. When she met his eyes, so dark and probing, her mouth went dry. Goodness, what that man did to her. And then he turned away and whispered something to Phoebe. Something she prayed would get her out of Shaw’s company soon.

***

Stephen watched the odd interaction going on at the end of the table so intently that he could no longer concentrate on his own conversation. There was something bizarre in the way Mr. Shaw spoke to Miss Thorn. Even from his removed position, he could see there was something odd about the way he addressed her. And even more bizarre was the way she reacted to him—never making eye contact, playing with the lamb cutlet rather than eating it. Clearly, she was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t like Shaw to make others squirm—he was always polite and even-tempered. But she had choked on her wine, for God’s sake, at the mention of his name. There was something going on, and Stephen felt compelled to get to the bottom of it.

But he would save his questions for later. In private.

Stephen drifted in and out of the conversations around him, but his mind continued to wander back to Becky, their afternoon together and the man she was now engaged in conversation with.

Had he been a lover? That would explain their awkwardness. But she claimed innocence. Had she been telling the truth earlier? Was she truly an innocent or just trying to hide something?

“Hastings?”

Damn! Had the marquess asked him a question? “Forgive me, Eastleigh, I suppose I was woolgathering.”

“Not to worry, I was simply inquiring about the deer on your land.”

Stephen was distracted once again when Shaw leaned in to say something else to Becky. “Eh...deer...yes, I have many.”

“Really? How many do you suppose you have?”

Stephen squinted his eyes, trying to read Becky’s reply. “Yes, that is correct,” he answered absently.

“And kittens...are there many of those about?”

“Mmmhmm, that’s right.”

“They make a fine meal, do they not?”

“Fine, yes.”

“Then we are to eat cat tomorrow evening?”

“Yes—No! What?” Stephen snapped quickly back to the marquess who laughed heartily at him. “I’m sorry, Eastleigh, I guess I’m somewhere else this evening.” He leaned in to whisper, “What do you think is going on down there?”

Eastleigh looked down the table at Miss Thorn and Mr. Shaw. “I’m sure I don’t know, but I can almost guarantee my wife will within the hour.”

“Yes, but don’t you think Miss Thorn looks rather uncomfortable?”

“Really, Hastings, Becky is a smart girl. I’m sure she can handle herself with the likes of Mr. Shaw.”

“You didn’t think so highly of her a few weeks ago when you barged into my home at one in the morning.”

“Touché,” Eastleigh rejoined.

Idle conversation ensued as they partook of a flamboyant dessert dish, but Stephen could not enjoy the sweet confection.

It was the sweet confection in blue at the far end of the table that had his undivided attention.

Sixteen

Shaw opened his mouth, probably to ask another question about their association, but he was interrupted when Stephen cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen.” He stood from his chair and addressed the men. “Cigars and port are here for our enjoyment. Lady Eastleigh, I have had the upstairs salon prepared for you and Miss Thorn to enjoy tea.”

Relief flooded Becky. She'd never been so thrilled to be done with a meal. With any luck, she would be able to avoid Mr. Shaw the rest of the week.

Everyone stood from the table and Becky swiftly made her way to Phoebe’s side, trying to keep calm so as not to alert anyone to her distressing problem. She wouldn’t be able to share it with them, anyhow; there was no use causing alarm. They were about to walk out the door when Lord Hastings called out her name.

She turned to find him directly behind her, his masculine scent teasing her nose, reminding her once again of their intimate afternoon, causing her breath to come in shallow spurts.

“Might I have a word, Miss Thorn?” he asked casually.

She nodded and followed him to the library down the hall. Becky was uneasy being alone with him. She was no longer sure how to act after all that had happened, so she remained as impassive as she could, choosing not to speak until spoken to.

“Is everything all right, Miss Thorn?” Stephen eyed her with curiosity.

“What do you mean?” She eyed him back. Did he sense something was amiss?

“Is there something you would like to tell me about Mr. Shaw?”

Becky’s stomach plummeted. How did he know? “I...don’t think so,” she replied carefully.

“Miss Thorn, I would never deign to call you a liar, but I do believe you are not telling the whole truth.” His gaze became far more intense and he inched closer to Becky, his imposing form intimidating, but not enough to make her tell her long-buried secret. She had no clue as to what the implications would be if it were ever revealed, so she vowed silently to take it to her grave.

Stephen walked to her and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “There’s something you’re keeping from me, Becky, and I’m determined to find out what. But for now, I’ll let it go. You shouldn’t keep the marchioness waiting.”

She looked up, her eyes wide. “You mean, you’re not angry?”

He withdrew his hand as if he suddenly realized he ought not be touching her. “Angry? Why on earth would I be angry?”

Becky hesitated. He hadn’t mentioned it, so perhaps she was foolish for bringing it up. But now he stood there waiting for her to go on. “The song?”

He chuckled. “As long as you don’t teach it to the children, I don’t give a damn what you sing.”

Becky closed her eyes, her spirit soothed. At least for now she would remain here, in his employ, under his roof. Perhaps under him.

“Now go,” he instructed, yanking her from her wayward thoughts, “before your friend becomes suspicious of us.”

Becky did as she was told, not daring to tell him that Lady Eastleigh was already more than aware that something untoward was happening at Hastings House.

***

Stephen looked about at his guests, wishing he could abandon them all and seek out Becky. He was losing the game of Whist in which he was currently engaged, mainly due to his obsession with the man to his left.

Shaw played the game as if it were the most important thing he’d ever done. Stephen didn’t remember the man being quite so intense.

He thought back to their days at school together. Shaw had always been a competitive athlete, but not such a quick study when it came to academics. “I’m next in line for the earldom,” he’d always say, “why should I care about Greek philosophy?”

And that was how they’d become friends. Stephen had assisted him in getting through his exams, every term, for many years.

But Stephen knew very little of the man that Shaw had become since leaving school. Watching him now, he began to wonder. The way he’d watched Becky over dinner worried him. But then again, perhaps he was still reeling from the afternoon. He wasn’t jealous—that would be an utterly ridiculous waste of emotion—but he didn’t like to think of another man looking at her.

Damn! Was that jealousy?

Either way, Becky seemed rankled by his presence. That much was for certain.

Wanting to explore the matter further, Stephen said, “Shaw, you seemed to be acquainted with my governess, Miss Thorn.”

“Well, I thought I was. She looks awfully familiar to me, though I can’t seem to place her.” Shaw turned his attention back to his cards and then threw one down. “You say she is your governess?”

“She is,” Stephen confirmed. “However, she was in Lady Eastleigh’s employ before that.”

Shaw turned his gaze from his cards to Lord Eastleigh, apparently still trying to place how he knew Becky. “Perhaps I’m too tired to put the pieces together this evening,” he said with a shake of his head. “I believe it is time for me to turn in, gentlemen. I’m sure you desire an early start in the morning, Hastings.”

Stephen nodded his head and bid the man goodnight, somewhat disappointed and at the same time, relieved. Did he want Shaw to figure out how he knew Becky? And did he truly even know her? How in the world would a gentleman, and future peer, have an acquaintance with a maid? Perhaps it was best he drag the information out of her first.

He stared at the deck of cards on the table between them, while Shaw and the others said their goodnights and, one by one, left the drawing room. The ladies would join them soon, he hoped.

His mind wandered back to Becky’s bed, to her plump breasts firm beneath his mouth. Her damp hair spread seductively over her pillows. The fine thatch of curls that guarded her dewy center.

He grew hard under the table at the mere thought of her. What he wouldn’t give to be able to dive deep inside of her, to ease his discomfort and show her the divine pleasures of intimacy.

Damn! What was wrong with him?

His thoughts were interrupted with the opening of the drawing room door and Lady Eastleigh glided through, her crimson gown billowing behind her. Stephen briefly took notice of how Lord Eastleigh regarded his wife with a mixture of lust and possession, of desire and love. The man was completely transfixed on the auburn-haired beauty who walked toward him.

Stephen, however, found his gaze fixed on the blonde angel who followed along behind the marchioness. Mesmerized by her fair charm, he stood and offered an awkward bow, desperate to conceal his throbbing erection. Her green eyes twinkled in the candlelight as she greeted him, and he realized that there was something more. A longing he had not seen before. It was as if she were trying to tell him something with a mere look.

Stephen read the message loud and clear. She wanted him. He knew it in the depths of his soul—she ached for him just as fervently as he ached for her. A niggling voice at the back of his mind told him this was foolhardy, that he needed to stop before things truly got out of hand, but he couldn’t. He had to have her in any capacity she would have him. He needed to know her in the most intimate of ways.

Both women sat down and Stephen dealt the cards, using the opportunity to study the way Becky’s breasts pushed up ever so slightly from the bodice of her gown. The silky, peach skin, so pure and soft. He longed to touch it, to caress every inch of her, to feel her hands on his bare skin. To lay naked with her until sunrise and keep her there, free of duty.

She would never agree to it, of course. She loved those children far too much to ever become his mistress.

But somehow he would have to find a way to convince her.

Seventeen

The following morning, Becky was permitted to sleep late—a prospect she’d been looking forward to ever since her friends’ visit had been confirmed. However, she found that, once again, sleep evaded her, and she was wide awake before the cock’s crow. Since no one would be up and about yet, she dressed and took herself off to the library. It would be quiet, and would give her a perfect view of the drive. That way, she’d be able to ascertain when all the gentlemen had left for the day. Then she could move freely about the house.

The thought of being a prisoner in the place she now called home was rather upsetting. Blast David Shaw for intruding upon her time with Phoebe, and on her sleep. But as long as he was in residence, Becky would have to make herself scarce.

She scurried through the house until she reached her destination, where she slipped through the library door and closed it firmly behind her. Then she picked a book from the shelves—a book she knew would go unread this morning—and took up her vigil in a large armchair by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The book open in her lap, she stared at the first page, but did not see the words written there. It could have been upside down for all she knew, or cared. She had much bigger problems to solve this morning. Like how to keep her identity hidden from David Shaw. Her cousin.

Her betrothed.

“You’re up early.”

Becky nearly jumped from her skin at the sound of Stephen’s voice so close behind her. She slammed the book shut as her heart slammed against her chest, and she leapt from the chair.

“I-I didn’t hear you come in,” she stammered as she took two steps away from him, toward the window.

“My apologies,” he said, a hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. “It was not my intent to frighten you. I saw you slip in here—” he gestured to the door, “—and thought I would...”

“Say good morning?” she provided.

“Yes. Well, good morning.”

Much to Becky’s great relief, he turned and began to stalk from the room. There were far too many things she needed to work out in her head before she had another conversation with her employer. She was about to sink back down into her chair when he came to an abrupt halt and turned back to her.

Blast it!

“Actually, Miss Thorn,” he said, pronouncing her proper name as if it tasted sour on his tongue, “that’s not all.”

“Oh?” she replied, keeping her eyes wide and innocent.

Her mouth went dry as he strode toward her again. His dark hair waved loosely over his scalp and his pale eyes seemed to peer right through her. Good Lord. The man didn’t need to rant and rave to cut an intimidating swath. He simply oozed with the stuff.

“Becky,” he began, his voice lower now, causing gooseflesh to skitter up her arms, “are you certain you don’t know Mr. Shaw?”

Becky swallowed. Was this a trick? Had Shaw figured it out and told Stephen the truth? Normally, she would choose honesty over saving her hide, but not now, not about this. She would play the innocent until she had no choice left. Heavens, she hoped it wouldn’t ever come to that.

“I am positive,” she replied, resisting the urge to cringe at her boldfaced lie.

“He seems rather intent on placing you, but if you’re certain...”

“I am!” She knew her protestation was far louder than it should have been, so she quieted a bit and said in what she hoped was a breezy tone, “I must simply have one of those faces.”

Stephen gave a little snort. “You most certainly do not have one of those faces, Becky. But we shall leave it at that...for now.”

Becky’s heart sped again at both his subtle compliment and his promise—or perhaps she should consider it a threat. Clearly, he didn’t believe she was telling the whole truth, blast him.

He turned to go again, but didn’t get nearly as far this time before he turned back. His feet were purposeful and quick as he made his way back to her side, but he didn’t stop when he’d reached the acceptable distance of the two solid feet that had stood between them before. This time, he practically barreled into her, grabbing her ‘round the waist with one arm and cupping the back of her head with the other.

His lips landed on hers, taking her by surprise. But nonetheless, she opened for him. Welcomed the slide of his tongue, the taste of coffee and cinnamon, the feel of his hard body pressed against hers.

Whatever anxiety she’d been harboring in regards to David Shaw slipped away until there was only Stephen. Only her and Stephen, and no one else.

He pulled back slowly from the kiss, teasing with little pecks as he did. But once they’d separated and he’d righted her, he turned quickly on his heel and this time left the room for good, without a single word.

***

Becky tried to beg off dinner that evening. She didn’t want to give Shaw another opportunity to try to figure out who she was. But by the time the fifth servant—in just as few minutes—knocked on her door requesting her presence in the drawing room, she’d had enough.

“Fine,” she sighed, shaking her head at Jenny, the pudgy-faced maid. “Please tell his lordship I will be down presently.”

Becky shut the door and leaned against it, wondering how she would get through an entire week of dinners, and who knew what else, with Shaw. But Stephen wasn’t going to let her be tonight, that much was obvious, so she donned an appropriate dinner gown and made her way to the drawing room.

Phoebe’s face lit when Becky walked through the doors and she ran immediately to her side. “I thought you might be ill,” she said, taking her hand and leading her back to the small sofa. “What took you so long?”

Thankfully, Becky was able to evade the question as Lord Eastleigh and his brothers greeted them. And only moments later did the dinner bell chime.

That was when Becky realized, with a great sigh of relief, that Shaw was nowhere to be found. She caught Stephen’s eye as they processed to the dining room and felt her skin flush with the look she saw there. Clearly he meant to remind her of the kiss they’d shared that morning. Not that he needed to. She’d spent most of the day thinking about that kiss. More than the scandalous night she’d spent in his room or the even more scandalous afternoon he’d spent in hers, that kiss lingered and warmed her from the inside out.

It had been impulsive and possessive, as if he’d wanted—no, needed—to lay his claim to her before he went about his day.

A smile tugged the corners of her lips up as her belly fluttered beneath her dark green gown.

“Becky?” Phoebe’s voice brought her back to the present with an embarrassing rush of heat. “What were you smiling about?”

Oh, Lord. “Nothing! I’m just...glad you’re here,” she improvised, giving herself a virtual pat on the back for not having lied.

Phoebe seemed to like that answer and she gave Becky’s hand a squeeze before she left to take her place near Stephen, toward the head of the table. Becky took her own place beside the Lords Michael and Andrew, and nestled in for what would probably be the only dinner she’d attend the rest of the week. Surely Shaw wouldn’t have a headache tomorrow evening.

“He’s been asking a lot of questions about you, you know?” Michael said, just before he lifted his spoon to his mouth.

Becky’s heart stopped momentarily and then began to race. She knew to whom Michael referred, but that would be too telling if she let on. “He who?” she asked, feigning innocence again.

Andrew leaned forward and answered, “That Shaw fellow. Are you sure you don’t recognize him?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him in my life.” Desperate to change the subject, she asked, “But how was your afternoon?”

Not at all diffused by the sudden change of topic, the twins went on to describe the breweries they had visited and the lengthy process of beer making. The subject held little interest to Becky, or at least she thought it did. She could hardly say since she wasn’t paying attention in the least. She was too busy worrying about what would become of her if, God forbid, Shaw figured her out.

“I daresay that pheasant never did anything to deserve such treatment,” Andrew leaned in to whisper to her.

Becky looked down at her plate to see she had indeed made a massacre of her bird. “Oh, sorry,” she said, embarrassed she had been caught mid-mutilation.

“Are you apologizing to me or the pheasant?”

She rolled her eyes. “The pheasant, of course,” she retorted, glad for the distracting banter. “Will you two be joining us for the celebration in town tomorrow evening?”

“Mais oui, ma chere,” Michael replied in a ridiculous French accent. “We never miss an opportunity to flirt with fair country maidens.”

“I highly doubt your exploits will end at flirtation,” she shot back and then immediately regretted doing so. Certainly pointing out their depravity was neither proper dinner conversation nor ladylike in the least.

Even worse, they both stared back at her now, each with one eyebrow raised—how did they do that?—and amused smirks on their lips.

Once again, Becky was saved by the conclusion of the meal, and as they dispersed, she ran to Phoebe’s side, clinging to her like a bulwark. They settled in the drawing room while the gentlemen enjoyed their port and cigars in the dining room.

It was quiet, a perfect opportunity to spend quality time with Phoebe. But her mind raced with thoughts of Shaw and Stephen, two subjects she could not share with her friend. And so she said the first inane thing that came to mind. “Did you have a nice nap this afternoon?”

Phoebe looked at her and smiled. “I did, thank you.”

“And Charlotte? Is she well?”

“She is.”

“Have you heard from Katherine? How is she faring with the twins?”

“I have and she says all is well.”

“Good...” Good Lord, this was ridiculous, but still she could think of nothing of interest to speak about. “And your mother?”

Phoebe gave her a sideways glance, her right eye squinting slightly. “What is the matter with you?” she asked.

“Whatever do you mean?” Becky replied, noting the annoying singsong of her voice. “I’m just inquiring as to the welfare of the people I love.”

“But we’ve already discussed those people, and I’ve learned nothing since this morning.” Phoebe turned on the bench to look at Becky straight on. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

“Um, actually, you’re right. I’ve had a blasted headache all day.” She stood abruptly and kissed Phoebe on the cheek as she heard the men emerging from the dining room down the hall. “You’ll forgive me if I retire early, won’t you?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, for if Stephen saw her, it would be much harder to slip away. And so, she ran from the room, seeking the refuge of her own dingy chamber.

The servants’ hallway was quiet, and the tension began to ease from her when she stole into her room and shut the door behind her. The moon assisted her in finding a match to light her candles and then she sunk onto the bed with a weary sigh.

“Something the matter, Miss Thorn?”

Eighteen

“Or should I say...Lady Isabella?”

Becky swung on her heel, her heart racing, not with anticipation, but with fear. Sheer terror.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady in spite of her unfortunate circumstance.

Shaw sauntered into the center of the room, drawing closer to her. Instinctively, she backed up and inched slightly to the right, determined not to let herself be trapped by her cousin. It was one thing to allow Lord Hastings to trap her in her room; it was another thing entirely to allow Shaw, especially when he wore such a demonic expression. One that reminded her chillingly of her father.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment, Cousin Izzy.” Becky twitched at the long-forgotten nickname as he continued to move closer. “Ever since this morning when I realized who you were.”

“I’m not who you think I am,” she said, her heart beating out of her chest. “Now leave my room.”

“Ah, it won’t be quite so easy to be rid of me, Izzy,” he drawled. “I’ve come to your room for a reason.”

“I don’t care why you’ve come. I just want you out.”

“Now that isn’t very hospitable of you, is it?”

“I’m not looking to entertain. Now. Get. Out.”

Shaw ignored her and continued to move closer, his face mere inches from her own now. “I’m here to claim what is rightfully mine. What I was promised from birth.”

Becky swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a simple governess...an orphan—”

He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to him, slamming her body hard against his. Becky gasped with the force, the terror in her belly building.

“Stop playing games, Izzy,” he said, his tone dangerously threatening as his fingers dug bruises into her flesh. “This has gone on long enough. And now that I know you’re not bloody dead, you’re coming home...with me.”

“This is my home, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Is that so?” Without warning, he pressed his lips hard against hers. She squirmed to loosen his grip, but it only made him squeeze harder. The panic mounting, she found herself desperately hoping Stephen had followed her. There was no getting out of this situation without help.

She felt the tears boil to her throat as his fingers slid lasciviously over her cheek, tracing the bone along her jaw. He pulled away from the rough kiss, jerking her head back hard in the process. His calculating gaze settled on her décolletage, and Becky’s skin crawled as he drank her in with perverse determination.

“You’re quite lovely, you know,” he whispered, causing a shiver of disgust to race up her spine. “It’s a shame you ran away when you did. So many years wasted that we could have been together.”

“Please leave me alone,” Becky whimpered, wishing she didn’t sound so blasted vulnerable.

“Not a chance in hell.” He grabbed her by the hair, pulling her chignon from its pins, wrapping the locks around his fist.

Becky winced with the pain, letting out a little cry of despair. She attempted to tug away, but he only tightened his grip, inflicting even more pain.

The menacing look in his eyes, as if he enjoyed every minute of her anguish, chilled her to the bone.

“Please let me go,” Becky cried again, her throat thick with the welling of tears.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Becky wasn’t about to relent, no matter what he threatened to do to her. He would do it if she admitted her identity or not. “My name is Becky Thorn. I’m an orphan and a governess—”

He tilted her head further back, halting her speech. Her focus now on the ceiling, she felt his other hand slip into the bodice of her dress. In the next instant, he ripped the green silk from her unbound chest, exposing her breasts to the air. She cried for him to stop as her hands flailed to cover herself; but in one swift movement, he released her hair and used his hand to bind her wrists together at her back.

His grip was firm, unrelenting. Becky tried to use the only resources left to her and brought her knee up to his groin in one quick gesture. He recoiled slightly, but the skirts of her dress were thick, padding the blow and causing little damage.

Shaw pressed Becky’s bare breasts to his chest and held her head close to whisper in her ear. “That was not a good idea, sweetheart.”

And with that, he threw her onto the bed and crushed her beneath his weight.

***

Stephen watched as Becky ran down the hall and disappeared around the corner. Like a magnet, he was drawn to her, and it took all his strength not to chase her down and find out why she was retiring early. But he had guests to tend to. He couldn’t very well leave them all to seek out his governess for an illicit rendezvous.

At least not yet.

Trying to focus his mind back on his guests, he continued to lead the men to the drawing room. Lady Eastleigh sat alone on the far side of the room, the space next to her having just been vacated by Becky, he assumed. Stephen wondered if perhaps they’d had a disagreement, but Lady Eastleigh showed no signs of distress. As a matter of fact, she wore a warm smile as she beckoned him to join her on the tufted bench.

Stephen made his way to the marchioness, hoping to ascertain information about Becky, of course. “Lady Eastleigh, I see you’ve been abandoned. Is everything all right?”

“Oh, it’s fine, Hastings, only...” She glanced about, perhaps to make sure Becky hadn’t come back, before continuing. “Have you noticed anything amiss with Miss Thorn?”

Stephen raised his brows. “Amiss? No, I don’t think so.” His heart raced as he remembered the kiss he’d given her that morning in the library. And the night she’d spent in his room. And the rainy afternoon he’d spent in hers. Damn, he must be blushing! “Why do you ask?”

“She’s been acting a bit...odd.” Lady Eastleigh shrugged and waved away whatever notion she’d been holding on to. “But it’s probably nothing.”

“Ahem...right. And where did my governess go off to this evening?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate to Lady Eastleigh as he did to himself.

“Headache, apparently.” And then her smile grew wider and her eyes sparkled with poorly veiled admiration. Clearly, Eastleigh approached.

Which provided a perfect escape. “Well, if you will excuse me, I...”

It was a good thing Lady Eastleigh wasn’t listening to him anymore, for Stephen had no good excuse for, well, excusing himself. With a nonchalance inherent in men of his station, he wandered to the sidebar and made a cursory check of the spirits. They were all full, of course, but short of announcing that he was going to use the chamberpot, it was the only thing he could think of that would facilitate his immediate departure.

He slipped out the door, unnoticed, and made for the servants’ staircase. He climbed the stairs and then paused at the landing to catch his breath, which was not short due to his pace, but rather due to the anticipation of being near Becky, being alone with her in her room. He feared he may not be able to keep his demons in check, but it was a risk he was willing to take.

Straightening his coat, he walked past the preceding doors, a hypothetical and inappropriate scene playing out in his head. One in which she invited him in and then gave herself to him, allowed him his way with her, and...

His thoughts were interrupted as he neared her door. Muffled sounds escaped through the wood, sounds that had Stephen’s bowels twisting into knots. At first, he wondered if she were talking to herself, but it soon became evident there was another person in the room with her.

Shaw. His heart lurched. Had she been lying to him? Did she know who he was? Irrational scenarios replaced the erotic ones in his head, all of them ending with him putting a fist through Shaw’s face.

Then he heard something. A cry, and not a pleasured one. A plea to be released. And then the voice of David Shaw penetrated the wood. Not wasting another moment, Stephen threw open the door.

Nineteen

A startled Shaw looked up from his position atop Becky, his face red with lust. Becky lay beneath him, her eyes closed, her breasts exposed, her pale face the picture of anguish.

Every muscle in Stephen’s body turned to stone.

“Get out.” His voice was a low growl. He'd never known such fury in all his life. Not even on the battlefield.

Shaw gave a lascivious glance over Becky’s exposed breasts and then moved off of her. Though Stephen’s eyes remained focused on the blackguard, he could see Becky curl herself into a little ball on the bed, and hear her weeping quietly.

Surprisingly, Shaw didn’t scramble to leave the room, but rather came face to face with Stephen. A grave mistake if ever there was one.

“You are no longer welcome in my home, Shaw.”

The man had the insolence to shrug. “Not much of a surprise there. But I think it’s time you know who this woman is.”

“I know exactly who she is. Now, get out.” Stephen’s patience was wearing thin and it would only be a matter of moments before the clenched fists at his side connected with Shaw’s face.

“Ah, you think you do,” he replied with a smirk. “But I’m fairly certain, despite the fact you’ve bedded her, that you have no idea who your governess truly is.”

Whether the man told the truth or not, Stephen certainly didn’t care to hear it from him. “I’m giving you one more chance to walk out of here without another word and get your bloody arse off my land.”

When Shaw opened his mouth to speak, Stephen didn’t hesitate. A fresh wave of indignant fury shot through him and before he knew it, his hands were locked about Shaw’s cravat, gathering it tightly in his fist. He threw him up against the doorjamb and brought his face within an inch of the bastard’s.

“If you’re not gone by the time I get back downstairs, I will personally throw you out,” he barked.

Despite the fact that Shaw was considerably smaller than Stephen, he did not cower. Rather, he shoved his chin into the air defiantly just before Stephen dropped him on his arse with a thud. Shaw looked up at him, glowering. Once again, he opened his mouth to speak, but Stephen wouldn’t allow it.

“Get out!” he yelled once more, stamping his foot at the man as if he were a rabid dog.

Shaw finally rose and retreated down the hall with one last irascible glare at Becky, and Stephen had to strain to keep his fists at his sides. He had a mind to tear the man limb from limb.

When Shaw was finally out of sight, Stephen turned back into the room where Becky still lay, curled in a ball on the bed.

Bloody hell. What if he had not been there? What if he had simply gone on socializing with his guests?

It hit him in that moment just how much she meant to him and just how close he had come to losing her. He wouldn’t allow it to happen again.

He knelt down on the floor beside her and gently put a hand to her shoulder. She recoiled slightly before rolling over and allowing him to gather her into his arms. He joined her on the bed and they sat in silence. Stephen rocked and hushed her, trying to banish the fear that Shaw had so deftly instilled.

“Did he hurt you?” Stephen finally asked, once her tears had subsided.

“Not...in the worst sense of the word,” she replied, her breathing ragged. “A few bruises probably and a sore head from where...he pulled...”

She broke off as the tears began to flow once more. Stephen fought the urge to chase after Shaw, the urge to snap every bone in his body.

“It’s all right,” he whispered instead. “You’re safe now.”

“I know,” she cried in childlike tones. “It’s just that...”

“It’s just that what, sweetheart?”

Becky wiped her eyes and pulled away, as if she had something to say to him. But whatever it was, she couldn’t speak through the tears.

“Shh, shh, now.” Stephen pulled her close again, grateful that he’d arrived before Shaw could make any more progress.

As he held her, he looked around the tiny, inadequate chamber and came to a decision. “I will call for Mrs. Brown to help you with your things.

Becky’s head snapped up and her watery green eyes flashed with uncertainty. “W-where am I going?” she asked, and Stephen realized she’d taken the wrong impression from his statement.

He smiled as he assured her, “I’m moving you to a proper room, of course.”

“Oh.” Becky blinked and another tear spilled down her cheek. “Why?”

“Because this isn’t where you should be,” he said without further explanation as he brushed the tear away with his thumb. “I’ll have a room prepared.”

“No, please, Stephen,” she pleaded, grabbing at the lapels of his coat. “I don’t want to move. I’m fine here.”

“No. You’re not,” he said with finality, wishing to put an end to her protests.

“What will the other servants say?”

“Who cares what they say? You deserve better and I won’t have you pent up in this tiny room with a dodgy lock!”

There was a pause, a moment during which Stephen thought she might have seen reason, but it was fleeting. “Then fix the lock.” She crossed her arms over her chest in defiance. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Stephen sighed. It was time to try another tactic. He wanted her in the main part of the house, closer to him, where he could watch over her better.

He pulled her close again, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. The overwhelming need to protect her, to keep her safe, caused him to alter his tone.

“Becky, for your safety, I beg you, allow me this one concession.”

***

Becky wasn’t thrilled to remain alone in this particular chamber after all that had transpired. And Stephen made a valid point. What if Shaw somehow made his way back into the house? He would know where to find her, and in the dead of night, no one would be the wiser. She didn’t want to cause a stir amongst the servants—she already felt alienated enough in that realm. But in the end, she had no choice but to acquiesce.

She nodded her head. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Stephen heaved a sigh of relief and planted a kiss to her brow. Becky wanted nothing more than to melt into him and stay in his arms all night, but he pulled away and stood from the bed. “I’m going to call for Mrs. Brown. I’ll be right in the hall if you need me.”

He tugged on the bellpull and then stepped through the small door, closing it firmly behind him so that Becky could change into another dress.

She was still shaking as she unfastened the clasps of her gown. Tears threatened to spill forth once more as she hung it in her armoire, the ripped fabric a reminder of what had almost been. But she choked them back, forcing herself to remain strong, to not think about what could have been, but what was. Though that was just as terrifying a prospect. What would Shaw do now that he knew where she was...and that she was alive? Even worse, what would her father do?

Becky heard Mrs. Brown’s waddling feet amble down the hall. Stephen’s voice was muffled as he gave instructions to the housekeeper, and then the woman retreated once again.

A light knock came on Becky’s door, and Stephen entered once he’d been granted permission. His expression was grave, his dark brows settled into a worried frown.

Becky suddenly felt self-conscious standing there in front of him. Her body trembled with the mix of emotions, her heart and mind raging a fierce battle within her. Part of her desperately wanted to run to him, to take her place back in his comforting arms. But another more sensible part of her warned to take care. It wouldn’t be long before all of London knew of her deception, and then where would that leave her? Where would that leave Stephen?

Rain began to tap lightly at the window, prompting her back to reality, to the man standing before her.

“You should probably get back to your guests, my lord.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” he said decisively. “Come, I will show you to your new room.”

Becky had to admit her new room was far more preferable to the rustic closet she’d been living in. It wasn’t all that large, but the fabrics were light and white, trimmed in pale green, the walls papered to match. Someone had taken great care in decorating this room, and Becky found herself curious as to who had occupied it before.

Two maids came in to fill the copper tub by the fire and Stephen instructed them to stay with her until Lady Eastleigh arrived. Becky could not bring herself to look at them, even as they helped her to bathe. She could only imagine what they thought of this new situation, or the rumors they would spread below stairs. She could only pray Phoebe would come quickly to alleviate the tension that hung like a dense fog in the room.

It wasn’t until she was clad in her cotton nightgown and tucked beneath the counterpane that the door to her new bedchamber creaked open. Phoebe stepped through, still in her elegant, dark blue evening gown and the maids made their exit as she edged around the bed.

“Becky?” Phoebe looked down at her, her brown eyes awash with concern. “What has happened?”

In brief detail, Becky relayed the events of the evening, omitting the bit about Shaw being her cousin, of course. Once Phoebe was satisfied that she was calm and safe, she took her leave, claiming Becky should get her rest.

Though Becky wasn’t sure she would ever rest peacefully again.

Twenty

Becky stretched under the warm, plush coverlet of her new bed as the sun filtered into the room. Her eyes still closed, she let the sunlight warm her face while her mind sought consciousness. She sat up, yawned and rubbed her eyes until they felt ready to be exposed to daylight.

And to Lord Hastings.

“Good morning." He smiled as she stared blankly at him. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh,” was all she could manage just then as she struggled to remember the events of the previous night. The ones that had landed her in this room. “Eh, fine, I think.” She cocked her head to the side. “What are you doing here?”

Stephen gave a laugh and leaned forward in his chair. “I’ve been watching you sleep. Waiting for you to wake up.”

His voice was a deep rumble that was altogether discomfiting and comforting at the same time. She looked up and met his eyes, clear and blue, like the sky just outside her window. He was smiling suspiciously.

“Why?” she asked, still not awake enough to read the meaning in his gaze. “And where are the children?”

“Getting ready.”

“For...?”

“Today is the annual summer festival.” He leaned over and pushed a lock of her unbound hair from her eyes. “We are all going into town for the celebration.”

“Oh, of course.” She’d forgotten about it completely. She wanted to protest that she didn’t feel much like going out and celebrating, but Stephen didn’t give her the opportunity.

“I know that after last night, the last thing you probably care to do is dance and make merry. But it’s either that, or be left here, alone.”

“You’ve given the servants leave to go as well.” She nodded in understanding. Of course he wouldn’t deny them this one day of frivolity, especially when there would be no guests to tend to at the estate.

Stephen rose from his chair next to the bed and retrieved a tray from one of the side tables. “Here, I had breakfast brought up for you. I told everyone we would leave at noon. Do you think you can be ready by then?”

Becky glanced at the clock, amazed to see that a noon departure gave her just over an hour to get ready. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept until eleven in the morning. Nonetheless, it wouldn’t take her nearly that long to get ready; she would spend the rest of her time trying to figure out what to do about her situation.

She nodded and then Stephen bent to kiss the top of her head. Becky resisted the urge to pull him down into the bed with her. She wanted to feel the warm security that came with having him near. But he was gone before she could do anything about it.

***

At noon, the entire household climbed aboard the fleet of carriages that waited in the drive and set off for the celebration. Becky shared a small conveyance with the children and Mrs. Brown, while Stephen and his guests boarded several crested Hastings carriages.

The children chattered on excitedly, nearly drowning out the crunching sounds of rock and earth beneath them. The housekeeper, however, remained uncharacteristically quiet. Becky wouldn't have described her attitude that afternoon as cold, but she certainly didn't radiate with her usual warmth. It would not have taken a genius to understand the sudden change in the woman—clearly she took umbrage with Becky being moved out of the servants’ quarters.

She considered bringing up the topic, explaining that Hastings did it for her own good and nothing else, but she chose to hold her tongue. No one would believe her anyhow. She didn't even believe herself. Of course he moved her for safety's sake, but why he cared so much about her safety was the question on everyone's minds. Would he have done the same for a scullery maid?

The carriage slowed as they grew closer to the noisy celebration. The sounds of children squealing and lively music penetrated the walls of the vehicle, causing Max and Lydia to squeal their own joy in return. When they came to a stop, it was mere moments before Stephen appeared at the door to help them all to the ground. Becky ignored the slight tingle that ran up her arm at his touch, and likewise his piercing eyes. Instead, she squinted into the bright sun until she spotted Phoebe near the carriage ahead of them.

Remembering her duty to the children, she took them by their hands, and led them to where the Wetherbys had gathered. Not surprisingly, Stephen followed.

"There you are," she said to Phoebe as they approached. "Would you care to dance with the children and me?"

Stephen interjected, "They don't know how to dance, Miss Thorn. They'll be trampled in that mayhem."

She ignored him as she bent to the children’s level. “Are you two ready to show your uncle what you’ve learned?”

Max and Lydia nodded their heads rigorously.

Her only response was a wry smile. “Lady Eastleigh, will you be joining us?”

Phoebe looked to her husband. “Will you be all right with Charlotte for a bit?”

“Of course I will!” Lord Eastleigh replied indignantly and then kissed his wife on the lips before turning her loose to dance.

***

Stephen watched with fascination as Becky ran with Lady Eastleigh and the children across the lawn to where the dancing was taking place, already a flurry of colored skirts as others weaved in and out of one another. He was so enthralled with her, every little thing about her made him want her more.

He focused on her lush body as she danced, every movement perfectly enticing. In her white dress, with her golden hair flouncing loosely down her back, and a chain of daisies crowning her head, Stephen felt as if he were snatching the cradle. But when he thought of her underneath him, wanton in his arms, he felt differently.

And when he thought of that blackguard, Shaw, atop her, a whole different set of emotions surfaced. Damn, how would he ever get that image out of his head? Thankfully, Becky seemed to have recovered from the ordeal, perhaps less scathed than he was. Or at least she was putting up a good front for her friends and the children.

“Your wards are quite spirited, aren’t they?” Eastleigh said as they settled onto a stone bench.

Stephen snapped back to the present. “I had no idea they even knew how to dance.”

“They didn’t until a few days ago. Miss Thorn and my wife spent an afternoon teaching it to them.”

“Really?” Stephen turned back to the dancers, amazed that Max and Lydia had learned the dance in one day. “They must be excellent teachers.”

Eastleigh gave him a questioning glance. “Is that not why you hired Miss Thorn in the first place?”

Stephen thought about that for a moment. He had never even asked Becky about her credentials, he realized. Whenever she tried to speak to him of the children, he changed the subject, not at all interested in what they were learning. But of course, he was not about to reveal such things to Lord Eastleigh.

“Well, yes, of course.”

The marquess picked up his cooing child from her frilled carriage and began to bounce her lightly upon his knee. Stephen had to admit he was not at all used to seeing men with infants. Or children at all, for that matter. It was foreign in their circles; titled men most often could not even describe what their children looked like. There was something a bit discomfiting in that this powerful peer had no qualms about displaying his affection for his young daughter, or for caring for her in the absence of his wife.

Stephen’s gaze shifted to Lydia, her small, blonde head covered with little curls and her eyes lit up as if it were Christmas morn. He had rarely seen her smile until Miss Thorn had arrived. And Max had smiled even less. They were angry and sad, and Stephen’s own brooding behavior only made them worse. It was no wonder Max always destroyed things and Lydia only spoke to Clarabelle. But they were so different now and it had not yet been a full month since Becky’s arrival. He wondered what happy times their future might hold now that she was there.

“Lord Hastings!” Stephen blinked from his reverie to find Miss Thorn standing directly before him. Her honey-blonde hair was wild and her green eyes twinkling. If he didn't know better, he might have mistaken her for an enchanted woodland fairy. “Do come dance with us!”

She pulled on his hand, her fingers soft and delicate around his, trying to move him from the bench.

“Miss Thorn, it’s been years since I’ve danced a ring dance.”

“Then you’ve danced it before! Splendid!”

And with that, he was off the bench, traipsing after Becky to dance around the pole. He was tentative at first, unsure of the steps, unnerved by the rapid pace, but within minutes it all came rushing back to him and he weaved expertly in and out of the other dancers. The lute music filled his ears, the laughing and singing of his niece and nephew...and Becky, who was responsible for the overwhelming sense of joy that filled him now.

When night fell and they had all tired of dancing, they walked together to the sweet vendor for refreshments. As Stephen stood in the queue, a light tug came at his coat and he looked down to see Lydia staring up, batting her pale blue eyes at him.

“May Clarabelle have a sweet bun as well, Uncle?”

Stephen smiled down at her. Even though Clarabelle was imaginary, he couldn’t very well say no.

“Well, I suppose—” And then he cut off when the realization hit him that the child had addressed him personally.

Not through Clarabelle.

“Lydia?” he asked, as if trying to assess to whom he was speaking.

“Yes?” she replied in the sweetest voice he'd ever heard.

“Darling, you spoke to me!” He bent down to her level and called, “Miss Thorn!”

Becky heard her name and rushed to see what was the matter. “Is everything all right?”

Stephen was beside himself, unsure of how he had missed his niece's miraculous transformation. “She spoke to me,” he breathed.

“Well, of course she did,” came Becky's reply. “She's always spoken to us, haven't you?”

Stephen stared at the two of them, dumbfounded by the new development. No one had ever reached the children the way this woman had. No one had ever reached him the way she had, either. Every day he was more convinced that Becky must hold some kind of magical powers.

She smiled up at him as he stood to his full height; that smile penetrated to his very core. Their gazes held for one earth-shattering moment before Becky turned her attention back to Lydia.

“Why don’t we go help Lord and Lady Eastleigh with the blanket?” she said to the child.

Lydia nodded and they turned to go, but Stephen stopped them. “Miss Thorn, may I have a word?”

Becky looked around uncertainly. There were droves of people about and it was hardly the place to have any kind of private conversation. She gave him a meaningful look.

“Perhaps later, my lord,” she replied, her speech slow and deliberate. “That is, if it can wait?”

Stephen understood her reservations. He nodded his consent and watched as they walked off into the twilight toward the lawn where the marquess was laying out the rug for their picnic. He joined them minutes later, his hands filled with plates of food, a runner boy behind him with even more. They all sat and ate heartily, famished after so much dancing and merriment, reveling in the cool evening breeze.

By now, several of the other house guests had joined them in their picnic, and the conversation flowed as freely as the ale. Stephen noticed that not only did Becky drink the brew, but she seemed to enjoy it far more than the average woman might.

A sailor-song singing, ale-drinking governess. When looked at logically, she was the worst sort to bring up a pair of aristocratic children. But when one saw her with Max and Lydia, it was obvious that she was the perfect sort for them.

By midnight, the festivities had dwindled down, the musicians had tucked away their instruments and the vendors, their wares. The murmur of the nearby brook lent a peaceful atmosphere to the scene, lulling the children to sleep while young lovers walked arm in arm under glowing lanterns. Most of the servants had gone home, including Mrs. Brown, and Lord and Lady Eastleigh declared that it was time to take Charlotte out of the chilled night air.

Accepting that the glorious evening had come to an end, Stephen wrapped Lydia in his coat and swept her into his arms while Becky rousted Max and accompanied him to the carriage.

They settled into the coach, Stephen on one side with Lydia curled up in his arms, Becky on the other, Max’s head nestled in the fabric of her skirts.

Once they were rambling down the country road, Becky looked up at Stephen, her eyes searching as she studied him in the moonlight. “You wished to speak with me?”

His blue gaze settled on her in the darkness. “I did.”

She waited for him to go on.

“I’ve been thinking, Miss Thorn,” he began, “and I would like to offer you another position within my household.”

Becky blinked in surprise. “Are you not happy with my work with the children?”

He laughed, realizing she did not get his meaning. “It’s not that, Miss Thorn. I would like to offer you a far more...elevated position.”

“Elevated, how?” she queried.

“I would like to ask if—”

Stephen was cut off by a squirming Lydia, and he realized it was a foolish time and place to be having this discussion. He could not very well pose such a question with his niece right there in his arms. Asleep or not, this was something that needed to be addressed in private.

“On second thought,” he whispered, “perhaps we should have this discussion another time. Will you join me in the library for a nightcap after we've put the children to bed?”

Becky nodded her consent as the carriage pulled to a stop in the drive. Stephen disembarked first, taking Lydia with him, then helped Max and Becky down with his free hand. They walked quietly through the house to the children's bedchamber and delivered them, respectively, to their beds.

Stephen was about to leave the room, but found himself intrigued by the way Becky tended to the sleeping children. Carefully, she peeled Lydia out of her party dress and replaced it with a small white gown. After she tucked her securely into her bed and kissed the top of her head, she moved across the room to where Max lay atop his covers. She hoisted him to a sitting position and quickly divested him of everything but his breeches and then expertly threw a dressing gown over his head. Once snugly sound, she placed a kiss to Max's forehead and turned to exit the room.

“Oh!” she gasped as her hand flew to her heart. “You scared the devil out of me! I thought you'd left already.”

Stephen smiled. “I’ve never seen anyone handle those children with such care.”

She looked at the children, then back at him. “They deserve to be handled with care. They've been through a great deal.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?” she echoed.

He sauntered closer to her. Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips and kissed it lightly. “Who is taking care of you?”

Becky's mouth fell open and she gave a nervous laugh. “I don't need to be taken care of, my lord. I do fine on my own.”

“Is that so?” he asked, thinking of the previous night. “Come with me.”

Stephen walked out of the room and waited for her to follow before gently closing the door. He led her through the house, their muted footsteps the only audible sound, to the library, where he ushered her inside. She had barely gained the sitting area when he slipped his hands around her waist. He pulled her close against him and nibbled playfully at the lobe of her ear.

The heady scent of her filled his senses. He wanted her so badly he could hardly stand it. She turned in his arms to face him, her expression expectant, wanting. But she did not offer her lips as before.

“You had something to ask me?” she pointed out, her voice choked with restraint.

“Yes.” He nodded as his hand plucked a stray daisy from her hair. “Let me take care of you.”

Twenty-One

Becky took a sharp breath, barely able to comprehend what she was hearing. Was it real? Was he really going to ask her to marry him? She forced her heart not to get ahead of herself.

“How?” she asked tentatively.

“I’ll give you whatever you want.” His voice was husky and urgent. “A house in the city, jewels, gowns, all the finery that money can buy. I will make certain that your every need and every want is provided for.”

Becky smiled. “I don’t need all that,” she said sweetly. “Especially not the house in the city.” She took a deep breath in preparation for her confession. “It’s only you that I want.”

“Then in Brighton, or wherever you wish. Just say yes.”

She blinked up at him, confused. “I wish to be here. With you and the children, of course.”

Stephen took her face in his hands and looked at her gravely. “If you agree to this, I will not be able to keep you here. I thought that would be understood.”

Disconcerted, Becky pushed away from him and walked to the other side of the settee, trying to understand what he was saying. “You’re not asking me to marry you, are you?”

“Marry you?” Stephen repeated, with far more shock in his voice than Becky had hoped for. “Oh, God, Becky, I never imagined you’d jump to such a conclusion.”

Becky studied him closely, keeping her features as impassive as she could. Inside, a part of her died of embarrassment, of disappointment, and of pure anger. But she wasn’t about to let that show. She still had her pride.

A mistress. That’s all he wanted her for.

With uncharacteristic iciness she finally replied, “And I never imagined you would jump to the conclusion that I wanted to be your mistress.”

He looked up at her, his blue eyes dark and troubled, but said nothing.

“Is that how you think of me?” she asked quietly.

“Becky—”

“No, you’re right. What was I thinking? Of course you would never marry me! I’m a maid turned governess, parading about as if I’m someone important. As if I’m worthy of being loved by someone important. As if I’m worthy of being loved at all. What could I possibly have been thinking?”

“Becky—”

“No!” she yelled. “Don’t you dare say anything.”

“I have a right to say whatever I please!” Stephen yelled back.

She waited in silence for him to continue, her gaze challenging. He raked his fingers through his tousled, dark hair and released a long breath before meeting her eyes.

“What, pray tell,” he began acidly, “is so bloody wrong with being my mistress? You would never want for anything, Becky. You could live in luxury, never work again a day in your life. I offer you the moon and you throw it back in my face?”

The moon indeed. What she wouldn’t give to tell him everything, right then and there. The sordid details of her aristocratic upbringing. That she’d left what most considered the lap of luxury at the tender age of fifteen to scrub chamberpots. She couldn’t, of course. But she had left the bosom of the Wetherby family to serve in this household. Comparatively, that had been the moon. “I had the moon!” she cried at last. “I left a life of luxury to come here because I wanted to! For the past year I’ve been living as a companion, with no real responsibilities to speak of, other than to be a friend. I had my own chambers with silk linens and hand-crafted furniture. I had my own lady’s maid for heaven’s sake! I didn’t have to come here; I chose to come here. I don’t give a fig about any of those things, but I do care about those children. And until tonight, I thought I cared about you!”

Stephen listened to her, feeling more like a cad with every word she said. How could he have been so foolish? He knew where she came from, what she had left behind, yet for some reason he thought she might be happy to receive such a life from him. To be with him. To be his mistress.

“And you no longer care for me?” he asked with rancor. “Just like that?”

“Yes, just like that!” Becky started for the door.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Stephen caught her by the arm. He couldn’t let her leave. Not like this. “We’re not finished here.”

“Let go.”

“We’re going to talk about this.”

“There is nothing to talk about!” Fire flashed in her emerald eyes.

“There most certainly is.” He pulled her to the sofa and swung her down with more force than intended.

Becky glared at him for a moment before attempting her escape. He pushed her back down with his most threatening stare—the one that made even grown men cower.

But not Becky.

“So?” she asked, her tone cheeky.

He said nothing, only stared at her, his jaw set in frustration.

“You see, my lord, there is nothing to say. I will not be your mistress and you will not be my husband. It seems we have come to a standstill.”

“I don’t do standstills, Becky. There is only win or lose.”

“In that case, it appears we both lose, doesn’t it?”

“I never lose!” he roared. Lord, but this woman was infuriating.

Despite what he thought to be an intimidating posture, Becky stood her ground and met his eyes full on. “Then perhaps you should sometime. Maybe then you won’t act like a spoiled brat.”

“Pray, oh, wise one,” he seethed, “how exactly am I acting like a spoiled brat?”

“By thinking you can always have your way. By thinking you can simply buy me with clothes and jewels and a house! Is that the only way you know how to win someone? By bribing them? Well, I guarantee you I cannot be bought. I cannot be bribed. And I will not be your mistress! Now, may I please go to bed?”

When he did not speak right away, Becky tried once again to go. Stephen pushed her down yet again.

“Stop that!”

“You have said your piece and now it’s my turn.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Well, you’re going to hear me out!”

“You may speak but that does not mean that I have to listen.”

“Why are you so damned difficult?”

“Perhaps you should seek out a more willing partner, my lord.” Her tone oozed with a sarcasm that grated on Stephen’s every nerve.

“I don’t want a more willing partner. I want you. Although I can’t bloody well understand why.”

“Well, you can’t have me! Especially if you can’t figure out why it is you want me in the first place!”

They both fell silent. Stephen fumed, vexed by Becky’s coldness, angry at himself for ever entertaining the idea of taking her as his mistress. Really, what had he been thinking? No matter how much he wanted her, he had known from the start it was a bad idea to even broach the subject. She was far too proud to ever accept such an offer. Besides, what the devil would her friends say if she took up such a position? She would never see her beloved Lady Eastleigh again.

He looked at her from his perch against the mantel. She was no longer looking at him, her gaze on the floor, her mouth pulled to a straight line to keep from crying.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked quietly.

She looked up, the question in her tear-filled eyes.

“When you said that you no longer care for me?”

Stephen held her gaze, trying to read what was behind her eyes. But whatever she may have been feeling, she kept hidden behind a veil of impassivity.

“May I please go now?” she whispered.

“No.” His voice was quiet but firm. “Answer the question.”

Becky shook her head slowly as a single tear slipped from her closed eyes. “Please, just let me go.”

“I can’t make you my wife, Becky,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

After a moment, she nodded to indicate she understood and then left the room, not bothering to look back at him.

***

Minutes later, safely in her room, Becky began to weigh her options. On one hand, she could stay where she was, continue to care for the children, try to forget that the whole mess ever happened.

And be forced to see Lord Hastings on a near daily basis.

On the other hand, she could leave for Ravenscroft Castle in three days time with Phoebe and Benjamin, and move on with her life. They would certainly take her back and she could embark on the husband hunt Phoebe had been so desperate for her to begin before she came here.

Neither option seemed all that appealing at the moment. She almost wished she could run away to some far-off place and disappear. A place where no one knew her or where she came from or what her profession was. Or even better, a place where they didn’t care.

London was certainly not that place and evidently the country offered no respite from such scrutiny either. She would simply have to face her life, face the truth, and make a decision, no matter how difficult.

Her mind drifted back to Stephen, to the fair. Was that really only an hour ago? Everything had seemed so perfect. She should have known it was all far too good to possibly be true.

And she certainly should have known that he was not offering marriage when he had spoken of taking care of her. How could she have been so daft? She had foolishly allowed herself to dream, allowed her mind and her heart to wander happily down the aisle to a nonexistent altar.

She snuggled herself under her covers and allowed all her thoughts to drift into oblivion while tears dripped onto her pillow. Tomorrow she would decide where she belonged.

***

The children slept late the following morning, still recovering from their day at the fair. Becky took the opportunity to find Phoebe, though she had still not decided if she would tell her of Lord Hastings’ offer. It would certainly upset her and if she knew Phoebe, she would not allow her a choice in the matter of whether to stay at Hastings House or not. Becky would surely be in a carriage headed for Ravenscroft Castle within hours of relaying the story.

But maybe that was what she wanted. Maybe not having a choice would be better than having to make one on her own.

Blast the man for making her life so difficult!

She pasted on her brightest smile and waltzed into the breakfast room. Phoebe was there, her face practically buried in her towering plate. “Good morning!”

“You’re awfully chipper this morning.” Phoebe smiled as she looked up to greet her. “I wish I could say the same for myself.”

“Oh, was Charlotte fussy last night?”

“That would be one way of putting it.”

Becky sat down at the table, her plate sparse with a single egg and slice of toast. She noticed that Phoebe did look exhausted, as if she’d been up the entire night. This would not be a good time to lay her burden at the feet of her friend.

“Perhaps you should go back to bed.”

Phoebe sighed and shoved another bite of bacon into her mouth. “I’ll be all right. Besides, it’s almost time for another feeding. How was the rest of your evening? Did you and Lord Hastings get home all right with the children?”

“Mmm hmmm,” Becky said as she bit into her toast.

Phoebe looked at her curiously. “Did something happen, Becky?”

Becky’s eyes narrowed with falsified bemusement. “Happen? What on earth would give you the impression that something happened?”

“I don’t know.” Phoebe shook her head. “You just seem...different. On edge, perhaps. You’re not still worried about Shaw, are you? I’m sure he’s long gone by now, dearest.”

Becky cursed inwardly but kept her face aloof. “No, no. I’m fine. Shall we wake the children and take a turn about the gardens?”

“Not until you answer me honestly.”

Becky chewed on a bit of egg for longer than was necessary. She hadn’t planned to tell Phoebe this way, but she had her cornered. She would have to say something. “I want to come home.”

Phoebe’s mouth dropped. “What? But...are you sure?”

Becky nodded, averting her eyes so Phoebe couldn’t see the tears that welled in them.

“Becky,” Phoebe said, her voice low and serious. “You know you are always welcome at Ravenscroft Castle, but are you sure that’s what you want? You seemed so happy last night with the children and...”

“Please, Phoebe,” Becky said, struggling to keep her tone even. “Don’t lecture me now. Just say that I may go home with you.”

Phoebe reached across the table and took Becky’s hand in hers. “Of course you can. When do you plan to tell his lordship?”

The idea of telling Stephen she was leaving left her feeling sick to her stomach and even sicker still to think of telling the children. What would they think of her? What would they think of themselves if she abandoned them?

No matter. Her decision was made—she would leave with Phoebe and Benjamin and say goodbye to her life at Hastings House.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “This afternoon, I suppose, when he returns. I’d better go and wake the children. It’s getting late.”

Becky teetered on the brink of discomposure while she dressed and fed the children. How could she possibly think of leaving them? They had suffered abandonment on so many levels and now she was thinking of putting them through it again.

She shook her head. She could not allow this debacle with their uncle to drive her away from them. She would simply have to learn to live in the same house. It would not be easy. Just looking at him made her breath come quicker, made her heart constrict in her chest, made her feel as if she were falling into a deep, black pit from whence she could never return.

Or perhaps she had already fallen. And now she would spend years in that home trying to climb back out, trying to forget a man who lived just on the other side of the house from her, but she would do it. She would do it for the children. And she would do it for herself.

But what if she couldn’t? What if it became too much to bear? Did she really want to waste good years of her life pining for a man she couldn’t have?

And what if he married? What if he fell in love with another woman and brought her here and they were all forced to live together like one big, happy—

No. Her mind was made up. She would not subject herself to such a cruel circumstance. She would leave Hastings House and she would never look back.

Twenty-Two

Stephen decided to leave his guests to their own devices the next day. After last night’s argument with Becky, he was in no mood to socialize. Not only had the argument itself taken its toll on him, but he’d spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, trying to figure out why he was such a blasted idiot.

Stephen sat alone in his study now, his mind in utter turmoil, still trying to come to terms with the gravity of the situation. If he didn’t fix it, she would surely leave. The Wetherbys would depart the next morning, which meant he had less than twenty-four hours to do something to convince her to stay.

But, what?

His fingers curled slowly into a ball and he almost wished Shaw was still in residence. He was in the mood for a fight, but he couldn’t very well go around punching the daylights out of his guests. That man, however, deserved to be pummeled into the ground. Stephen vowed that if he ever laid eyes on the man again, he would—

A knock came at his door.

“Enter,” he called out, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

The door opened to reveal Lord Eastleigh, a balloon of brandy clutched in each hand. “May I?”

Stephen waved him in and gestured to the chair in front of the desk. Eastleigh sat and slid one of the balloons to Stephen. There was silence while both men took a drag of their beverages and then the marquess leaned forward in his chair.

“Quite an evening last night, wasn’t it?” he asked, his tone leaden with obvious meaning.

Stephen rolled his eyes as he set his brandy down. “I’m going to assume you’ve heard.”

Eastleigh nodded. “Was I that obvious?”

Stephen looked down at the glossy surface of his desk. “May I inquire as to how much you’ve heard?”

“Only enough to know that she wants to come home.”

Stephen bit back the urge to tell the man that Hastings House was her home. Damn! He stood from his chair and strode to the window, his eyes focused on the drive where he’d first seen the top of her shimmering golden hair. “I’m a damned fool, Eastleigh.”

The marquess said nothing, so Stephen went on, assuming the man must agree with him.

“I asked her to be my mistress. My mistress! Have you ever heard of such an asinine thing in your entire life? What was I thinking? Anyone could look at the girl and know she’s not a mistress! She’s a wife, a mother, a teacher—not a blasted kept woman!”

“Then why did you ask her to be?”

Stephen thought for a moment, ashamed of his own stupidity. “Because I’m selfish, I suppose. Unthinking, idiotic, imbecilic. Need I go on?”

“I think I’ve got the idea.” Eastleigh grinned and sat back in his chair. “But, if you feel that way, why don’t you just marry her?”

Stephen’s eyes flashed with surprise as he looked at the marquess, startled that a powerful member of the beau monde saw nothing wrong with taking such a girl for a bride. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered why he himself saw anything wrong with it.

She was among the most intriguing women he’d ever known, and certainly among the smartest. The times he was with her were the happiest he could remember in recent, or even distant, memory. And she made the children happy too. How could he ever have thought to take her away from them?

Furthermore, it wasn’t as if he went into Society all that often anyhow. What the hell did he care what the ton thought of his actions?

Stephen’s heart twisted in his chest, a feeling totally foreign to his body. Years of hurt and heartache, anger and frustration, had made him forget what it felt like to love. To be loved.

To be in love.

A laugh bubbled within him and blurted from his mouth before he could stop it. “Marry her!” he exclaimed into the quiet room. “That is exactly what I plan to do...that is, if she’ll still have me.”

Eastleigh smiled as he rose from the armchair. “I’m sure you won’t have to worry on that account, Hastings. It’s obvious that the two of you are...”

Stephen nodded knowingly, thankful the man hadn’t spoken the words aloud, but grateful he understood. It was one thing to think about love, quite another to speak of it with another man. “Thank you for your support, and advice, in the matter, Eastleigh.”

“May I be the first to offer my felicitations?”

“Thank you,” Stephen said as they shook hands. “Now I should probably ask the bride.”

***

When Becky descended the stairs that afternoon, certain Stephen would be out of the house already, she found two adorable children, dressed and smiling, staring up at her from the bottom of the stairs.

And one dashing viscount staring at her as well. He was dressed in a dark blue jacket and shiny Hessian boots, his cream colored trousers tight and defining.

Becky’s heart lurched. He had always been handsome—breathtakingly so, if truth be known—but there was something different this morning. He lacked his usual arrogance, his brooding intimidation, the sense of anger that had remained before, even in his smiles.

The anger that had been there last night when she’d run off in the middle of their argument. But why shouldn’t she have?

Fresh indignation bubbled to her surface as his proposition replayed again in her head, but she fought to keep it at bay. The last thing she wanted was for the children to know anything was wrong. They would learn disappointment enough when she boarded the Eastleigh carriage in the morning.

“What’s this?” she asked as she approached, careful to keep her eyes on Lydia and Max rather than their uncle.

“Uncle is taking us on a picnic!” Lydia exclaimed, and though Becky wanted desperately to protest, to remind Stephen he had guests, she couldn’t bear to see any sadness on the child’s face.

“Shall we?” Stephen gestured to the open front door and Becky ushered the children through, nodding kindly to Bentley as they exited.

A barouche sat waiting in the drive, a large picnic basket resting by the driver.

“Where are we going?” Becky wondered aloud.

“You’ll see,” Stephen quipped surreptitiously as he lifted Lydia into the cab.

Becky waited her turn while he helped Max up to the seat and then she took the hand he proffered, daring a glance in his direction. Stephen gave her a warm grin and brushed her knuckles with his thumb, sending a frisson of anticipation down her spine. A frisson she immediately squelched with the memory of last night.

What are you up to? she asked with her eyes before she climbed into the seat next to Lydia. Stephen only lifted his brows in silent response and then followed close behind her. Once settled, the barouche took off at a leisurely pace.

***

Sitting across from Becky, Stephen seized the opportunity to study her, to assess her state of being after last night, to drink his fill of her. Dressed in a white muslin gown, sprigged with small green flowers the color of her eyes, the sun coloring her cheeks to a delicate pink, she was bewitching.

The very definition of beautiful.

Not a mistress, but a wife. Soon to be his wife.

Becky caught his eye, but he made no effort to disguise his pleasure in watching her. She looked away and he followed her gaze to the leafy oaks that lined the drive.

The day was glorious. The smell of summer lingered in the air and reminded Stephen of his childhood. Of running through fields with his sister. Of swimming at the pond and trying to distinguish shapes out of fluffy clouds. At least those were the things they did when their father was away. When the viscount had been in residence, both children were made to sit behind their tiny desks in the nursery and study their academics until their eyes couldn't focus anymore. Thankfully, the viscount had not often been in residence.

He glanced at his niece and nephew. It was his new mission in life to make sure Max and Lydia knew the same joys he'd known as a child; that they never know the pain of sitting in a wooden chair for hours on end. He hated that he'd wasted so much time being a boor to them already. That he'd somehow fallen into the habits of his father.

But it didn't have to be that way anymore and he knew it. Becky had changed that.

The barouche turned down a path leading to a picturesque pond that sat far out on Hastings’ property. There was shade aplenty and soft, manicured grass, perfect for setting out a picnic. Not to mention an abundance of frogs for keeping the children occupied.

Once they came to a stop, Stephen alighted first and then turned back to help Becky and the children. Max and Lydia went running for the pond as soon as their feet touched the ground, leaving Stephen and Becky alone to search for a spot to set up the picnic.

With the basket in one hand and Becky’s arm laced gingerly on his opposing arm, Stephen steered them to a blossoming elder tree, its small white flowers trickling to the ground, an enchanting addition to the already charming scene.

Becky knelt down on the blanket, once Stephen had laid it out, and began to unpack the basket. Roasted chicken and a loaf of bread, apples and sweet biscuits, along with a bottle of champagne, were among its contents. Stephen opened the bottle and poured two glasses of the effervescent liquid.

As Becky took her first sip, Stephen watched her intently, his eyes narrowed as he studied her.

“What?” she asked, and he did not miss the ice in her tone. Clearly, she wasn’t ready to forgive him. Of course, he’d yet to even apologize.

“Do you wish to discuss what happened last night?”

Becky shook her head. “What is there to discuss?”

“A great deal, actually.”

She looked away, toward where the children played by the pond. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“I know.”

Her head snapped back to look at him, shock in her emerald green eyes. But she didn’t bother asking how he knew. Instead, she said, “I think it’s for the best. I haven’t been here that long anyhow. Soon, the children won’t even remember my name.”

Stephen doubted that, and he knew Becky didn’t believe it either.

There was a long moment of silence before she asked, “Why did you bring me here?”

“I didn’t, remember? That was Mrs. Brown’s doing.”

Becky rolled her eyes. “No, I mean, why did you bring me on this picnic?”

Stephen focused his sparkling eyes on her, his expression sobering. “Because I thought that if you could see how much the children and I need you—want you—you might change your mind about leaving...I don’t want you to go.”

“You should have thought of that before...before last night.”

“How can I make it up to you, Becky?”

Marry me, she wanted to scream at him. Make me a bloody honest woman, you bastard!

But the opportunity was lost as the children came bounding up the hill from the pond. The pair ran full speed toward the picnic blanket, squealing with unfettered delight.

“Miss Thorn, you should see all the frogs in the pond!” Max came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the blanket. “There must be millions!”

“And Clarabelle even kissed one!” Lydia exclaimed, giggling happily.

Stephen grabbed the child by the waist and drew her into his arms, tickling her tummy. “Just so long as you didn’t kiss one!”

The child giggled even more as she tried to wriggle free of her uncle. In spite of herself, Becky smiled as she watched them together. Only weeks ago, he’d been afraid of being anywhere near Lydia. Angry and bitter, he’d kept them both at arm’s length, careful not to involve himself in their lives any more than he had to.

She knew full well they needed her and that deep down she needed them too. But what price was she willing to pay to stay? Would they go on like this forever—picnics and family outings—just the four of them? Or would he eventually take a bride, a real mother for the children?

It was yet to be seen, and she still had not made her decision, but for this moment she allowed herself to forget about the future and revel in the now.

She met Stephen’s eyes over Lydia’s blonde curls and smiled softly. He returned the smile, so warm and genuine, and Becky felt that somehow he was going to find a way to make it up to her.

Twenty-Three

The last evening of the house party was a bittersweet occasion. After the picnic with Stephen and the children, Becky felt as if things were looking up. Although she still had not come to a decision about whether or not she was going to stay at Hastings House.

Blast Stephen and his picnic! Blast his bloody proposal! And blast David Shaw! What she really should be doing is running for Dover to board the next boat to somewhere far away. Somewhere where neither of the men in her life could find her. But did she really have the gumption to pick up and leave that way? Without a word to her friends...or to Stephen? Despite his indecent proposal, she still cared for the bloody man.

By the end of dinner, she still had no answer, but she had come to one conclusion: that she would not waste her last night with her friends or Stephen. Seeing as her mind was not made up, she didn’t know whose last night it would actually be.

After dinner, they gathered in the drawing room to enjoy one another’s company for the last time. A quartet of gentlemen sat at the card table, a rousing round of Hazard occupying them, while the rest gathered around the pianoforte.

“Do play a waltz, darling, so we can dance,” Phoebe begged of her husband.

The marquess slid onto the tufted bench and poised his fingers above the keys just as a strong hand clamped around Becky’s elbow.

“May I have this dance, Miss Thorn?”

Becky looked up into Stephen’s smiling eyes and felt her resolve slowly slipping from her grasp. She inclined her head and walked with him to the middle of the room. Phoebe and Lord Andrew were already there, poised to curtsey and bow.

The music swelled and Stephen took Becky into his arms, holding her close. His hand splayed across her back and held her steady when her knees wobbled and threatened to fail her.

She caught Phoebe’s eye as they whirled about; an eye that winked suspiciously and twinkled with mischief. What is she up to?

When Becky looked back at Stephen, his expression was that of a very hungry wolf, a man on fire, and she suddenly ached to be alone with him. To fan the flames that lit his pale blue eyes.

“Please don’t look at me that way,” she said.

“Why not?” His voice was a low rumble.

“Because you’re making me blush.”

He smiled triumphantly.

“All this flirting will have no bearing whatsoever over whether or not I choose to stay.”

“Then what will have bearing?”

The waltz came to an end, thereby saving Becky from having to answer, and Michael insisted that Lord Eastleigh play another so that he might have a chance at twirling one of the two ladies about the drawing room floor as well.

Stephen pushed Becky towards Michael and moved to the pianoforte. “I may be a bit rusty, but I did play once upon a time. Would you care to dance with your wife?”

Eastleigh gave him a grateful smile and vacated the bench, clearly eager to have his arms about his marchioness.

And so the evening went. Dance after dance, Becky and Phoebe traded partners, laughing gaily as they were whisked about the floor. But whenever she was in Lord Hastings’ arms, the laughter would not come. Becky was rendered mute by the fierce sense of longing that overcame her when she was wrapped tightly in his embrace. The overwhelming need to be with him, in every possible sense.

And the imminent necessity to make up her mind.

Eventually, the sky turned from dusk to ominous darkness, and Becky was no closer to a decision. It was so easy to be caught up in the excitement of their affair, by the prospect of playing house with this man and his wards, but she had to remind herself that it was not real. It could not last. And she would end up exactly where she’d started if she wasn’t careful. Only by then, she would have wasted years of her life.

Perhaps it was better to move on now.

The party broke up just before midnight with promises to see one another in the morning over breakfast and then they all went their separate ways in search of their bedchambers.

All except Becky.

She was wound tighter than a new pocket watch to be able to go to sleep, her nerves on edge from the intoxicating dances and her need to make up her mind.

Instead, she decided to slip into the library, where a fire was burning low, and sneak a small snifter of brandy.

She was not the only one to have that idea.

“I thought you’d come here.” Stephen stood in the shadows of the dim library.

“I hoped you’d come here,” she replied, finally willing to admit how she truly felt about him.

“Did you?” he asked, his features set in a somber question. “Does that mean you’re not leaving?”

“No...that is, I haven’t made up my mind.”

“Then I’ll just have to make it up for you.”

Unwilling to waste another second, Stephen closed the distance between them and took Becky into his arms, bringing his lips to hers with frightening hunger. She opened to him, allowing his tongue to search her, to caress her lips, to taste her.

“I need you, Becky,” he whispered huskily, and Becky knew she wouldn't be able to deny him whatever he asked for at this point. “Please say you’ll stay.”

She moaned in agreement. “Take me upstairs.”
Stephen pulled back to look at her, to assess the meaning in her words, in her eyes. She nodded up at him in answer to his silent question.

“Go to your room,” he whispered. “I will meet you there.”

***

Becky paced her room, nervously awaiting Stephen’s arrival, wondering what in all of heaven and earth she was thinking. Despite the heat that washed over her when in his presence, and the fire that made her ache in places she’d never known she had before, she knew that giving herself to him—the way he was expecting her to—was an altogether horrible idea.

The man had asked her to be his mistress and although she had turned him down rather harshly, she wondered how he would interpret her most recent invitation.

Becky was not naïve. She knew what message she would send by giving herself to him; but she no longer cared. All she cared about was Stephen, the children, and finally finding the happiness she desperately wanted.

She only hoped she was making the right decision in order to achieve said happiness.

A faint rapping came at her door and before she could reach it, Stephen slipped into the room. He had removed most of his evening ensemble, now wearing only his white linen shirt, open at the neck to reveal a tuft of dark fleece, and black trousers. Without his jacket, it was easy to see the power in his muscles, the fine chiseling of a body well cared for.

He stood before her like a wolf ready to devour his prey. His eyes settled on her form and she grew hot, as if her insides had turned to molten lava. Her breath quickened the longer he stared and she was aware of his gaze, focused on the rise and fall of her bosom that swelled from the bodice of her gown.

Though the room was warm from the blazing fire in the corner, Becky shuddered with anticipation, with nerves, with longing. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to be in his arms, to be one with him, to feel his body pressed against hers.

Before she could even think, her feet were moving, practically running the minuscule distance between them. Stephen welcomed her into his arms and held onto her as if he had been waiting for that moment for years. A sigh escaped him and he whispered gruffly against Becky’s ear as his hand reached up to cup the back of her head.

“Becky,” he moaned. “Becky, we need to talk.”

Becky went still in his arms before pulling back slightly to look at him. “What is it?” she asked, terrified of the answer. His eyes were dark and serious, but she could glean nothing from his expression.

Stephen led her to the small sitting area and pulled her onto his lap. They were almost at eye level the way they were situated and it took all of Becky's strength not to kiss him, not to lean into him and beg him to take her right then. But he clearly had things to say first, so she held back and waited, curious.

“I made a grave mistake,” he began, “when I asked you to be my mistress.”

Becky opened her mouth to speak, but he put a single finger to her mouth to indicate that it was still his turn.

“I want you to know how sorry I am for even posing such a question and that I don’t—I never have—thought of you in that way.”

Becky blinked away the moisture from her eyes as she listened to his apology.

“But I could think of no other solution, no other way to be with you short of keeping you privately, away from the children and from Hastings House.” He paused to caress her cheek. She leaned against his hand and closed her eyes. “I know now that I was the greatest of fools to ever think that turning you into my mistress was an appropriate solution.”

Becky knew what was coming. She could feel it in her bones, in the sinking feeling in her stomach. He was going to tell her that after this, after what they were about to do, their affair would have to come to an end. That marriage was not an option, and the risk of carrying on with the children so near would be fatuous. Her heart twisted violently at the thought of never being with him again, but she knew there was nothing she could do to change his mind. That sometimes the stars simply did not align. And besides, staying meant that Shaw knew where she was, and it was probably only a matter of time before he brought her father there to retrieve her.

Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but Becky’s mind was elsewhere and so she missed what he said. Though it sounded strangely like...

She gaped at him. “What did you say?”

Stephen laughed and pulled her head down to kiss her forehead. “Becky, I want to marry you.”

Understanding dawned like the brightest morning sun. She searched the blue depths of Stephen’s gaze and wondered if she were dreaming.

“Are you sure?” was all she could manage in the moment, causing Stephen to erupt into laughter again.

“Of course I’m sure,” he said. “I’ve never wanted anything so badly in all my life. Be my wife, Becky, and I’ll be the happiest man to ever walk this earth.”

Becky’s smile spread across her face as tears spilled down her cheeks. She could have sworn that even her toes felt happy. Her heart swelled with gratitude and she reached out to take Stephen’s face between her hands.

“Yes,” she said, nodding and smiling through happy tears. “Yes!”

Unable to hold off any longer, Stephen grabbed her tightly about the waist and drew her closer. He kissed her, starved for the taste of her just as she was for him. He grew hard beneath her bottom and she flinched in surprise.

Suppressing a chuckle, he said, “Don’t worry, darling. That is supposed to happen.”

Relief settled on her features. “Oh, thank heavens,” she moaned and then replaced her lips to their rightful place—meshed against his.

Very aware, although somewhat inexperienced with what it meant to bed a virgin, Stephen tried to slow his pace. It wouldn’t do to go rushing into this. If he didn’t do things properly, he might scare her from his bed permanently.

Adjusting his arms around her, Stephen stood from the armchair and carried her the short distance to the bed. Her skin was flushed, her breathing shallow. It would take everything in him to keep himself in check and bring her all the pleasure she deserved before finding his own.

He laid her down carefully and then climbed into the bed beside her, drawing her close to his rigid body. She was hungry, eager, practically chomping at the bit to learn what it was she’d never had the opportunity to experience. Stephen tightened his hold of her, trying to keep her from rubbing and gyrating him to completion.

Years of solitude meant that he was quite near his breaking point already.

“Becky,” he said finally, the desperation clear in his voice. “You mustn’t do that.”

“Do what?” came her innocent reply.

He rolled her onto her back, pinning her to the bed, his body hovering above her with playful domination. “I will give you what you need...everything you never even knew you wanted, my darling. But you must try to be still—just this once—and let me do the work.”

Becky’s eyes were questioning, but she remained silent, trying to steady her breathing and calm the raging current within her. It wasn’t easy, but Stephen’s tone was intent and she knew little about the fire with which she was playing now.

After a brief pause, Stephen leaned down and took her mouth once more, slowly, languorously, driving away her apprehension. His tongue teased and taunted and lulled her into a state of heightened awareness that had nothing to do with the outside world. Her only thoughts were of him, of his firm tongue darting in and out of her mouth. Of his hard body and the heat of it, warming her from the inside.

With fettered reins, Stephen’s hands moved to her face, his fingers massaging beneath her blonde curls, and then unhurriedly traveling to her slender neck. His mouth soon followed, leaving searing kisses in the cool wake of his fingers, following the line of her shoulders and down her arms as he slid her gown from them.

She gave a tantalizing shiver as the cool air rushed over her exposed skin.

“Are you cold?”

She nodded, her face innocent and expectant, eager to be warmed by his heavy weight. Stephen maneuvered the rest of her dress from her body and then pulled the covers over her before divesting of his own clothing. Before he rejoined her, he caught sight of her face, the green eyes wide with shock, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. Obviously, the poor dear had never seen a naked man before.

“Does that go...?”

He climbed back into the bed and nestled under the covers with her safely and seductively in his arms. “Don’t worry, my love. It will fit.”

Her naked body was soft and womanly, a perfect fit against his own, and he had to feel it. He wanted to know and understand every inch of her. He wanted to taste her sweet nectar, help her comprehend the infinite pleasures that awaited her in their future.

His finger found the triangle of hair that guarded her innocence. Although they had traveled this road once before, it did not stop her from gasping at the contact. He toyed with the curls, giving her a moment to adjust, and then continued on, deeper and deeper, until he found her opening. She was dripping, ready for him, pulsing feverishly around his finger.

Stephen stifled her moan with a kiss as he slid another long finger into her slickness, stretching her, preparing her for what was to come. She writhed against him and whimpered with delight.

“Oh, Stephen.” She breathed the name as if it were a benediction. “I need you.”

“Not yet.” His voice was a low growl, husky with his efforts at restraint. God, he needed her, too.

He used his fingers to stretch her even further, while his thumb settled on the tiny bud, eliciting an ecstatic gasp from his future bride.

His bride. He took a moment to enjoy that thought and then returned to the task at hand.

Convinced that he could ready her no more without losing his own self-control, he slid his fingers from her and rose up, once again, above her.

Her eyes were begging him, pleading with him to finish what he had started. And he smiled.

“You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he whispered sweetly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Becky wasn’t sure what he was talking about but she had a good idea that it had a great deal to do with the large shaft she’d seen protruding from his body.

“You could never hurt me,” she said, but Stephen knew that wasn’t entirely true. He had hurt her. He would spend a lifetime trying to make amends for his idiotic proposition.

“I will hurt you, my darling. Just this once, though, I promise. Do you trust me?”

A hint of worry snuck into her emerald eyes, but she nodded in spite and said, “I do.”

That was all the consent Stephen needed and he lowered himself between her legs, spreading her wide. He nudged gently at her opening, giving her time to adjust to the foreign intrusion.

Tiny stroke after tiny stroke drove him closer to her maidenhead and he fought against the urge to pummel right through it. He was determined to show her that the pain was only temporary and very much worth it in the end. He stopped and met her impatient gaze with his own.

“Why did you stop?”

Refusing her time to think, he plunged into her, breaking through the final barrier of her innocence.

Becky gasped, but clenched her teeth against the searing pain. It was acute, frightening in a way, but she put on a brave face and tried to follow the instructions to relax that Stephen whispered into her ear. But when the pain subsided, all she could think about, all she could feel, was the glorious girth that filled her innermost places. The delightful sense of being joined with the man who had haunted her dreams ever since the first time she’d dared to kiss him.

She undulated against him, giving him the go-ahead to continue, to take her to a place she’d never been before. She reveled in the feel of him, the glorious sensations that invaded her body. And when he leaned his head down to take her taut nipple between his teeth, she reached her breaking point.

A terrifying point of vulnerability, of undeniable ecstasy that had her crying out, stretching to meet him and then finally collapsing in sated exhaustion.

He kissed her then, driving his tongue deep, sucking her lips as if they were his first meal in months, until he found his own release. With a guttural roar, he came inside of her, filling her with his seed, making one of their two bodies.

Silence ensued as their minds wandered back into consciousness and their eyes locked, smoldering and lazy. Perfectly content.

Twenty-Four

As Becky stared into the cheval glass, her nerves tingled at the tips of her fingers. Goodness, this day had come quickly. The morning after Stephen proposed, they announced the news to their guests and of course, Phoebe and Lord Eastleigh, along with the twins, decided to stay for the nuptials. Within days, the rest of the family had descended upon Hastings House and created a flurry of excitement and chaos.

Becky had never been happier.

And though her nerves were raw with anticipation, she knew she had made the right decision. She would finally abandon her maid cum governess persona that she’d created in desperation seven years ago and become a viscountess. And more importantly, become Stephen’s viscountess.

A knock came at the door and the Wetherby women flooded into the room before she had a chance to invite them. In the mirror’s reflection, she watched as Phoebe and Katherine and both their mothers ushered Lydia forward.

“Oh, heavens, Lydia!” Becky exclaimed, turning to get a better look at her soon-to-be niece. “You look like an angel, darling!”

The girl turned from side to side, a wide grin on her face, and the bell of her ivory skirt swished with the motion. Becky’s heart melted at the sight and she fought back her tears.

“Now, now, we mustn’t have any of that,” Katherine declared as she made her way to Becky. “You don’t want to meet your groom with puffy eyes!”

“We’ve all come to wish you well, dear.” Lady Eastleigh stepped forward to kiss Becky upon each cheek, then backed away, dragging Katherine with her. “Now, we’ll get out of your hair.”

With a quick kiss, Katherine reluctantly followed her mother out of the room. Lady Blake was next in line and Becky did her best to ignore the tears that shimmered in the older woman’s eyes. Phoebe hung back, waiting her turn, clearly eager for a moment alone.

Becky knelt down and invited Lydia into her embrace. The child didn’t hesitate, but ran headlong into her arms. And when she asked, “May I call you mother, now?” the tears Becky had been holding back burst forth.

“Oh, Lydia, nothing would make me happier,” she replied as she accepted a handkerchief from Phoebe. “Now run along like a good girl and tell everyone I’m ready.”

With a wide smile that lit Becky’s heart, Lydia ran for the door and left the room.

“Are you all right?” Phoebe asked, motioning for Becky to join her on the small, pink settee.

She blew her nose and with a thick voice, replied, “I’m wonderful, actually. Is that not obvious?” They both laughed at this and then Phoebe procured a small letter addressed to Becky.

“This came for you a bit ago and Mrs. Brown asked me to deliver it.”

Becky eyed the missive and her stomach began to churn with an entirely different kind of nerves. There was only one person who knew she was here that wasn’t already in attendance for the wedding.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it from Phoebe. “Perhaps I’ll wait until later to read it.”

“Oh, and you mustn’t forget this!” Phoebe held up Becky’s locket, the one with her mother’s picture inside. She hadn’t planned on wearing it today, but on second thought, she couldn’t think of a more appropriate time to wear it.

Becky couldn’t stop the tears flowing down her cheeks as Phoebe secured it around the high lace collar of her dress. She missed her mother more today than she had missed her in the last seven years combined. How she wished she could see her in her wedding gown. How she wanted her to know Stephen and what an amazing man he was.

“Becky.” Phoebe spoke quietly as she took her hand and enclosed it in her own. “She would be so very proud of you.”

They shared a tearful hug and then Becky requested a moment alone. Once Phoebe was gone, she opened the letter. Her hands shook as she read:

Your title will never protect you. If you are smart, you will call off the wedding and return to London. Your father and your betrothed await.

Becky’s heart raced. What the devil was she supposed to do? She couldn’t very well call off her wedding now. Not with everyone waiting for her, not with Stephen and the children counting on her.

And not when it was her one chance at happiness!

Marrying Stephen would be a risk, she knew that. She’d known that all along. But she wouldn’t let Shaw or her devil-of-a-father ruin her joy. Not today, not ever. If they wanted her, they would have to come get her. And Becky vowed she would be ready for them when they did.

***

“You’re watching me sleep again, aren’t you?” Becky lay on her stomach, her face turned sideways on her pillow. She didn’t dare open her eyes to the blaring sunlight that poured into the room.

In the week since their wedding, Becky had become accustomed to being watched over in her sleep. Every morning she’d awakened to find her new husband staring at her, smiling at her with a mixture of wolfish intent and sheer happiness. And she knew he was doing it now.

“Stephen?” She braced herself and pried one eye open for merely a second to see if she was correct.

She wasn’t.

He was sleeping peacefully beside her, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. Somehow, Becky felt betrayed. It seemed their ritual of the last seven days had come to an end.

She opened her other eye to study him more closely and then, deciding that he was indeed sleeping, rolled onto her back with a sigh. Her mind wandered to the previous night. It had been just like all the other nights since their wedding in that it was pure bliss. Yet different, indeed. Yet another lesson in the art of seduction, in the heady delights of love-making.

Becky glanced sideways at her husband and smiled shyly before turning her gaze back to the canopy above her. If the things he did to her didn’t feel so utterly amazing, she would be utterly humiliated by them. As it was, she simply didn’t care what humiliating or embarrassing position he got her into, just so long as he never stopped getting her into them.

She dared another sideways glance at him, noticing the flash of blue as she did. Becky gave an incredulous gasp as she rolled onto her side and propped herself on her elbow. As she did so, the corners of her husband’s mouth twitched and twisted in his attempt to keep up the ruse.

“You were watching me!” she exclaimed as she watched her viscount pretend to wake in a languorous manner.

“Oh, good morning, darling,” he drawled sleepily, his blue eyes shrouded with heavy lids.

“You louse! I saw you! How long have you been awake?”

Stephen snaked one arm around her body, caressing the curve of her hip as he did so. Her bottom firmly in his grasp, he pulled her closer, melding their warm bodies together.

“Does that really matter?” he growled.

Becky giggled, enjoying every bit of his silly banter, very aware of the growing bulge below the covers. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “How long were you watching me, you naughty rake?”

“Naughty rake?” he repeated, a wicked glint in his sky-blue eyes. “Well, that’s a reputation that I’m all too eager to try and live up to.”

Stephen flipped her onto her back. His smile warmed her to her very core, drew her to his lips, made her drink him with unrestrained passion until both of them were panting with hot desire.

“Do you want me to stop watching you while you sleep?” came his husky inquiry.

Becky took his face in her hands, his morning stubble delightfully tickling her palms, and searched the depths of his eyes. “Never,” she whispered, the single word an invitation for him to teach her more about the mysteries of the marriage bed.

“Good,” he huffed. “Because I never intended to.”

***

That same evening, after they put the children to bed, they sat alone in the library, Becky reading aloud from a book of poetry while Stephen nursed a tumbler full of brandy. The fire in the hearth was warm, but it was no match for the warmth Becky felt in her heart.

Lying there, in the arms of her husband, her very own viscount, seemed like a dream. A very vivid and pleasant dream from which she hoped she would never wake. And the nightmare that was David Shaw was just that, a nightmare. It seemed that letter arrived so long ago that truly, Becky had hardly given it another thought since that day.

She shook off the brief thought of her threatening cousin and shifted in Stephen’s arms, one of which stretched over the back of the sofa. She nuzzled closer to his chest, fitting herself more snuggly beneath the pit of his arm.

Stephen took the opportunity to turn her face towards his so he could place a loving kiss to her pink lips. Becky smiled slowly up at him, reveling in the taste of the brandy on his mouth.

“Come away with me?” he asked, although Becky had the feeling it was not really a question.

“Come away?” she repeated. “To where?”

“Where would you like to go?”

Becky thought for a moment, somewhat confused by the question. “Well,” she began slowly, “perhaps we could take the children for a visit to Ravenscroft Castle.”

“Perhaps,” Stephen replied, his tone nonchalant. “But I was thinking more of an extended trip. Just the two of us.”

Becky sat up to better look at her husband. “Just the two of us? What will the children do while we’re gone?”

“Don’t worry, darling, arrangements can be made. I just need to know where it is you would like to travel.”

“Anywhere?” she asked, her eyes wide with wonder now.

Stephen smiled at her enthusiasm. “Within reason. We don’t want to spend months trying to get there. Perhaps somewhere on the continent.”

Becky’s initial thought was Paris. She’d always wanted to go and she was fluent in French, but she wondered how Stephen would react to the suggestion. He had fought against the French and up until recently had struggled greatly with the war’s outcome in his personal life. She did not wish to bring up old wounds so soon into their marriage.

“I don’t know. Where would you like to go?”

“How about Italy?” He smiled as he brushed a lock of hair off her face.

“Italy,” Becky whispered as if trying on the name for size. “Yes, Italy would be wonderful!”

And so it was set. They would leave in three weeks time and spend an entire month in Italy. Becky was beside herself with joy. She had never been anywhere outside of England, never imagined she would have the opportunity to travel beyond its borders.

“But, really, darling,” Becky said after having discussed their plans. “Who is going to look after the children?”

“Perhaps we could still send them to Ravenscroft Castle for the month. Would that please my lady?”

Becky smiled. She loved being called my lady, especially when Stephen said it with that blatant inference of possession.      “Absolutely, my lord,” she said before planting a kiss to his cheek.

She pressed closer to him, silently demanding he hold her. They stayed that way until Stephen felt his wife’s weight become heavy in his arms and then he carried her upstairs to their bedchamber.

He laid her down on the soft burgundy bed covers and began to undress her. She moaned sleepily as he released the clasps of her dress—a moan that had his cock springing to life yet again. He tried to suppress his urges as he continued to disrobe her, but with every inch of skin he revealed, he became harder and his need more dire.

By the time he had stripped her to all but her thin, ivory chemise, his blood was roiling, his skin fevered with lust. Every time he looked at her, beheld her fair glory, he was transfixed. Mesmerized. Utterly besotted.

Stephen removed his own clothing, which was already down to the bare minimum, moved to the side of the bed and stood over his slumbering bride.

Not for long, he thought as he pulled the last vestiges of her clothing from her perfect shape. All pink, delicate curves, she was the most astonishing sight he’d ever laid eyes on. Even a week into their marriage, and God knew how many love-makings later, he still found himself enraptured by the sight of her.

She moaned some more as he rolled her onto her stomach and placed a pillow underneath her so that her perfectly rounded bottom swelled into the air.

“Stephen?” she said groggily, not at all certain of what was happening, but too sleepy and far too curious to do anything about it.

“Shhh,” he hushed her with tender kisses to her back. “Let me take care of you.”

Positioning himself between her parted thighs, he lowered his body slowly over hers, nudging gently at her opening. Her moans became sultry giggles as he reached down with his fingers to touch her, to awaken her.

She was far more awake than she was letting on, at least her impulses were, and Stephen grew more and more excited at the prospect of being buried inside of her. He removed his fingers and quickly replaced them with his hard staff, plundering her, rejoicing in the warmth that surrounded him.

Becky came to life at the intrusion, mirroring his rhythm with her pleasured groans, rising up wantonly to meet him. He pumped her slowly, at times removing himself to tease her, other times, filling her to the hilt.

His strong arm reached around her stomach and pulled her back, off the bed, allowing deeper access while his hands roamed her taught belly. His fingers found their way to her breasts, heavy with the weight of his seduction.

It was then, when he clamped tight around her puckered nipples, that Becky began to splinter. The all-consuming pleasure surrounded him like a warm blanket, wrapped her in desire, as he held her in suspended ecstasy.

Stephen whispered against her neck, and kissed her fevered skin, but he did not stop. Inexorably, he continued to pleasure her, taking her to the edge, only to bring her back again. Holding her back when she was near her end, prolonging her rapture, relishing their indulgence.

Only when he sensed that she was near delirium did he allow his own reins to slip. And when she clenched around him, throbbing and pulsing, drawing him deeper into her, he followed her. With a guttural cry, she found her release and Stephen let go, filling her, bellowing her name in sweet surrender.

Twenty-Five

“Have I told you how beautiful you look today?” Stephen snuck up behind Becky while she watched the children trot around the stable ring on a pair of reddish-brown ponies.

She smiled blissfully as his arms wrapped around her waist. “Not that I can recall,” she replied as her insides flip-flopped with delight.

“Well, then, by all means, allow me to tell you that you are the most exquisitely beautiful woman that I have ever had the privilege to lay eyes upon.”

Stephen bent to kiss her shoulder and she recoiled with a giggle. “Not in front of the children!”

“They’re not paying attention.”

“Darling, don’t you ever get enough?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

She couldn’t get enough of him, either.

“No.” The one simple word held a world of meaning.

“They’re doing well, aren’t they?” Becky changed the subject, trying to refocus their attention on the children in the ring.

“Very well. Saunders is an excellent teacher.”

The older man in the ring led the tether on Lydia’s horse, guiding her around the circle while keeping a close watch on Max, who was developing into a canter. They had been taking lessons for a couple of weeks now and both children seemed to love the animals as well as the exercise.

Becky turned to look into the crystalline blue eyes of her husband. They glistened with love...and, of course, hunger. “What are you doing here, anyhow? I thought you were at the brewery all day.”

“I thought I would have to be, but it appears all is in order and I can whisk you away without another thought.”

They were two days away from their departure for Italy. Lord Eastleigh and Phoebe would arrive the next day to retrieve the children and take them back to Ravenscroft Castle—a prospect they were more than thrilled about—and Stephen and Becky would depart on Saturday.

“Uncle, look at me!” Lydia cried from atop her small horse that she had insisted upon calling Clarabelle, despite the fact that it was male.

“I see you, darling! You look magnificent!” Stephen regarded his niece with glowing approval.

How could he not? She was such a beautiful child, her fair curls tucked beneath a blue bonnet that matched her miniature, blue riding habit. He wondered how he could have been so indifferent to her all those years that she’d been in his care.

“She is destined to break hearts, is she not?” he mused on the subject of his niece.

“She?” Becky retorted with a snort. “What about that nephew of ours?”

Stephen shifted his gaze to the little man cantering about the ring. Despite his childlike features, he looked so like his father—sandy blonde hair, deep blue eyes and a stunningly-set jaw. Becky was right; he too would leave many an enamored lady in his distinguished wake.

“It would appear that we have our work cut out for us in the coming years.” He smiled down at his bride, resplendent in a moss green day dress, and planted a fleeting kiss to her lips. “I need to make sure all is in order here before we leave. I’m off to meet with Mrs. Brown and Bentley.”

“Shouldn’t I do that?”

“No, no, I’ve got it under control.”

“All right,” Becky sighed. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

“Do feel free to drop by my study if the urge overcomes you.”

Becky’s smile widened until it nearly touched both ears. She laughed and playfully shoved him in the direction of the manor. “You will stop at nothing, will you?”

“Never!” he yelled back with one last glance at his beautiful wife in the sunlight.

As he stepped into the house, his heart felt light, his head even lighter. She had that effect on him. The ability to make him feel like a smitten schoolboy, drunk on calf love. He still had a smile on his face when Mrs. Brown and Bentley entered his study ten minutes later, both looking somewhat disheveled and antsy.

“Ah, there you are,” Stephen said as they walked through the door. “I just wanted to make sure that all is in order before we leave. Any last minute things I need to attend to?”

Bentley spoke first, his voice drab and even as always. “Not that I can think of, my lord. Most of the staff will be departing soon to visit family. Mrs. Brown, myself and a few of the stable hands will stay on to see to the continued upkeep of the estate.”

“Excellent. Mrs. Brown?”

“All is in order, my lord. We shall miss you in your absence...both of you. And, of course, the children. Is it really necessary for them to go all the way to Kent, my lord? I am perfectly capable of caring for the darlings myself.”

“Your capabilities were never in question, Mrs. Brown,” Stephen said smoothly. “But the children have rarely been outside of Rye. We think this a fine opportunity to broaden their horizons.”

“We?” Mrs. Brown asked, her plump features set into a confused frown.

“Yes, we. As in, the viscountess and I.” He wondered if she might be losing her marbles.

“Ah, yes, of course. The viscountess.”

She said the last with a hint of...what was it? Disdain? Derision? Either way, he wasn’t sure he liked it. Or perhaps Mrs. Brown was simply having a bad day and meant no real offense. He shrugged it off and turned to Bentley, who had not-so-subtly cleared his throat.

“If there is nothing else, my lord.” The butler looked at him with his usual blank expression, but his fingers twitched slightly at his sides. He clearly had a great deal of work to see to.

“Oh, of course, Bentley. You may take your leave. You too, Mrs. Brown.”

The portly housekeeper gave a shallow curtsey and turned to follow Bentley from the room, but stopped on a wistful gasp as she retrieved something from her pocket.

“I almost forgot, my lord,” she said, circling back to his desk. “This came for you just a bit ago...from London.”

Stephen reached out and took the missive from her chubby fingers, choosing to ignore the fact that she’d not brought it to him at once when the post arrived. Once the door firmly shut behind her, Stephen opened the letter and read.

With a foul expletive, he rose from his chair and set off to alert Bentley to the minor change in plans, after which he would alert his wife.

He found her in the nursery with the children, sitting next to Max, both their heads bent over a book of Latin. Lydia sat at her own little desk, struggling to work out her arithmetic. All three of them looked up to greet him.

“Darling?” Becky raised her brows, clearly curious as to his sudden appearance in the nursery. It was not a place he frequented.

“Yes, eh...perhaps we should step into the corridor so the children can get on with their studies.” Stephen stepped to the side to allow Becky through the door, then followed into the hall after her.

“What is it?” she asked, subtle concern turning more blatant.

“There is no need to worry, darling, there’s just been a slight change in plans.”

“Change?”

“I’ve received word from London—there’s trouble at one of the pubs. Something to do with stolen kegs or some such nonsense. Either way, they are expecting me, but I promise I’ll be back for you in two days time.”

“Should I come with you?” she asked, but he could tell she wasn’t keen on the idea. Perhaps she didn’t care for London, which suited him just fine.

“Someone has to be here to see the children off tomorrow. Besides, I have to leave right away.” He looked into the resigned, green eyes of his darling wife. He hated to leave her. Hated the thought of spending even one night away from her, but alas, duty called. “I’m sorry, my love, but I’ll see you in two short days.”

“I know.” She sighed, allowing him to draw her into his arms. “I’ll miss you.”

“Not nearly as much as I will miss you, my darling girl.”

He smiled, enjoying the quiet moment, the pleasing smell of the perfume he’d bought her as a wedding gift.

“Come in and say goodbye to the children,” she said at last, pulling from his embrace.

He followed her into the nursery and said his goodbyes, assuring the children he would miss them immensely while they were abroad and to be on their best behavior for Lord and Lady Eastleigh.

“We will,” they replied in tandem and then launched themselves into his embrace.

He kissed both their heads and then kissed Becky before making his departure. He was eager to solve whatever this mess was as swiftly as possible.

***

Night had fallen by the time Stephen reached London and it was nearly midnight before he finally collapsed into the large bed in his Marylebone townhouse. The house had gone unused for quite some time, kept alive by a skeleton staff who, in the absence of any master, had very little to tend to. Stephen only occasionally made an appearance in London and even then, tried to remain scarce. As an eligible viscount, he had been keen to avoid the mamas and their daughters, and the less reputable women who preyed on wealthy men.

Now, as a married man, he simply had no desire to go out. No desire to mingle with the ton or participate in their featherbrained activities. All he wanted was to see to his business and get back to his bride as soon as possible.

He was up before the crack of dawn the next morning, a man on a mission, and his carriage was rattling to the West End even before the fishmongers had put out their wares.

There was no one at The Lamb yet, which was no surprise to Stephen. The pub rarely opened before eleven, but he figured if there were a problem, he’d be able to figure it out on his own. The letter had indicated stolen kegs, so Stephen set to counting his inventory, matching it against the ledger books that both he and the pub manager kept.

A half hour later, Stephen stood in the middle of the stock room, scratching his head. Nothing was wrong. Nothing out of order. Nothing missing from what he could tell.

Perhaps he had misread.

He reached for the missive in the left pocket of his waistcoat only to discover it wasn’t there.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I must have left it behind.”

Mentally retracing his steps, he concluded that he had indeed left it atop the bureau in his bedchamber.

“Back to Marylebone,” he called to the driver before climbing into his carriage once again.

As they clambered over the cobblestones, slowing periodically thanks to morning traffic, Stephen wracked his brain to try and remember what exactly the letter had said. He was certain he’d not mistaken the pub—it had come from The Lamb, from the manager, directly. And the gist had been that barrels were missing from the stock room.

What was there to misinterpret?

When the gig finally pulled up to Number 10 Beaumont Street, Stephen’s head was spinning with confusion. After notifying the driver that he would only be a minute, he darted into the townhouse and up the stairs to where he knew the letter would be.

Once in his hands, he opened it and read it over. Twice.

“What the devil?”

He looked at his pocket watch. Only nine o’clock. It would be some time before Matthews arrived at the pub; he would just have to bide his time.

Emerging once again from his townhouse into the bright morning sun, he looked this way and that, trying to decide how he would spend his morning. He could always go to the club and have breakfast, but that would probably mean socializing—something he was not inclined to do just then.

A ride through the park could be nice, but he wasn’t feeling particularly sporty that morning.

Glancing to his left, in the direction of Mayfair, he had the brilliant idea to go shopping. Bond Street seemed just the place to clear his mind and to buy something pretty for his new bride.

He pattered up and down Bond, first picking out some jaunty ribbons and a doll for Lydia, then a book for Max and finally a canary yellow diamond ring for his bride. The stone was the color of her hair, daintily set in gold, the perfect complement to her small hands.

Two hours later, he headed once again for the West End. Matthews was there when he arrived, looking more surprised than Stephen would have expected. If there were a problem, the man should have looked relieved.

“Lord Hastings,” Matthew said, extending his hand. “What brings you to London?”

Stephen gave him a perplexed look. “Why, you do, of course.”

“Is there a problem, milord?” The man’s brow furrowed with worry.

“According to your letter,” Stephen proffered the note, “yes.”

Matthews took it from him and frowned. “This ain’t from me, Lord Hastings. I say, my writin' ain’t that good. Not to mention, there’s been no problems with the stock.”

Stephen felt his insides turn cold as a frightening sense of foreboding came over him. “Who the hell would send me a falsified and forged letter?” he asked, more of himself than Matthews.

“Wish I could help ya, but I’ve no idea.”

His mind racing, Stephen looked up at the young manager. “Actually, that won’t be necessary.” He turned on his heel and strode from the pub into the increasingly hot day.

Mounting the carriage once more, he instructed the driver to take him immediately to Parliament. He had a good feeling who might be behind this and Westminster was the most obvious starting point.

Twenty-Six

Phoebe and Lord Eastleigh pulled into the drive just before noon. Becky and the children were there to greet them, despite the light mist that hung in the air. After exchanging greetings and explaining the absence of her husband, Becky led them into the house where their repast awaited them. They dined informally with the children, and enjoyed one another’s company once again.

“I do wish you could stay the night,” Becky said. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

Phoebe looked to her husband, the exhaustion quite evident in her eyes. He smiled softly.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” He turned to the children. “As long as these two scamps can wait one more day.”

Max and Lydia smiled and nodded their heads in agreement just as Bentley entered the dining room to deliver a message to Becky.

“Thank you, Bentley,” she said as she removed the note from the silver tray. “It’s from Stephen.”
She opened the note and read, not entirely sure how she felt about its contents. Joy and terror warred with one another, but Becky knew she couldn’t let on to any misgivings.

“What is it?” Phoebe inquired from the other side of the table, her brown eyes blinking with curiosity.

“He wants me to meet him in London. Evidently, the situation at The Lamb is going to take a bit more time than he expected and he thinks we should leave for Italy straight from Town.”

“I can’t say I blame him,” the marquess put in. “He’d merely be backtracking otherwise.”

“When is he expecting you?”

Becky scanned the note again, then looked up at Phoebe. “Tonight. He says the carriage will be ready to take me at two—that way I’ll be in Town before nightfall.”

“In that case, we’ll be on our way after lunch, then.”
Phoebe’s tired eyes shot to her husband; she clearly did not want to depart so soon.

“Just because I’m leaving does not mean that you need to. Really, you should stay the night.”

“You’re sure the viscount won’t mind?” Phoebe asked with a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Of course not. I already had your room prepared anyhow.”

With a grateful smile, Phoebe turned back to her lunch while the children regaled them with stories of their new ponies.

Becky had very little time to prepare for her departure, so as soon as she finished her meal, she made a beeline for her chamber. She hastily donned her smart new traveling habit and collected her necessities into a small valise. The trunks would follow the next day and be delivered to Stephen’s Marylebone townhouse—the townhouse she had yet to see.

She left her chambers just before two o’clock and met Phoebe, the marquess and the children in the front hall to say her goodbyes.

Lydia’s lower lip quivered ever so slightly as Becky hugged her goodbye, but her big brother stepped in to try and soothe her fears.

“Don’t be sad, Lyddie,” he told her. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Becky added. “And you’re going to have such a grand time at Ravenscroft Castle, you’ll hardly notice we’re gone.”

The girl nodded her head as silent tears dripped down her cheeks and then kissed Becky goodbye before taking her brother’s hand in hers. Becky’s heart tugged at the sight. Max was turning out to be a wonderful little man.

With a kiss to Max’s head and hugs to Phoebe and Lord Eastleigh, she made her departure. Bentley helped her into the waiting carriage and then called to Simmons once the door was shut. Becky waved to the quartet on the stoop as it pulled from the drive, sad to leave, but thrilled for her adventure.

***

“Hastings! Over here!”

Stephen had only just crossed the threshold of the front doors to Parliament when William Hart, Duke of Weston, beckoned him to join his small posse halfway down the corridor. They had met briefly at the wedding, but there had been little time to get acquainted. However, they were practically family now and Stephen was certain that His Grace would be willing to help in his quest. Not to mention, the man was married to Kat the Canary, as the ton liked to refer to Katherine, Duchess of Weston. No man in Town would be better equipped with gossip.

As Stephen approached the group, his body still tense and anxious, Weston clapped a friendly hand to his back. “How is married life, Hastings? Is our Becky well?”

“Actually, Weston, if I might have a word—” Stephen glanced around the circle of other MPs, “—alone?”

A worried frown crinkled Weston’s forehead, but he excused himself and fell into step beside Stephen.

“Everything all right?”

Stephen proffered the note he’d received from The Lamb. “This came for me yesterday.”

Weston scanned the note quickly then glanced sideways, obviously confused as to why Stephen was sharing this with him.

“Matthews didn’t send it. And there’s not a thing out of order at the pub. I have a feeling I know who’s behind this, but I’m going to need your help.”

“Go on.”

“I think David Shaw is our culprit.”

“A logical guess, based on what I know of his visit to Hastings House. What is it you need me to do?”

“Track him down. Distract him. Make sure he doesn’t step a toe outside of London before I have a chance to make sure Becky is safe.”

“Where will you be?” Weston asked as Stephen made for the doors.

“I’m going back to Rye. Send word there if you find anything.”

Panic driving his feet, Stephen left Parliament and headed straight for Hastings House.

***

By four o’clock, Becky was getting restless. Or at least her bladder was. And the constant rain wasn’t helping the matter at all. She called up to the driver to request a stop but met with no response.

With a humph, she sat back, contemplating whether she could hold out another hour or so. The carriage wheels tripped over bumpy terrain and Becky’s insides went with it. There was no way she could wait until they reached Town.

Sitting up again, she banged on the glass panel that separated her from the driver and called out once more. “Simmons!” Her voice strained to be heard over the steady drum of rain and horses’ hooves. “Simmons, I need to stop!”

Again, no answer. Becky fought a chill of uneasiness. Why was Simmons ignoring her? It wasn’t like him.

She resettled in her seat, trying to take her mind from the burning in her pelvis, and pulled the curtain back to see outside. The sky was nearly black despite the early hour.

A quarter past four. She tucked the small watch back into her reticule. She’d be in London by six. That brought a serene smile to her lips. The thought of dining with her husband alone in his lavish townhouse, of sleeping snuggly beside him while the city noises buzzed from the outside, made her decide that perhaps she didn’t want to stop after all.

She just wanted to get to Stephen.

A half hour later, the carriage slowed and then halted. Becky leaned forward to find out why, hopeful they were somewhere with a convenience. Pulling back the black velvet panel, she looked confusedly about.

She had expected to see a coaching inn of some sort. Instead, she found that they were simply pulled alongside the road, trees and forest the only thing in view.

“Simmons?” Becky called out, her nerves wrapping around her throat.

She could faintly hear the sounds of scuffling feet in the gravel and muffled voices, too hushed to understand. Panic settled into her bones as alarm bells rang loudly in her ears. But before she could make another move, the door opened and blackness engulfed her. She could barely breathe through the heavy shroud, and her mind turned hazy.

She struggled against the hard form that held her, flailing violently, hoping to inflict any damage she could manage from her position.

As she kicked and clawed, contesting for her life, the unmistakable strains of Shaw’s familiar voice reached her ears and her blood turned cold. “This would be much easier if you would only cooperate, dearest.”

“You bastard!” she screamed through the veil of black. “I wouldn’t cooperate with you if my life depended on it!”

“Such language for a lady." He gave a cynical laugh. “I’m sure you’ll feel differently when you realize that your life actually does depend on your cooperation.”

Becky stilled in his arms, finding it difficult to process what she’d just heard. He was going to kill her? Rather than let another man have her for a wife? She had never imagined that murder would be his plan. But he was right—she did feel differently. She had a husband now and two small children who depended upon her, who she could not allow to suffer any more than they already had.

Whatever she had to do, she would protect them from experiencing further loss, from having to bury yet another mother.

“That’s better, now, isn’t it?” came her cousin’s drawling question.

She nodded, feeling forlorn and helpless from under the suffocating shroud. In the next moments she was shoved into yet another carriage without the slightest bit of care, followed by Shaw himself, who took the seat next to her. He was smaller than Stephen, both in stature and girth, but still far bigger and stronger than Becky, taking up the majority of the small bench.

Becky huddled closer to the edge, desperate to put as much distance between her and her captor as she possibly could. He inched closer, and Becky was sure he did it simply to annoy her.

Finally she broke through the silence. “Where are you taking me?”

Shaw gave a snort. “That, my dear, is irrelevant.”

“Why? What do you plan to do with me?”

“Full of questions, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly as many as the magistrate will be when they discover you’ve kidnapped a viscountess.”

“Ah, Becky darling...what is in a name?” he asked, his voice lilting with sinister amusement.

“A great deal,” she replied, biting her words in frustration. “My father’s name absolved him of his crime.”

“Your mother was a whore,” he countered, causing Becky’s spine to bristle. “What? You didn’t know?”

“My mother was a saint,” she said, her voice cold with disdain. “And I’ll not hear another word against her, especially not from a bastard like you.”

“You’re certainly a fiery one, aren’t you?” His fingers met with her exposed hand. She jerked it away. “I can guess why Hastings was so eager to wed you.”

“Why are you doing this?” Becky asked, ignoring his innuendo.

“Because a little bitch like you needs to learn her lesson.”

“And what lesson could I possibly learn from a deranged man such as you?”

Becky could feel his breath on her face through the black cloth.

“That you can’t run from your past.”

The conversation came to a halt at that. He was right, after all. Her past had caught up with her.

Neither one said anything for some time, but Becky’s insides churned in increasing discomfort. She had yet to relieve herself, and while that was no longer the sole source of her misery, it provided the perfect opportunity for an escape.

Softening her tone, she made a plea. “David, I’m afraid I am not feeling well. Would it be possible to stop—only for a moment?”

“I would have expected a more creative excuse from you, Becky. And, no, we won’t be stopping until morning.”

“Morning!” Becky exclaimed. “Really, David, I won’t try anything. You have my word. If you’ll only let me—”

“No.”

“But I have to—”

“No.”

“This is ridiculous!” Becky cried. “I am mere seconds away from soiling myself—I was even before you abducted me. Now, unless you actually enjoy traveling amidst other people’s waste, I suggest you stop the carriage!”

She couldn’t see him, but she could feel his assessing gaze on her, wondering if she could be trusted. After a momentary pause, she felt his weight shift forward on the seat and heard his fist pound on the wall of the carriage.

They came to a stop. Shaw crawled past her and alighted the vehicle before reaching in and pulling her out after him. She could feel the light droplets of rain hitting her head through the woolen sack as he walked her off the road, his hand gripping her arm in frustration.

“All right. Go.”

Becky looked around, even though she could see nothing but black through the thick fabric that enshrouded her. “I can’t see anything.”

Her cousin gave an annoyed grumble. “What the hell do you need to see? Just go!”

“But I can’t see!” she persisted. “What if I soil my dress?”

“You were more than willing to soil your dress in my bloody carriage, you little wench, now stop talking and take care of your business!”

Becky could sense his irritation, but she would only have to prod a little further to get him to lift the veil of itchy wool. “I won’t go unless you remove this thing!”

“Then I’ll throw you back into that carriage—”

“Then I’ll go there!”

“Fine!”

Becky heard the crunching of his boots in the leaves as he strode purposefully toward her, and then a rush of cool air hit her skin as he swooped the shroud from her head. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She blinked up at him, amazed at what she saw.

He looked as if he’d aged twenty years and had abandoned any and all attempts at hygiene ever since that night at Hastings House.

“Go. Now!” he broke into her thoughts.

“Turn around.”

“Now.”

“Turn around!”

In the next moment, Shaw had her by the neck, his icy fingers pressing the sensitive points just below her jaw.          “You are wasting valuable time,” he seethed. “I’m not about to give you the opportunity to try and run, so if you think for a second that I’m going to turn my back, you are seriously mistaken. Now I suggest that you finish what it is I brought you here for.”

Releasing her with a push, he stepped back and crossed his arms, daring her to try and defy him. She was up to the challenge.

She took a moment to regain her balance and her breath, and then said, “Turn...around.” Her words were slow and deliberate and she wondered what in all of heaven she was thinking.

This man was capable of killing—she had no proof, but she could see it in his eyes. He was angry, bloodthirsty, deranged beyond the pale. Becky shivered at his wild expression, but held her ground firmly. In truth, she knew it would be foolish to try and run. He was stronger, undoubtedly faster than her, and he was not alone. Two men sat atop the carriage—hulking men who could probably snap her in two—men by whom she did not relish being handled.

But she’d been humiliated enough. She was determined to maintain the last shred of her dignity.

Noting her uncompromising resolve, David motioned for the men to join him in the shallow thicket of the trees. When they reached the spot where Becky stood with her cousin, he instructed them to form a circle around her, their backs facing the center, while she found her relief.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, David! This is ridiculous!” Despite her grumbling, she hiked her skirts up and squatted down close to the ground.

The position was awkward—far more awkward than she could have imagined—but she was far too relieved to care at that point.

“All right. You may turn around now.” With her bladder finally empty, she found it much easier to remain calm and to focus her thoughts.

There had to be a way out of this, some way of escape. Until she thought of it, she would cooperate with whatever he said, follow his every instruction no matter what.

And above all else, she wouldn’t cry.

Twenty-Seven

Stephen pulled up to Hastings House well past seven o’clock that evening. Traffic out of Town had been hell—stalled wagons and meandering barouches at every turn—it had taken nearly two hours simply to reach the city’s outer limits.

But he was finally home, terrified to walk through the front door. He had no idea what he’d find—who he’d find—on the other side. He spent the entire ride trying to remain optimistic, but had not succeeded. There was something very wrong and nothing could tell him otherwise.

He burst through the front door and bellowed for Bentley, who came running promptly, his expression one of confusion.

“Where is the viscountess?”

“On her way to London, sir. At your request.”

“Damn! When did she leave?”

“She departed with Simmons at two o’clock. Is there a problem, my lord?”

“Damn, damn, damn! If she were actually headed for London, we certainly would have crossed paths.”

“Where could she be headed then, my lord?”

Ignoring his question, Stephen called for the housekeeper. Perhaps Becky spoke with Mrs. Brown before her departure.

“She isn’t here, Lord Hastings.”

Stephen turned to the butler, knowing he must look like a wild savage in his current state. “What do you mean, she isn’t here? Where in the hell is she?”

Despite the furor of his master, Bentley remained calm. “Gone to visit her sister at the last minute, sir. Says she received word that she’d taken ill.”

“Ill indeed! She doesn’t even have a sister!” He knew there’d been something amiss with that woman. He still didn’t understand completely, but it was obvious she had something to do with Becky’s disappearance.

“Hastings? What are you doing here?”

Lord Eastleigh stood in the doorway to the main drawing room, his appearance one of a man who’d been enjoying some alone time with his wife.

“We have a problem.”

Stephen strode past Eastleigh into the drawing room, ignoring the marchioness’s dishevelment. He sat down across from Lady Eastleigh, whose eyes were already burnished bronze with panic. He explained the situation—at least what he could glean from what little information he had.

“You mean you didn’t send for her this afternoon?” came the marchioness’ strident inquiry.

“No, but I don’t think there’s any doubt who did.”

“Oh God, Benjamin, what are we going to do?” Lady Eastleigh pleaded with her husband.

“You stay here with the children. We’re going to find her.”

With conspiratorial nods, Eastleigh and Stephen rose from their respective chairs and left the drawing room, their feet doggedly forging a path to the stables.

They saddled their horses in silence, both men gripped by fear but neither willing to show it. Stephen especially fought to maintain a composed façade—if he didn’t, he would crumble to pieces. The thought of losing yet another person so close to him, someone he loved so dearly—

No. He refused to even entertain the thought of losing his dear Becky.

Stephen had his left foot in the stirrup, ready to swing his right leg over the opposite side of the stallion, when a rustling noise from one of the other stalls stopped him.

“Did you hear that?” he asked Benjamin.

Eastleigh looked up. “Hear what?”

More rustling. “That,” said Stephen as he strode from the stall. He listened closely to determine where the noise was coming from.

It could have been a restless horse or one of the property’s stray cats, but the voice inside his head told him otherwise. He began pushing open stall doors, half expecting to find a rendezvous between two of his staff—it would not have been the first time—but as he neared the last door, it was evident that it was not a passionate tryst.

The muffled sounds reached his ears as he drew nearer and when he pushed the door open, he found his trusted driver, Simmons, bound and gagged and half naked.

“Dear God,” he cursed. “Eastleigh!”

The marquess came running and assisted Stephen in freeing the man who was still considerably shaken from the ordeal.

“Simmons, what happened?” Stephen asked once they’d removed the gag. “Who did this to you?”

Simmons swallowed hard. “I was just goin’ about my chores, tendin’ to the horses and all. I was alone—at least I thought I was. A man—a big brute of a man—put a gun to my back. Told me to rig the carriage or he’d shoot. Once I’d done it, he tied me up and threw me in here.” The man looked from Eastleigh to Stephen and back again, his eyes filled with distress. “I should have done something—”

“No,” Stephen stopped him from finishing the sentence. “You did the right thing. If you had fought, he would have killed you and still made off with the viscountess.”

Simmons’ face dropped. “They took Lady Hastings?” he asked, his voice feeble, almost whimpering.

Obviously the brute had not informed him of his ultimate plan.

Stephen nodded gravely, then set to untying the rest of the man’s bindings. Once free, Stephen and Eastleigh left the man to collect himself and ran for their horses.

“We’ll have to split up, Hastings,” Eastleigh pointed out as they approached their respective animals. “We’ll never find her if we don’t.”

Stephen nodded, his right leg swinging over to straddle the stallion. “But we will find her, Eastleigh. Make no mistake. And when I do, I plan to kill David Shaw.”

***

William, Duke of Weston, strode into Whites at half past eight that same evening, having been in search of his brothers-in-law for several hours already. At last he found them, lounging against the bar, full pints of amber ale in their hands.

“You two are nearly impossible to track down, you know?” William said as he approached the bar. “I’ve been following your trail since late this afternoon.”

“Sorry, Weston,” Andrew replied as he shook his hand. “Anything important?”

“Rather.” He quickly gave the boys a rundown of the matter at hand. “Hastings went back to Rye this afternoon, but he set me on a mission to find out where Shaw is.”

“And?” Michael prodded.

“And he’s out of town on a supposed hunting trip.” William gave a weighted sigh. “I’m afraid this doesn’t bode well for Becky. Clearly the man is up to no good.”

Without another word, the twins set down their libations and followed Weston from the club.

“Where should we start?”

“We’ll explore all possibilities south of the city. We will rendezvous at The Windmill just outside Birmingham tomorrow morning. If we haven’t found him, we’ll reorganize.”

“Which way do you want us to go?”

Weston thought for a moment before launching into a tirade of instructions.

“Make sure you check every inn—leave no stone unturned.”

***

Becky woke, startled and disoriented, shrouded once again in all-consuming blackness. The carriage jolted and bumped, wriggling her mind back to her senses—to the nightmare in which she played the starring role.

It was freezing. She shivered uncontrollably, and her body ached from constant travel. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. The last thing she wanted was to render herself so vulnerable in the lone company of a madman, but at some point she lost the fight to stay awake. She had tried, but the time had grown late and the blackness lulled her into an uncomfortable sleep in the jostling carriage.

Luckily, she wasn’t the only one to have fallen into a deep slumber. From beside her, she could hear the faint sounds of a man snoring. Shaw was out cold.

Her heartbeat quickened as she grappled with the question of whether or not to raise the shroud. It was loosely thrown over her head, a large sack of a thing, and extended all the way to her wrists. She hadn’t dared try to lift it earlier—even though it would have been easy enough—for fear of rustling her captor’s feathers.

But now he was sleeping. If she could only see, she might be able to assess her situation, assess the possibility of making an escape.

Carefully, she wrapped her fingers around the edge of the veil and began to roll it upward. She had pulled it just past her elbows when the carriage hit a large bump in the road. Shaw stirred slightly then rearranged himself and went back to sleep. When the rumbling snore resumed, Becky began once more to pull the fabric over her head.

This time she succeeded. Not that the removal was much help. It was black as pitch inside the carriage and even when she pulled back the curtains, the sliver of moon offered very little light through the rain clouds that continued to water the terrain.

Regardless, if she wanted to escape she would have to do it now. She peered out the window. They were going at quite a clip. With no traffic and in the middle of the night, there was nothing stopping them from racing at the speed of hell-fire.

But she couldn’t let that stop her. She also couldn’t let the idea of rabid wolves and highwaymen deter her either. She was currently in the clutches of one of the world’s most dangerous creatures and she decided she would rather take her chances with the wolves.

Hand on the door lever, Becky glanced back at Shaw to make sure he was still sleeping, and then braced herself to leap from the racing vehicle.

Without thinking, she threw the door open and leapt to the ground. The force of the fall sent her tumbling down the grassy hillside. Her body met with rocks and thorns and other painful bits of nature, and her new traveling dress suffered the bulk of the damage. As she rolled to a stop at the bottom of the hill, she took a moment to rejoice in her success and then leapt into action. Her goal was to get as far away from the road as possible. It was likely that Shaw had woken at the sudden rush of air and noise and it would take mere seconds for him to realize that his prisoner was gone.

And not much longer to turn around and begin searching for her.

Despite the exhaustion in her limbs, Becky picked herself up and ran as fast as her feet would carry her into the woods, deep into the darkness of an unknown forest.

The rain had been gaining momentum throughout the night and already Becky’s dress was nearly soaked through. The heavy material became heavier with every drop and slowed her progress through the black thicket, but she knew she could not stop.

Heart pounding and muscles aching, she dredged on, wondering how long it would be before daylight broke. She had no idea how long she had slept, no idea what time it was now. It could have been near morning, but she had a feeling it was only just past midnight.

She thought of Stephen and wondered if he had learned of her disappearance yet. He had been expecting her for dinner. Surely he must have grown worried when she did not arrive at the townhouse. Becky had no doubt that he would go looking for her and she took great comfort in that fact.

She paused briefly as the sounds of a carriage wafted through the trees from the direction of the main road. Shaw was awake and aware of her escape. If they succeeded in tracking her footprints in the dirt road, they would succeed in tracking her into the forest. A game of cat and mouse was about to begin and Becky wanted to give herself as much of a head start as she could.

Ignoring the sudden and searing pain in her abdomen, she hiked up her skirts and began to run, farther, deeper, allowing the black to swallow her, to shield her from the oncoming madman.

Twenty-Eight

Stephen rode as fast as he possibly could, pushing his stallion to its very limit. He had sent Eastleigh north in the direction of London and he himself had gone west, headed straight for Shaw’s home town of Horsham. He reached the small town in three hours time and found a roadside coaching inn to water the horse and try to glean any information on Becky’s whereabouts.

Although it was late, the inn was still fairly crowded. The locals gathered at rustic tables, and the lighting was dim enough to hide most of their features. Probably a good thing for those being entertained by the voluptuous staff. Bits and pieces of drunken philosophical discussions filtered to his ears, but he barely registered what they were saying.

Stephen pushed his way through, his sights set on the man behind the bar, and as calmly as possible, requested a pint. Once he had been served, he set to questioning the barkeep.

“Any thoughts on where I might find a Mr. David Shaw?” he asked, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Ah, Mr. Shaw,” the keep replied. “He’s a funny one, that Shaw. Bit dodgy, if ya ask me. Then again, so’s the current earl.”

Stephen’s ears perked. “Earl?”

“Sure. Shaw’s next in line to take the old man’s place. Shouldn’t be too much longer, though. Copthorne’s not been the same since his wife and daughter passed.”

“In childbirth, I assume?”

“Oh, no. Tragic accident. Word is her ladyship met with a faulty stair and tumbled down the staircase, taking her daughter with her. Broke their necks, the both of ‘em. Only fifteen, poor Lady Isabelle was.”

Stephen contemplated the sad story for a moment, the pit in his stomach growing by the minute. He wasn’t sure what he would garner by asking any more questions about Shaw’s extended family, but something drove him to make another inquiry.

“The earl’s surname...is it Shaw as well?”

The bartender wiped the sweat from his brow with a shake of his head. “No, milord. Thornton. Rufus Thornton.”

Isabelle Thornton. Stephen rolled the name around in his head for a moment while the barkeep tended to other customers. He was ready to move on, find someone else to provide him with more clues, but changed his mind. The keep had been rather forthcoming already, perhaps he would continue to engage him.

“You’ve hardly had a sip,” the barkeep said upon his return. “Not partial to that blend, are ya?”

The truth was the blend wasn’t all that good, but Stephen shook his head and said, “No, it’s fine. I just can’t seem to get that story out of my head. So sad, really. A young girl, so close to her debut into society...” He tsked a few times for effect. It worked.

“Ah, you’ve no idea, milord.” The barkeep sighed heavily and leaned against the counter. “Many a gent were waiting for that one to become of age. Beautiful, she was. Never seen eyes quite so green in my life.”

Stephen’s blood turned cold. That was it. He had finally hit on the mystery. His breath came in short spurts as he began to piece it all together. Good God. Becky Thorn was no more a maid or governess than he was. She was Lady Isabelle Thornton.

“Where can I find Shaw?” he asked, struggling for calm.

“Spends most of his time in the city, from what I gather. But his property is just on the other side of the hill, down the road, past the embankment. Though it’s rather late for makin’ social calls, I’d say. Plenty o’ room if ya wanna stay the night.”

Stephen drained his ale and slammed the tankard down on the bar. “That won’t be necessary.” He placed more coin than was necessary on the bar. “But thanks anyhow.”

With that, he marched out the door, mounted his stallion once more, and headed in the direction of Shaw’s property.

Unfortunately, as he approached, it became apparent that the place was empty. Not a single torch or candle burned from the inside and upon inspection of the stables, Stephen realized that not a soul had been in residence for some time.

“Damn!” he hissed. Frustration and fear mounted as he tore out of the long drive, back to the highway.

***

Becky’s feet ached with the desire to stop running. Her legs begged her to rest, to show a bit of reprieve. But she worried that if she stopped, she would not be able to get back up again, and that was something she could not risk. Shaw would stop at nothing to find her, a fact she was more than certain of. She needed to find shelter and fast. But how would she ever find shelter in this pitch black wood?

She had already outsmarted him, now her only hope was to outrun him. Him and his giant cronies.

She ran on, her body drenched with sweat and rain, her stomach cramping from the continuous speed. At least I had the good sense to put on boots instead of slippers. But even those were losing ground. She could feel the twigs and barbs cutting through the fine, kid leather and she prayed they would hold out until she could find a refuge.

Daring a look behind her, Becky froze in terror. Far off, in the distance, she could see the low lights of oil lamps through the trees. She was still a good bit ahead of them, but not for long. They were faster and stronger and probably outfitted in much sturdier boots than the dainty ones she wore. It was only a matter of time before they caught up.

Ignited by the horrific thought of being captured again—especially now she’d caused them so much trouble by escaping—she increased her pace and practically flew through the forest, dodging trees that could not be seen until they were very nearly in front of her face.

She wished more than anything that she could scream for help. That she could cry out in distress and be rescued. But she was on her own. Completely alone. She would have to rescue herself.

By the time the first rays of sunlight broke onto the horizon, she had lost them. When she looked behind her, she saw nothing but trees—thick trunks and lush leaves—and her heart gave a sigh.

Slowing to a walk, she continued on, noting as she did, the disheartening damage done to her traveling habit. The hem of the dress was ruined, muddy and torn, completely beyond repair. The rest of it was splattered with mud, ripped here and there thanks to her initial fall from the carriage as well as wayward limbs she’d been oblivious to in the dark. Her boots were the worst of all. Covered in a thick coat of mud, they were unrecognizable and the bottoms left the pads of her feet exposed. They were cut and bleeding, but Becky pushed through the pain until she was sure she’d reached safety.

As if weaning herself off of the breakneck pace, Becky slowed and eventually came to a stop. She looked around, assessing her surroundings, making sure she was truly alone, and then eased her sore body to the ground.

Then, and only then, did she allow the terrifying emotion of the last several hours to take over. Her mind flooded with thoughts of what could have happened to her—what would have happened if she had not escaped—what was going to happen to her now, lost and alone in a foreign wood, hours from anything familiar.

And once she was found. Once she returned home to Hastings House, what would happen to her? Shaw knew she was alive. Her father probably did too, by now.

Becky knew she had a decision ahead of her, and neither option gave any comfort.

***

Stephen rode on determinedly, despite his utter exhaustion. But he wanted to get to the rendezvous point as soon as possible. The Windmill was just before the town of Coventry, and Stephen was there in time for breakfast. Not that he wanted to eat. He wouldn’t be able to function as a normal human being until he knew Becky was safe.

As fate would have it, he wouldn’t have to wait long, it seemed. Only a half hour after he’d settled into his corner table, his quarry waltzed into The Windmill.

Though, perhaps waltz wasn’t the best word to describe his entrance. The man looked like he’d danced a hundred tarantellas in a row, to be honest. This brought a little smile to Stephen’s lips. Clearly, Becky hadn’t given him an easy time.

Behind Shaw, the Duke of Weston took his stance by the front door. Good. No easy escape for the bastard.

Stephen rose from his table with a brief acknowledgement of his friend, and watched as Shaw nearly pissed himself with shock. Coward. When Shaw turned again, he found himself sandwiched between the two very tall, very angry men. He was unavoidably trapped.

“Where is she?” Stephen kept his tone even, but no less threatening.

“I-I don’t know,” came the uneasy response of the spineless Shaw.

Stephen clenched his fists at his sides. He would not be able to restrain himself from throttling the man for very long. But first, he needed information.

“Where,” he asked again slowly, “is she?”

“I swear, I don’t know!”

In one swift movement, Stephen had him thrown against the wall, alerting other breakfasters to the inevitable conflict about to take place. Many of them stood from their seats, others froze where they were to see who would make the next move.

It was Stephen. When Shaw failed once again to answer his question properly, he delivered a hard blow to the man’s stomach while keeping him pinned firmly against the wall.

William watched and waited, allowing Stephen to avenge his wife, ready to step in at any moment. It wasn’t until one of Shaw’s cronies showed up that he was needed, and then all hell broke loose.

Ne’er-do-wells, eager for action, jumped into the fold, punching and kicking whoever was in their path while others stood to the side cheering them on. Screams from the few women unfortunate enough to be in the tavern rent the air.

Stephen ignored all of it. He kept to Shaw, pummeling him with all the strength he had left in him, driven by a savage instinct to pound the man into the ground.

The melee continued to mount into an all out brawl. Tables were overturned, glass shattered left and right, and the smell of blood hung stagnant in the air. Stephen was only mildly aware of the burst of sunlight that suddenly flooded the dank pub as he continued to drive his fist into Shaw’s gut. A flash of shiny black caught his eye, but before he had time to react, a deafening gunshot riddled the air, bringing the rioters to a deadly quiet.

A hush fell over the unruly crowd as they tried to determine who, if anyone, had been shot. But standing in the doorway to the inn were the brothers Wetherby, Eastleigh’s smoking pistol pointed toward the ceiling. Both Lord Andrew and Lord Michael stood with their own pistols cocked and ready to fire should anyone make another move.

“Just tell us what you did with her, Shaw,” Eastleigh warned, his aim leveled with the man’s head. “Tell us where she is.”

Still in Stephen’s clutches, realizing there was no way of escape, he finally confessed. “She jumped. The little bitch jumped out of the carriage.”

Stephen flexed his arm around Shaw’s neck, causing him to gasp. “I’ll ask you to watch your tongue when speaking of my wife.”

“She was supposed to be my wife! And she will be, once I alert the authorities and have your marriage annulled. She’s been promised to me since birth, and I’ve been looking for her ever since she ran off all those years ago. She’s mine, Hastings.”

The crazed look in Shaw’s eyes told Stephen this was not a well man. “Hear me now, Shaw. Becky is my wife, and she is under my protection. You’ve lost your senses to think you could ever change that, contract or no. She is my wife, in every sense of the word. I’ll kill you before I let you near her again.” He tightened his grip slightly to emphasize his point, and then asked, again, “Now, where is she?”

Shaw looked as if he wanted to argue the matrimonial points again, but when Weston also aimed his gun at Shaw’s head, the man’s expression changed to one of compliance.

“We tried to look for her, but she’d gotten too far into the forest by the time we started.” He sucked in a strangled breath. “I have no idea where she could be now.”

“Where were you when she jumped?” William asked.

Shaw’s eyes went beseechingly to his accomplices.

“Just past Bloxham, I think,” came the thick cockney of one of the brutes. “Sometime before Harbury.”

Stephen’s heart gave a leap at the news. She was alive—she had to be. His darling girl had executed a successful escape. Springing to action, he transferred Shaw into the custody of the duke. The twins apprehended the other two men, holding them at gunpoint while they awaited the local authorities.

Stephen and Eastleigh dashed from the pub, retrieved their horses, and sped off to find Becky. Within an hour they reached the edge of the forest—a vast, unending thicket of dense trees, dark and uninviting.

Stephen stared at it, wondering what he might find inside, wondering how on earth he would find Becky. If he would even find her alive.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, giving his horse a light tap with his boot.

Eastleigh followed close behind, his eyes roaming the trees, doubling the terrain that Stephen’s roamed first. They rode on slowly, calling Becky’s name every so often, desperate for a response.

Hours went by and by late afternoon, Stephen began to lose hope. His throat was hoarse and his body ached, and he started to imagine the worst.

“Hastings.” Eastleigh pulled up beside him, his finger pointed to something in the distance.

Stephen followed his direction and caught sight of a small, green lump, nestled amongst the fallen leaves. A mess of tangled blonde hair confirmed that the lump was indeed his wife.

His precious Becky.

Heart racing, pounding loudly in his ears, he leapt from his horse and ran to her, falling to his knees next to where she lay.

Eastleigh was behind him in moments. “Is she...?”

Stephen nodded as her heartbeat reached the ear that was pressed firmly to her chest. He squinted his eyes to hold back the tears, then folded his arms around her and lifted her off the ground to a sitting position. Becky moaned as she blessedly opened her eyes.

“You found me?” Although it was clear they had, she posed it as a question.

“Yes, my darling, we found you,” Stephen replied, kissing her face with gentle kisses. “And I’m never going to let you out of my sight again.”

Becky gave a weak smile that soon turned to a frown. “I thought you’d never find me,” she said with a quivering lip.

“But we did.” Stephen hushed her and pulled her close for a moment, and then asked, “Can you stand?”

Becky shook her head. “I can’t even feel my legs anymore. I’ve been running for so long.”

Without hesitation, Stephen lifted her into his arms and swung her over the saddle. He climbed on behind her and then kicked the horse into motion. He couldn’t get his wife home soon enough.

Twenty-Nine

It was almost sundown by the time they made it back to The Windmill. Though Stephen hated to return to the scene of the riot, it was the closest place he knew of to take Becky. Tomorrow, they would ride back to Rye, but tonight, she needed a good meal and a good night’s rest.

“I’m surprised the innkeeper let you back in after that story,” Becky said as she lathered the lye soap between her hands. Water splashed from the copper tub by the fire and her breasts bounced with the motion. It was all Stephen could do to keep from jumping into the bath with her.

Instead, he turned his eyes back to the ceiling and stared at the wooden beams above him, ignoring the wooden rod in his trousers. “I think it was obvious who was at fault today,” he replied. “And I doubt anyone could have denied a man carrying such a wretched-looking urchin in his arms.”

Droplets of warm water splashed on his face and he sat up to look at his wife. “I’m only teasing you, my love,” he assured her as he leapt from the bed and went to her side. “You know you are the most glorious creature, no matter what.”

A smile broke out on her lips and her hand appeared from beneath the water, bearing the soap. “Would you mind?”

Stephen gladly assisted her with her bathing, taking care around the bruises and scrapes. And when he was done, he dressed her in a borrowed nightgown and combed her hair. By the time he was prepared to join her in the bed, she was already sound asleep.

As he climbed under the covers and gathered Becky in his arms, he sent up a prayer of gratitude, and then fell fast asleep for the first time in two days.

***

Becky smiled wide when she realized that the arms wrapped about her belonged to her husband. She’d enjoyed a peaceful slumber with Stephen by her side, but now, she found she was eager to be up and gone from this place. She wanted to make sure the children were safe at Hastings House, and Phoebe as well. Though her cousin had been detained for his actions, her father was still out there. And from what she remembered, he could be far more dangerous than David Shaw ever hoped to be.

Her body still ached from her ordeal, so getting ready took more time than she would have liked. But finally, after a hearty breakfast, Stephen announced their carriage was ready. They rode in silence for some time, both content just to be with one another again, but apparently curiosity eventually got the better of Stephen.

“Will you ever tell me what happened?” he asked, his mouth warm against her scalp.

Becky turned to look at him. “Where shall I start?”

Stephen let out a long sigh, and said, “How about you start with your mother’s death?”

A pit formed in the very bottom of Becky’s stomach. She hadn’t told anyone about that day, ever. Even now, so many years later, it made her sick just to think of it. But then she remembered the night Stephen confided in her about his own family. About his sister and her untimely death. If he could find the strength to share that story with a woman he barely knew, she could certainly share her story with the man she chose to marry.

“I don’t know exactly how it started, actually. I was downstairs, eating breakfast alone. The rain prevented me from hearing them at first; it was pouring, you see. But eventually, the yelling and screaming became too loud for anyone in the house to ignore.

“The servants had always done their best to keep me from hearing my parents when they argued. Someone would always take me out to pick flowers in the garden, or ask for my help in the cellar. I went with them every time...except this time.

“I probably should have gone, because what I saw, I’ll never be able to erase from my memory, no matter how many years go by.”

She paused and Stephen placed a comforting kiss to her forehead.

“I arrived in the front hall just in time to see my father shove my mother down the staircase. Everything slowed down it seemed, yet there was no time to do anything. She was at the foot of the stairs before I’d had a chance to blink. And she was dead, there was no question.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran. I was terrified of my father, and I figured I would be next. So I ran into the alley and I didn’t stop until I was positive he wouldn’t be able to find me...Goodness, that’s a familiar scenario. It seems I’m always having to run from the men in my family.” She gave a chuckle filled with irony. “Well, two days later, after realizing I wasn’t cut out for the life of a pickpocket, I knocked on Phoebe’s back door. I would say you know the rest of the story, but frankly, that was just the beginning.” She looked up at Stephen and smiled at him. His steel blue eyes held a great deal of concern, and she was sure she’d told him enough for one afternoon. “But I think we can save that for another day, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer, but instead pressed his lips to hers. His kiss was hard and needy, and it matched the desperation in Becky’s heart. She kissed him back, grateful for him, for his love, and she held tightly to him, refusing to let go.

***

It was dark by the time they returned home, but the house was ablaze with candles. Becky and Stephen received quite a warm welcome from the children before they were sent off to bed. It was heaven to hold them in her arms again. There had been many moments over the last two days when she feared she would never see them again. It was difficult to let go, but Stephen assured her they would all spend tomorrow together.

Phoebe and Eastleigh traipsed down the stairs as the children went up. Phoebe hugged her close, but Becky sensed a hint of apprehension in her friend.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Becky asked of her.

Phoebe nodded and looked to her own husband. Lord Eastleigh cleared his throat before casting his eyes toward Bentley, who finally stepped forward with a tinge of reluctance.

“I’m sorry, milady, milord, but you have a visitor. He’s been waiting for you for some time. I would have turned him away, but, well...I do hope you’ll understand why I did not once you see him.”

Becky’s head spun with possibilities, but she could only think of one person who could cause such unrest amongst her friends and butler. One look at Stephen told her he knew as well.

“I’ll take care of this, darling,” he said as he started in the direction of the main drawing room.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Becky was at his side in an instant, tugging him around to look at her. “We will face him together.”

Stephen’s brow crinkled in concern as he searched her eyes. “Are you certain?”

Becky said nothing, but took him by the arm and pulled him along with her. When they reached the door, she took a deep breath before sliding it open. It was a large room, but a fire burned in the grate, and before it sat an old man.

“Isabelle? Is that you?”

Becky’s heart raced at the sound of her father’s voice. She recognized its cadence, but its tone was not the same. The once booming and intimidating voice was now feeble and weak, not at all what she remembered.

Admitting to her given name was difficult, but she finally said, “Yes, father, it is Isabelle.”

She took Stephen’s hand and led him around to where her father still sat before the fire. If she’d thought it odd before that he’d not risen, or even turned to look at her, she didn’t now. The man was as decrepit as a gargoyle, and his eyes milky white with blindness. And Becky suddenly found it hard to hate him. He had murdered her mother, and ruined Becky’s own childhood, but clearly, he’d paid for his sins. He looked thirty years older than last she’d seen him. She would have placed a great deal of money on him being near death’s door.

“I suppose cousin David told you where to find me.”

His head followed the sound of Becky’s voice until he looked right at her, though she was positive he couldn’t really see her. “No, Isabelle. I’ve known where you were—who you were since mere weeks after you ran away.”

Becky’s mouth dropped open, but she was far too dumbfounded to speak.

“You’re probably wondering why I waited until now to come to you...well, I didn’t think I needed to before. You seemed happy whenever I saw you, coming and going from Blakeny House. I know it must have been difficult to assume such a role, but it was better than the alternative.” There was a long silence while Becky tried to digest all this news, and while her father collected his thoughts. Finally, he spoke again. “I...I never meant to kill her, Isabelle. You must believe me. I was out of my mind when I learned of...No. I won’t speak ill of her. It’s not her fault. I drove her to whatever she did. I was a monster, Isabelle, and no one knew it better than I. That’s why I left you alone. You were better off with the Blakes.”

“Then why now?” she wondered aloud as she took a seat in a leather armchair.

“Your cousin is...well, there is only one way to put it. He is mad. When he sent me a letter stating his intentions toward you, I knew he was up to no good. Word traveled rather quickly through London that he had absconded with the Viscountess Hastings, who I already knew, of course, to be you. I waited because I wanted to be assured of your safety.”

“Surely Lord Eastleigh informed you that I had been found, and all was well,” Becky said. “I’m assuming you’re still here for another reason?”

Her father nodded his head, and tears began to form in his milky eyes. “I need your forgiveness, Isabelle. I wouldn’t blame you if you chose not to grant it. God knows I don’t deserve it after what I did. But I can’t go to my grave without knowing I tried.”

Silence fell over the room as Becky contemplated his request. He had done a truly awful thing, something that mere hours ago she would have denied forgiveness for. But now...

“Father,” she began, finding it odd to form that word on her tongue, “I don’t know that it is my place to forgive you for what you did to mother. I do understand, though, that perhaps it was an accident after all. Truly, that makes me feel...better, I suppose.

“I can, however, forgive you very easily for driving me from my home, however inadvertently. You were right—it wasn’t always easy, but I was better off there. And I’m certainly better off now.” She turned to Stephen, who stood beside her, and took his hand in hers. He squeezed back and gave her a smile of reassurance.

Her father was crying in earnest now, but when he collected himself, he said simply, “Thank you, Isabelle.”

***

It was a few weeks later when a letter came, bearing the stamp of the Earl of Copthorne, announcing his death. Apparently, David Shaw had been the last male in the line, and therefore, with him holed away in Newgate for life, the title would be buried with Becky’s father. All his inheritance would go to his only daughter, Isabelle Becky Thornton Christie, Viscountess Hastings.

The news rather shook Becky a bit, despite the fact she’d seen the old earl only once in the last seven years, and it was this news that she blamed on her churning stomach.

“I’m sending for the doctor,” Stephen announced, after Becky’s third attempt to put food in her belly that afternoon.

“Really, darling, it’s not...” She couldn’t finish the sentence for her nose caught the scent of something wretched—though she’d never be able to say what it was exactly—and sent her back to the chamberpot.

“You’re not sick, Lady Hastings,” said the doctor after his examination. “You’re pregnant.” He turned to Stephen. “She needs lots of rest and a doting husband doesn’t hurt much either.”

Stephen smiled and turned to Becky, who still wasn’t sure what to do with the doctor’s announcement. “That won’t be a problem, doctor,” Stephen assured the man. “She won’t be able to get rid of me.”

Stephen thanked the doctor for his time and saw him from the room before rushing to his wife’s side. She’d never looked so beautiful or so fragile, and he warred with wanting to pounce on her or put her in a glass box so she could never come to harm again. The former won out and in moments he was snuggled beside her, holding her to him, determined never to let go.

“Stephen,” came her muffled plea as she tried to speak into his shoulder.

He pulled back, unable to keep the grin from his face. “I’m sorry darling, I’m just…I’m so happy you’re all right.”

Becky smiled up at him, a wry, knowing smile.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Stephen asked, all at once appalled and amused.

“I had my suspicions,” Becky clarified, “but I wasn’t positive. Are you happy?”

“What a silly question.” Stephen searched her face and pushed the stray hairs from her forehead. “Why on earth wouldn’t I be happy?”

Becky’s eyebrows shot up. “You? Oh, I don’t know, perhaps because mere months ago you couldn’t refer to your wards without the greatest disdain.”

“A man can change, can’t he?”

“And how do you feel about the children now?”

Stephen stared at her for a moment, finding it hard to think when she looked so bloody beautiful. But he wanted her to be clear about how he felt, so he forced himself to focus on her question. “I love them, and you, with all my heart, as I love our unborn child. And I promise I will never look on any of you with anything other than love and adoration from this day forward.”

Epilogue

December 24

Hastings House

“They’re here! They’re here!” Lydia’s voice rang through the entrance hall of Hastings House as she watched her uncle and brother pull into the circular drive. “Aunt Becky!”

“We’re coming, sweetheart,” Becky laughed as she met the girl at the door, a toddling child following at her heels.

She looked out to see Stephen and Max alighting the carriage, their feet making definite imprints in the fresh blanket of white snow that covered the ground. Stephen had left five days earlier to retrieve Max from Eton and then had taken him to London for a bit of bonding. It had become a tradition over the last couple of years and Becky was happy for that, but she was even happier when they came home.

Five days without her husband felt like a lifetime.

“Lydia, watch your cousin for a moment,” Becky instructed and then stepped out the front door to stand under the portico.

Stephen caught sight of her through the falling snow and a wide smile graced his features. He went to her immediately, not hesitating to take her in his arms and kiss her openly.

“You shouldn’t be out here, my lady,” he drawled as he pulled away. “The last thing we want is you catching a fever in your condition.”

“A little cold air is hardly going to hurt me,” she replied, her heart skipping a beat at the nearness of her husband, the warmth in his arms and in his eyes.

“Well, I don’t relish myself catching a fever, so we might as well go inside. Besides, I’m dying to see my girls.”

“Hello, Aunt Becky,” Max said as he came up behind his uncle.

Becky looked down into the face of her nephew, shocked at the changes that had taken place since she’d last seen him.  He had grown at least another inch, making the two of them nearly of a height. His voice had dropped considerably and she could see glimpses of the man that he would one day be.

She gathered him into a tight embrace. “Oh, how I’ve missed you so!” she exclaimed. “Are you faring well at school?”

He smiled back at her and nodded. “Head of my class, as always,” he replied.

They walked together into the house where Stephen was already in the throes of doting on “his girls”.

“This one is for you, Lyddie,” he said as he handed her a small package wrapped in bright gold paper and tied with a ribbon. “But you can’t open it until Christmas.”

“Oh, please, Uncle! Can’t I open it now?”

“Uh-uh, it’s a Christmas present.” He turned to face the child in his arms, a miniature version of her mother, and handed her another small package. “And this is for you, Clarabelle.”

The two-year-old’s chubby hands reached out to grasp the present with a little squeal before Stephen handed her to the ground again.

“Have the others arrived yet?” he asked of his wife.

“Not yet. I do hope they can make it before it truly begins to storm. Come, let us lunch while we wait.”

By nightfall, all their guests had arrived and the house was abuzz with a great deal of excitement in anticipation of the holiday. With Becky being so close to delivering their second child, everyone had agreed to spend Christmas at Hastings House. Lady Eastleigh and Lady Grimsby were there, along with the Duke and Duchess of Weston and their entire brood of children, which now included the twins, William and Anne, as well as two more little girls, Sophia and Mary. Phoebe and Benjamin had come with little Charlotte who wasn’t so little anymore and their son, Matthew, a mere twelve months behind Charlotte in age. Andrew and Michael arrived last, having prolonged their time in London terrorizing Society.

But they did not arrive empty-handed.

“A puppy!” Lydia exclaimed when she saw the tiny head peak from its box. “Is she for me?”

Andrew bent down to put the box on the floor and removed the lid. “Yes, indeed, he is for you,” he corrected. “With compliments from Lady Elizabeth Crawley.”
All five matrons in the room exchanged furtive glances.

Lady Eastleigh cleared her throat. “And how is Lady Elizabeth?” she asked, trying to keep her tone nonchalant.

“Lady Elizabeth,” Andrew began.

“Lady Elizabeth,” Michael cut in, “is in love with me, but our dear Andrew here refuses to believe it.”

“Poor Michael. He suffers greatly from dementia, I’m afraid.”

“I?”

As the boys continued to argue over which one was favored most by the illustrious Lady Elizabeth, the children gathered around the tiny pup to pet and cuddle him with tender care.

“May we keep him, Uncle?” Lydia asked, her blue eyes lit with hope.

“Of course you may,” he replied as his arms slipped around his wife’s burgeoning waist.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” she asked, her smile widening at his touch.

“Well, I may have had a little something to do with it. Andrew mentioned that Lady Elizabeth’s dog had just given birth to a new litter and I thought it just the thing for the children. They’ve never had a real pet, you know?”

“I am well aware of how deprived they’ve been, my lord,” she replied sarcastically.

The truth was that Stephen had discovered fatherhood suited him far more than he had anticipated. He gleaned an enormous amount of joy from lavishing gifts on his children—of both the monetary and emotional sort. Max, Lydia and Clarabelle were the proverbial apples of his very blue eyes.

“Oh!”

All eyes turned to Becky as her hands flew to her stomach.

“Darling?” Stephen held her tighter, as his eyes searched her face. “Are you all right?”

Becky shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice tinged with the slightest bit of panic. “I think it’s time.”

The entire household went into a tizzy, everyone eager to help in some way or another. Andrew and Michael wrangled the children and the puppy, moving them all to the nursery, while Benjamin set off to find the doctor, and William, the midwife. Katherine set to organizing the staff, shouting out detailed instructions while Lady Grimsby and Lady Eastleigh helped Stephen settle his wife into their bed.

Although he should have left the room to allow the doctor and the midwife to do their jobs, Stephen did not. Rather, he stuck by his wife’s side, lending his hand for her to dig her nails into, patting her down with cool cloths to keep her comfortable through her strenuous labor.

And in the wee small hours of Christmas morning, Becky gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby boy. Stephen wept at the sight of his tiny son lying happily in the arms of his mother. She looked up at him, her eyes bright in spite of her exhaustion.

“A Christmas baby,” she murmured. “Whatever shall we call him?”

“I do think he looks like a Nicholas, don’t you?”

Becky smiled. “Little Saint Nicholas. It’s perfect.”

“Merry Christmas, darling.” Stephen leaned down to plant a kiss on Becky’s forehead.

“Merry Christmas.”

The End

Don’t miss the third book in the Best Selling Wetherby Brides Series, The Wary Widow…

1820, London

Lord Andrew Wetherby stalked into Eastleigh House, determined to leave again as soon as was humanly possible. He clenched his fists as the nauseating smell of French perfume and gardenias invaded his nose. God, how he hated these things. His twin brother, Michael, identical in every way except the cut of his hair, stood at his side, looking just as determined to get the hell out of there.

“Good Lord, do they bathe in the stuff?” Michael asked, clearly trying to hold his breath against the scent of the elderly woman passing by.

Andrew cleared his throat. “One would think. Now remember our plan. You find Benjamin and the Lionesses while I dance with Lady Elizabeth.”

“Yes, I know the plan,” Michael assured him. “And then we’ll say goodnight to the family and be on our way. Believe me, the only thing on my mind right now is getting out of here.”

Andrew smiled at Michael and then took his leave to find his betrothed, Lady Elizabeth Crawley. The eldest daughter of the Earl of Devon, Elizabeth was a paragon of beauty and grace. Andrew admired her for her stunning looks, as did most gentlemen in London, including his brother. Much to Michael’s chagrin, Andrew had beaten him in the race for her hand.

Right now she was weaving in and out of a Scottish reel, looking as if she had invented the dance herself. Andrew leaned against the nearest column at the edge of the ballroom and waited until the dance was finished.

The waltz was next, after which he would say hello to his elder brother, Benjamin, and his sister-in-law, Phoebe. Then he and Michael would set off for a night of gaming, and who knew what else.

“Excuse me.” A small voice took him from his reverie.

He turned to his right to see a waif of a girl—well, woman, really—sitting on the bench next to him. Her hair was a fiery red, which was quite out of fashion, but her large brown eyes more than made up for that fact.

“May I help you?” he asked, not meaning to sound so arrogant.

The girl pursed her lips in annoyance. “You’re standing on my dress, sir.”

It took a moment for Andrew to process what she’d said. He’d been too focused on her luscious pink lips to comprehend immediately. “Oh!” he exclaimed, jumping off her gown as if it were on fire. “My sincerest apologies, Miss...”

“Hawthorne.”

“My sincerest apologies, Miss Hawthorne,” he said with a smile, trying to put the odd girl at ease.

“And you are?”

Andrew swept her a bow. “Lord Andrew Wetherby, at your service.”

***

Chloe swallowed hard as all the color drained from her cheeks. Oh, bugger!

She stood and took a step toward him. “Lord Andrew, did you say?” she repeated, feeling like a ninny for having done so. He had very clearly stated his name, even if he had been a bit overdramatic about it.

He gave her a wry smile and Chloe felt the heat rush back to her cheeks. “I did,” he finally answered.

“Oh, well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord. I daresay we’ll be seeing a great deal of one another in the future.”
Lord Andrew looked at her, clearly perplexed, which made him look quite adorable. She much preferred that to the arrogant eyebrow lift he’d already demonstrated seven times in the course of their short conversation.

“I am Lady Elizabeth’s cousin,” she continued. “I’ve just arrived from Essex to play chaperone to her for the Season.”

“Chaperone?” Lord Andrew predictably lifted his eyebrow again—the left one—and Chloe couldn’t help but be annoyed by it. She wondered if he might eventually get stuck in that position.

The thought tickled her, and she twisted her lips to keep from laughing.

“Something funny?”

“No, no, I just...it was nothing.” Chloe blushed and looked away, feeling every bit the fool.

Just then the music ended and Andrew turned away from her, clearly seeking out his bride-to-be. Chloe took the moment to regain her wits, chiding herself for being so flustered. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a handsome man before. Her own husband had been quite attractive.

“Well, Miss Hawthorne, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance.” He gave her what one might consider a half-bow. “Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall seek out your cousin.”

Chloe nodded, returning his half-bow with a half curtsey. “Of course, my lord.”

And then she sat back down on her lonely little bench and watched Lord Andrew saunter gracefully across the ballroom.

“It’s going to be a very long evening,” she muttered to herself. “A very long evening indeed.”

***

“Well, well, my fiancé has finally shown his face at his own brother’s party.”

Elizabeth glided toward him with a cheeky smile, her blue eyes twinkling in the candlelight. Andrew bowed deeply over her hand and planted a light kiss to her gloved fingers.

“My apologies,” Andrew said, noting that was the second time in only fifteen minutes he’d apologized to a woman. That certainly didn’t happen often. “I was unavoidably detained.”

“Aren’t you always?” Elizabeth asked with a toss of her flaxen curls.

“The good news, my dear, is that I’m here now. Just in time for our waltz.”

“You’re not going to run off as soon as you’ve danced with me, are you?”

Andrew feigned shock at the accusation, annoyed that Elizabeth was clearly on to his tactics now.

“Spare me the dramatics, Andrew.” Elizabeth took his arm and steered him back in the direction he’d just come from. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

“No need,” he said, tugging her toward the dance floor. “I’ve already met her, and I’m brimming with questions.”

Elizabeth raised one delicate eyebrow at him. It made her look rather mannish and Andrew made a note to address the subject at a later date, hopefully with a modicum of tact. It never did to insult one’s betrothed by telling her she looked like a man.

“Might I ask how you came to make her acquaintance?”

“I didn’t request the introduction, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said flatly. “I stood on her dress. Accidentally, of course,” he clarified. “She asked me to remove my foot, I apologized and in the process, we exchanged names. She seemed to be quite acquainted with me, though I wonder why I've never heard of her.”

Elizabeth smiled and allowed him to lead her to the middle of the floor just as the waltz began.

“Chloe comes from Essex,” she explained after they’d settled into the dance. “She is going to play chaperone to me for the Season.”

“Yes, that much I know. But how can she play chaperone when the two of you are of an age?” he wondered.

“Because Chloe is a widow, of course.”
Andrew blinked several times and furrowed his brow. It was obvious the woman was in mourning, but she hadn't corrected him when he'd called her a miss. He just assumed she was mourning for a family member.

“Well, don’t look so distraught, Andrew,” Elizabeth chided as he pulled her into a turn. “She was only married for two weeks before the poor sap came down with a fever.”

Andrew cast a sidelong glance toward the bench where Mrs. Hawthorne sat. It was hard to believe someone so young was a widow, and he found himself wondering if she’d been in love with her husband.

He shook his head at the thought. What on earth did that matter?

“Did you know him?”

“Who, Sam? Yes, of course. They were childhood friends, so anytime I went to visit, I inevitably came in contact with him.”

“What happened to your Great Aunt Sally? I thought she was to chaperone again this year.”

“She claims that her gout is too much to bear and so she is spending the season in Bath to take the waters.”

“When did her husband die?” Andrew asked without thinking. He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to know.

Elizabeth wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Great Aunt Sally's?”

“No, of course not. Your cousin's husband.”

“Oh. It’s been more than a year. Not that anyone would be able to tell. She insists on wearing those awful black dresses and silly caps everywhere she goes.” Elizabeth tsked in what most would construe to be sympathy, but what Andrew knew to be embarrassment. Elizabeth didn’t want to be seen with anyone who might be considered unfashionable.

“Well, you mustn’t be uncharitable, darling,” Andrew suggested. “Perhaps she is simply without any suitable gowns.”
“Quite the contrary.” Elizabeth blinked her blue eyes up at him. “She has a whole trunk full of suitable gowns.”
“Then we must assume she is not ready to come out of mourning.”

Elizabeth pouted at this and Andrew thought it best to end the conversation before she truly started whining about the state of her cousin’s chosen wardrobe. Instead, he pulled her from the dance floor and led her to where his brothers and the rest of the family stood, chatting away like magpies with one another.

“You know, there are people here who you do not see on a daily basis,” he said to his sister, Katherine, the Duchess of Weston.

“Such as you,” she rejoined with a light smack to his arm. “Why, I don’t believe I’ve set eyes on my baby brothers for at least a fortnight now.”

“Must you be so melodramatic, Kat?” Michael asked, joining the conversation and leaning in to plant a kiss on Katherine's cheek. “We had dinner with you just last week.”

Katherine cocked her head in mock-annoyance. “If you think it counts to breeze into my dining room, stuff your faces with nary a word, and then run out again on a mission to further debauch yourselves, you are sadly mistaken, dear brother.”

Andrew exchanged a knowing glance with Michael, remembering just why they had left in such a hurry. Thankfully, Madam Stone had not disappointed that evening.

“But you are right, Michael,” Katherine agreed as she peeled Elizabeth from Andrew’s arm. “We must branch out beyond the family tonight. Come, Lady Elizabeth, I wish to be introduced to that lovely young lady you arrived with this evening.”

Other titles available from

Jerrica Knight-Catania

The Daring Debutantes Series

The Robber Bride

The Wetherby Brides Series

A Gentleman Never Tells

The Wary Widow

The Bedeviled Bride

And Wetherby Short Stories

Christmas Warms the Harts

The Perfect Kiss

About the Author

Jerrica Knight-Catania left her “glamorous” life as an actress in favor of becoming a romance author, where she could write about truly glamorous lives. She currently resides in New York City with her real-life hero of a husband, their shy Russian Blue, Dr. Snuggle, and their beautiful daughter who is most definitely a princess-in-training.

Jerrica loves to hear from readers! Visit Jerrica’s official website to email her or to learn more about her other books, the Wetherby family and to see what’s new in her writing world!

www.jerricasplace.com

http://romancingthebook.wordpress.com/